Jack’s head went back with a snap. Even close and respected friends like Rupert Jarrard were not supposed to be privy to that sort of information.
Rupert had obviously noticed Jack’s astonished reaction to his words and felt he ought to explain. ‘I met with Jane when I was in London, before embarking for India. She’s had a letter from a man called Deighnton, telling her you’ve been unfaithful. Didn’t believe it, of course. She wondered if it had something to do with you flooring the man who – in her words – shamed her family name. Now, Jack, what the hell did you do a thing like that for? You know men like that aren’t worth the dirt under your boots. As I told Jane, he’s shamed his own name, not hers.’
‘I know what Deighnton’s trying to do,’ snarled Jack. He almost bit through the stem of his chibouque in his anger. ‘He’s trying to force this damn duel.’ Something then suddenly struck Jack. The time element. He looked at Rupert with wide eyes. ‘But he must have written that letter months ago! We’ve fought since then. Is he so base he’s trying to turn my own wife against me? I can’t believe this has all come from my striking Hadrow in London over a year ago. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Jack, the man is clearly mad. The only way to treat madmen is to let them burn themselves out. You are best to ignore him.’
Jack Crossman was aghast at these developments. ‘To write to a man’s wife? Good God! It’s difficult to believe.’
‘Mad, completely crazy. The letter spoke of two Eurasian girls – not long out of the schoolroom.’
‘Silvia and Delia,’ murmured Jack.
It was Jarrard’s turn to open his eyes wide.
‘You know these girls?’
Jack sighed. ‘Deighnton is too clever for words. There is a grain of truth in what he’s written, but he’s turned it into a mountain. Silvia and Delia are the daughters of a corporal. These two young ladies have nothing better to do but daydream while this war drags on and they follow their father here, there and everywhere. Their heads are full of romantic nonsense. It’s their age and circumstances I suppose. They’ve decided they have formed an attachment to me. It’s all of a piece. They’re a blasted nuisance – Gwilliams will tell you. I chase them away, but they keep coming back and . . .’
‘They’re besotted with you.’ Jarrard puffed on his cheroot.
‘They’re besotted with the idea that they’re in love with me. As you say, it’s all schoolgirl stuff. A pair of hoydens, both of them. The younger one simply follows the older girl in everything she does. Oh, good God, what will Jane think? There’s no smoke without a fire?’
Jarrard shook his head. ‘You should give your wife more credit for good sense than that. What she thinks is that there’s a maniac here who’s doing his best to destroy your reputation.’
Jack said, ‘I don’t deserve her.’
‘Well, as to that,’ said the American, ‘you’re the best judge. Take my advice, Jack, and steer clear of this Deighnton. If he persists, then shoot the damn cur.’
‘I will have to do that in the end.’ Jack did not add that Deighnton was a crack-shot, who had already killed three men in duels, and would likely shoot Jack first. ‘If his sole intention in writing to my wife was to ensure I fight this damn duel with him, then he’s been successful.’
Outwardly, Jack was calm, as a gentleman should be when discussing his wife. Inwardly he was boiling over with rage. How dare this excuse for an officer of Her Majesty’s Army be so crass as to write to the wife of another man accusing him of infidelity? It was beyond credulity. Jack wanted to stamp the man’s face into the dust, there and then. If Deighnton had been around he would certainly have gone to him this instant and fought with him.
‘Let’s talk of better things,’ Jarrard said, crushing his cheroot butt under the heel of his boot. ‘How is this mess faring?’
Somehow Jack managed to snap himself back to the attention of his friend, whom he had not seen in a long age. Seething with hatred though his brain was, he knew there was nothing he could do about it for the moment. The very next time he saw Deighnton though, there would have to be a reckoning.
‘Oh, this? Damn East India Company. There were some good men amongst ’em, but they were few and far between, Rupert. Lazy officers, rotten decisions. Men in high places trying to force through policies using John Company’s Army that were clearly going to inflame the locals.’
‘You mean the greased bullets?’
‘No, not that so much. That was just a little fuel on the flames – the fire was already burning. It was – oh, I don’t know – forcing the Indian troops to travel overseas, appearing to interfere with their religious beliefs and giving the impression that we were trying to convert them to Christianity – all that sort of thing. The pot was simmering by the time the greasy bullets came along. And European company officers had got out of touch with their men and failed to notice that it was boiling over. You must have heard all this – the incompetence?’
Rupert nodded. ‘Sure. There’s talk in your parliament of abolishing the East India Company’s Army. Your Queen’s Army will take over their duties.’
‘Sounds like a sensible plan to me.’
‘All this trouble,’ Rupert said with a sigh. ‘It comes of living under a monarchy, you know – you Brits should think about changing to a republic.’
Jack smiled wryly. ‘Like you Americans, I suppose?’
‘Us and . . . well, look at the French.’
‘Yes,’ replied Jack, ‘just look at them. They can’t decide whether they want to be a republic or a monarchy. They chop off the heads of royals and nobles, then along comes a dwarf who calls himself an Emperor and what do they do? They listen to him, go through a few wars with him, and once he’s been dealt with by us, they bring back their monarchy, on and off, until only ten years ago.’
‘Well, yes – they should have followed our example,’ said Jarrard. ‘Get rid of kings once and for all. Decisive, that’s us.’
‘Not so decisive as all that,’ argued Jack. ‘A good half of your countrymen remained loyal to King George when you made the break. You always make it sound as if it were a unanimous decision to break with the United Kingdom. A lot of those loyalists fled to Canada after your independence, heavily assisted by those dithering Frenchies I might add, and are still waiting for the day when we march back in and take Washington.’
‘Just damn well try it, that’s all,’ said Jarrard with a mock snarl. ‘We’ll kick your asses back across the Atlantic again.’
The pair then got on to their favourite subject: new inventions. Although in the back of Jack’s mind was the smouldering feud he was engaged in with Captain Deighnton, he had been through too much blood and terror to allow it to obsess him. Outwardly he chattered happily about the latest agricultural invention to come along, the advances in medicine, the newest advances in transport. There was a friendly rivalry between him and Jarrard regarding which nation had the best inventors, the most innovative scientists, the most imaginative builders of machines.
Jarrard was unusually generous in telling Jack of an Englishman who was making great strides in a certain field.
‘You remember the analytical engine, your guy Babbage built at – where was it? – Oxford University?’
‘Cambridge,’ replied Jack. ‘A machine enabling arithmetical operations with decisions based on its own calculations. I believe Countess Lovelace, my superior’s aunt, wrote some tables to enable the machine to perform?’
‘Major Lovelace’s aunt, eh? Well, hell – we ought to have a word with him. Anyway, I’m not sure the machine ever did what it was supposed to be able to do, but there’s another fellah’s come along – George Boole. He reckons he’s invented a whole new way of mathematics, called binary logic, based on using the numbers nought and one, which would make it possible to really mechanize logic.’
Jack frowned. ‘Nought and one? That doesn’t make sense. How can you have mathematics with just two numbers – and one of them zero?’
‘Search me
, Jack,’ said Jarrard laughing. ‘They threw me out of the Royal Society when they found I was as dumb as a mule.’
Jack laughed too, at the idea that either of them should ever have pretensions to the Royal Society.
As Jack refilled his chibouque, Jarrard looked around him and asked, ‘Talking of mules, where is that jackass, Gwilliams, anyway?’
Jarrard and Gwilliams were the only two North Americans Jack knew and he was bemused by the fact that they seemed to dislike each other intensely.
‘Oh, he’s found some fellow Canadians – the 109th Foot. He’s busy boring them with tales of his prowess.’
‘Huh! Prowess . . .’ However Jarrard was unable to finish what he was saying due to a bugle call cutting him short. Drums began beating in various parts of the camp. ‘I’ll see you later, Jack,’ yelled the correspondent. ‘If we’re both still alive.’
Jack and his men were ordered to ride out to meet another British column heading to join General Rose. They stayed with this force, which came out of Rajputana and met the rebels at Kotah-ki-Serai, intending to drive them towards Gwalior. Their ranks had been swelled by the young Maharajah Sindhia’s army, who had been induced to join the cause. The maharajah himself had fled with his personal bodyguard to Agra, unwilling to sacrifice himself, convinced that the British would never be defeated.
This time Jack and his men fought on foot, having offered themselves as skirmishers. When the battle was at its height he saw the Rani herself, tulwar in both hands, reins in her white teeth, slashing her way through her enemies. Then later, a shout went up in Hindi, ‘The Rani is down! The Rani is down!’ and to Jack’s astonishment the rebel infantry began to attack their own cavalry, screaming curses at them for allowing the Rani to be killed.
The Rani was indeed dead: shot and then run through by the sabre of a trooper of the 8th Hussars. She had flung her jewellery amongst her troops and then was taken to a mango grove where she expired, along with one of her two maids of honour, who had also been mortally wounded. A truly magnificent woman, Jack was not alone in admiring her. With her death, it seemed, the real heart of the rebellion died too. There was much work for the British to do, but it was piecemeal work: the elimination of armed guerrilla bands, badmashes and dacoits.
With an exhausted army General Rose took the fortress at Gwalior which was high up on a ridge and surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs. Jack was again in the thick of the fighting, the stink of battle-smoke in his nostrils.
When it was all over, the only casualty amongst Jack’s men was Raktambar, who had lost a finger to a stray ball. Overall British casualties were very light and the rebels had been defeated yet again. Many fled the field, escaping on foot and horseback. Their commanders, Tantia Tope and Rao Sahib, also ran: it was believed they had crossed the Chambal River into Raktambar’s home of Rajputana.
Later, Jack was thanked personally by one of General Rose’s aides for his part in the battles. He and his men had distinguished themselves. Even Wynter had flung himself into the fighting without too much whining and grumbling. Jack asked if anything had been heard of either Major Lovelace or Colonel Hawke. He received a shake of the head in reply.
‘Where will I get my orders, then?’ he asked.
‘You are to be given licence to hunt down stray groups of rebels, Lieutenant Crossman,’ came the reply. ‘Keep in contact, from time to time, with the authorities in this region – otherwise you and your men are on your own.’
Jack went to say his goodbyes to Rupert Jarrard.
Jarrard was in a large house converted to messes, talking with an infantry sergeant from the 95th. The sergeant, like the rest of his regiment, was heavily bearded and currently wearing a white smock, tattered blue trousers and Indian slippers. On his head he had a Kilmarnock forage cap with a white cover, a red-white cotton towel wrapped around the brim. There were officers going up the stairs to the upper rooms, where the commissioned ranks drank and ate, dressed in grey frocks. One of them who passed Jack wore a stove-pipe hat with a lady’s muslin scarf fluttering from it. Any dress code had temporarily been put aside and officers and men enjoyed eccentricities for a while.
‘Rupert, we’re off again.’
He had to shout. The hubbub in the room was tremendous, being full of NCOs from various regiments, including his own 88th, who along with two companies of the Rifles had been formed into a Camel Corps. He had that day seen soldiers having terrible trouble trying to control their dromedaries using – having no other information at their disposal – the same commands they might use on the old farm horses back in Connaught, Ireland. He had watched them sway and slide on the unfamiliar humps, yelling obscenities at their mounts. The camels themselves, naturally nasty-tempered to begin with, were angry at having to cope with some lump of an Irishman on their backs, a rider who had no idea what he was supposed to be doing and terrified by the height at which he did it.
Jarrard beckoned with a hand, waving Jack to his side.
Jack weaved his way through a bunch of 72nd in their faded tartan trews to reach Jarrard and his companion.
Jarrard roared, ‘Ah, the brave Lieutenant Crossman. Jack, shake hands with George here – he’s from Nottingham.’
The sergeant, a tall, red-faced man, saluted Jack a little apologetically.
‘Sergeant Stone, sir.’
Jarrard frowned, then twisted his face into a grimace. ‘Oh, yeah – I forgot. It’s this British class thing.’
‘Nothing to do with class, Rupert. This is an army thing – yours as well as ours, I’m willing to wager. I’m afraid I can’t drink in here, Rupert, any more than George here can drink upstairs. Happy to have you join me when you’re ready.’ He turned to face Stone. ‘You understand, Sergeant?’
‘Of course, sir,’ the man said nodding.
‘A year or two ago it would have been fine – I had the same stripes on my arm – but now . . .’
‘You’re not even in uniform, Jack. Who the hell can tell what you are in that get-up?’
Jack adjusted his kurta self-consciously.
‘There are people in this room who know me, Rupert. You might have noticed the place is crawling with Connaught Rangers. I’m already in enough trouble. I’ve been accused of desertion in the face of the enemy, a military crime punishable by death. I’m trying to make as few waves as possible until it’s all been cleared up. It’s best I remain as inconspicuous as possible for the time being.’
‘Right – inconspicuous – in a red turban.’
‘Don’t labour it, Rupert.’
Jarrard joined Jack in the officers’ mess just ten minutes later. Jack was enjoying a warm gin.
‘Sorry about that down there, but you know . . .’
‘So, you’re off into the jungle again?’ Jarrard asked.
‘How did you know?’ asked Jack, surprised.
‘No secrets amongst this lot.’ Jarrard waved his whisky glass around. ‘Even George knew about you. Your bunch of spies and saboteurs are becoming famous, Lieutenant Crossman. Someone will write a story about you one day, turning fact into legend.’ Jarrard grinned. ‘It might even be me.’
‘I thought you’d already tried that – in your column.’
‘Yeah, you’re right – it wasn’t all that successful, because you’re a damn Englishman. If you were an American backwoodsman, a grisly nobody from nowhere, and had opened up the Oregon Trail, I could have made you famous by now – but who the hell is interested in a British aristocrat in a red coat who goes into battle looking as if he’s entering a drawing room full of aunts and uncles? If you could just stoop a little when you walk, shamble into rooms carrying a battered old musket with worm-eaten stock, then we’d get somewhere:
Jack grinned. ‘Listen, Rupert, I’ve got to go. You look after yourself – the mutiny is contained, but not yet over.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘Horses. I have to be up early tomorrow to get to the horse bazaar.’
Jarrard raised his eyebrows
. ‘There’s a horse bazaar?’
‘Six miles out from Gwalior – life goes on, Rupert, mutiny or no mutiny.’
‘I guess so. Well, good luck, Jack.’ They shook hands. ‘If they hang you, I’ll be sure to report it as an injustice in the Banner. We Americans love to read about European injustice. It makes us feel we did the right thing in leaving. I’ll create such a furore they’ll have to reopen the case and you’ll end up getting a posthumous pardon.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Jack drily, ‘I appreciate your concern.’
Jack went back to his quarters, which were in a dingy corner of Gwalior Fort, near the kitchens. It was the small narrow holding room where they used to keep prisoners before taking them to the cells. It was just wide enough for a biscuit-thin horsehair mattress. The room was crawling with lice and he woke after being bitten viciously in several places. Deciding that outside was preferable to this stone coffin, Jack dragged his mattress out under the stars. He went to sleep suffering the smell of boiled vegetables which wafted over from the cookhouse.
Raktambar woke him just before dawn and the pair of them set off on their horses in the direction of the bazaar. The mounts Jack and his men had at present were heavy beasts previously owned by dragoons. Jack knew that if they were to be successful in hunting down guerrillas they would need small, fast creatures, used to the terrain and the climate, comfortable in their environment. It made sense that in India one should ride Indian ponies who were happy with the Indian climate and terrain.
When they arrived, Jack was at first stunned by the sight and sound of the bazaar. There were sellers and buyers from all over the region, and beyond. Tents were everywhere: tall and elegant, squat and dull. Most men were dressed soberly but some were in flamboyant colours and costumes denoting their nationality or local tribe. There was yelling and shouting from every corner, as men argued over prices, emphasizing their disgust at high suggestions and low counter-offers with wild gestures. Dozens of breeds of animal were on show, being trotted back and forth, limbs being inspected by expert hands, jaws being held open for the teeth to be studied, tails swishing, manes flying. A few – very few – horses had been dyed red or yellow ochre. And hanging heavy over the whole scene, the stink of horse manure and sweat.
Rogue Officer Page 16
