Here no one was interested in mutiny – the only concern was in the qualities of four-legged beasts: their speed, their character, their style, their action. These, and whether the animals were hale and strong, not too advanced in years, and worth their salt. No buyer wanted to be swindled by a crook horse. Every vendor wanted more than the creature they were selling was actually worth.
Jack had been to Tattersalls in England, of course, but this bazaar had far more zest and colour.
Raktambar, on whom Jack was relying to get them properly mounted, did not purchase Indian horses for them. The Rajput chose Mongolians instead. He told Jack they were Karashahr animals from the Northern edge of the Takla Makan Desert.
‘They will suit our purposes, these animals,’ Raktambar told Jack, as the Rajput stroked the flank of a sturdy looking creature of about twelve or thirteen hands. These Karashahrs had powerful chests and necks, and large hook-shaped heads. Their legs looked strong and well-built. But they were not especially good-looking beasts, not to the classic English taste in any case, and Jack was rather disappointed in them.
‘What about those big ones over there?’ he suggested to Raktambar. ‘When I sit on a horse I want to feel I’m a bit above the world.’
The horses Jack pointed out were about sixteen or seventeen hands high. They had long black tails that swept to the ground and silken manes which fell to the point of the shoulder, rather like the Moroccan horses Jack had known. Their noble-looking heads were large and well-shaped, their eyes bulged slightly – though not in an unbecoming fashion – and they had long sleek necks with high pointed ears. With their short backs and round barrel chests they appeared always to be moving. Jack liked the idea that they had so much energy they could not stand still for a moment.
‘No, no, they are useless,’ replied Raktambar irritably. ‘You see they are shod with iron.’
‘And?’ remarked Jack, who would not have thought of riding a horse which was not shod. ‘Ours are not?’
‘No, of course not. This makes them more sure-footed. We will not be riding them on hard ground, so their hooves will not wear. ‘See, ours are well-ribbed, straight in the pastern!’
Jack stared at his mount’s leg, the point between the fetlock and the hoof, and wondered how this straightness benefited him as a rider. He was just as exasperated with Raktambar as the Indian appeared to be with him. Get any two men together, whatever their knowledge and background, and they will have different opinions on breeds of horse. Men will often cluster around the same woman hoping to make her their wife, while other ladies just as beautiful are ignored, but they will privately and even openly scorn each other’s choice of steed.
‘Well, what about those beautiful creatures over there – ours are rather drab, don’t you think?’
‘White is for royal personages,’ muttered Raktambar, ‘not for war – do you want your enemy to see you coming from miles away?’
‘Well, one of the chestnuts then?’
‘Very bad luck.’
‘That black beast?’
‘You will be riding your own shroud!’
Jack gave up. It seemed they were going to have the Karashahrs.
‘You’d better be right about these hairy beasts – they look a bit wild to me.’
‘They are like milk-fed lambs if you use them right.’
Raktambar also insisted they bought the right saddles before they left the noisy marketplace. The Karashahrs had been raised with padded wooden saddles on their backs and would not take to European saddles, the Rajput informed his leader. Everything had to be right or they would not perform in the proper manner.
‘I expect we shall have to feed them caviar,’ Jack said sarcastically, ‘washed down with champagne.’
‘No – butter balls and flour bricks.’
‘What?’ cried Jack, but Raktambar rode off leading a string of the Karashahrs, leaving Jack to follow with two of his own.
Jack very soon found his mount had an unusual gait, one he had never encountered before. The two offside legs went forward and backward at the same time – and the nearside legs did the same. It was rather as if the creature were walking on stilts, but Jack found to his surprise that it was a very smooth ride over the uneven ground. The padded saddle with its definite high back and front (creating a kind of slot for the rider) was certainly the right equipment, for Jack could tell that an English saddle would have him sliding this way and that, and his balance on the mount would be highly suspect. It was comfortable and the little horse moved with some style and pace.
When they got back to the barracks, where the other members of the team were waiting, Wynter was disparaging.
‘What the ‘ell’re them nags for?’
‘To ride, Wynter, to ride,’ said Jack.
King said, ‘I’ve told you before, Wynter – you do not address remarks to the officer directly. You speak to me first and I decide whether or not to pass on the information.’
The sergeant then stared at the mounts, which were indeed only ponies to Europeans used to tall horses. They were reasonably hairy beasts. One could tell that King was not over-enamoured with them either, but he refrained from criticism in front of the troops.
Jack was warming to the Karashahrs. He had cut one out for himself already. It was a dun-coloured gelding with a bright intelligent expression. He felt it was weighing him up as a rider, just as he was judging the creature as a mount. Jack liked the look of the animal, as horses went.
Raktambar asked, ‘What will you call him?’
‘Oh, I don’t name my horses,’ replied Jack airily. ‘They’re just transport, after all.’
The Rajput looked dreadfully shocked. ‘But, sahib, you must give your horse a name. How will he know who he is if you do not? Do you never name your horses?’
Jack felt uncomfortable. ‘No – not often. That is, if the horse is already named I don’t take it from him – but to my knowledge I don’t recall ever – oh, yes, once – but . . .’
‘Sahib, this horse you must give a name.’
‘Oh, yes,’ piped in the boy Sajan. ‘It is very bad luck not to give a horse a name. It would be like you not having a name, sahib. How would people know who you were?’
‘I am not a horse. Horses do not actually need names.’
‘But they do, they do,’ cried Raktambar. ‘Demons will enter his soul if he has no name to protect himself. A name is like a shield to ward off evil. If you do not name him,’ he continued darkly, ‘he will throw you over the edge of a cliff – or trample you when you turn your back. Now, what name will you give him?’
Jack was beaten. He looked at the horse. The horse stared back at him with enquiring eyes. Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know – Jane?’
‘Jane is the name of your wife,’ remarked King. ‘You can’t call your horse after your wife. Anyway, the horse is male.’
A flash of genius saved Jack.
‘In that case, I shall call him Cadiz – my uncle went there once and described the place to me. I was enthralled.’
‘Cadiz,’ murmured Raktambar. ‘Yes, that sounds very well. Very magical. Cadiz. He will like that name.’
‘He’s a horse. He will not even know he has a name.’
‘Of course he will, sahib,’ said Sajan, firmly on the side of his countryman even though he knew nothing about horses. ‘You will tell him his name and he will come to you when you call him.’
Jack sighed. ‘If you say so.’ He became briskly authoritative, partly in order to cover his chagrin, and partly because it was necessary. ‘Now, listen up, everyone. We have a task to do. We are to assist in clearing central India of guerrilla bands. Naturally we’re a small group, so if we come across a large band of rebels I will send a rider back here to inform the commander and dragoons will be dispatched to deal with the enemy. Or for a really large force, infantry will be sent. But our task is to seek out and inform. You’re well-used to this work and it doesn’t need me to tell you that we have to remain as ano
nymous as possible. It’s dangerous work, of course. If the guerrillas realize that someone is marking them, they’ll send out their own squads to deal with us, so if we’re discovered for what we are we cannot afford to let any individual escape. We are going back to our old foxhunts, from Crimea days.’
‘We kill them all?’ said Gwilliams, dispassionately. ‘Wipe ’em out? No prisoners?’
‘Unpalatable, but necessary,’ Jack confirmed. ‘Oh, if it’s one or even two men, we can take them prisoner and send them back with an escort, but we are few and they are many – we have to preserve the integrity of our group. Any more questions?’
There were one or two, especially from Wynter. As ordinary soldiers of the rank and file they did not have a history of being consulted by their commanders or being asked for an opinion, but Jack ran his group a little differently from the normal army way. It was necessary that he did so. From time to time strong initiative was required of his men – individual inventive decision-making and action – and he needed to encourage his soldiers to use what resources were at their command. It had been necessary to help them awaken and nurture original thinking in brains that were, in the past, expected to do nothing but listen to orders and to follow them. Initiative usually lay dormant and was in any case discouraged as being dangerous. But Jack allowed his men to act on their own, something the army considered unhealthy.
Who did he have for this type of work?
Corporal Gwilliams, a North American barber, who used a razor for tasks more nefarious than just shaving a man’s face. Gwilliams was a backwoodsman of sorts who knew how to think for himself and act upon his decisions. A very good man to have in such circumstances. Lacking in discipline it was true, but Fancy Jack’s group had only use for discipline when they were not out in the field engaged in espionage and sabotage.
Sergeant King, who was an engineer and mapmaker. Slightly resentful of anything that impinged on his career, King too was capable of original thinking. A little insubordinate at times. As could be expected of a man who knew about topography he was a good navigator and could pinpoint positions with magical accuracy. Moreover, he kept Private Harry Wynter in check in a way that Fancy Jack Crossman could never do. Farrier King had fists of iron but unfortunately could not hit the side of a mountain with a rifle.
Private Harry Wynter was a reprobate. Capable of great acts of bravery and also of base cowardice, he was an enigma to Jack who as a child had been shielded from such characters. Crafty, sly creatures like Wynter had been outside his experience. He did not know how Wynter thought or what processes the man used when making decisions. Certainly Wynter had initiative but it was a fox-like, rat-like, snake-like intuition. He was a drunkard when he had the means, a whore-chaser, complained about everything and everyone, hated manual work, yet had saved Jack’s life on many occasions. He was a puzzle.
Raktambar was a reluctant bodyguard given to Jack by a maharajah for the duration of his stay in India. He was a good solid soldier, whose loyalties were split between Jack and the cause for independence of his country. He claimed to have no feelings for the British, yet remained by Jack’s side nonetheless. Jack admired the man for his strong sense of honour and his capabilities as a warrior.
Sajan was merely a boy, but very useful in certain circumstances, and like the rest of the group, Jack was very fond of the child.
Then there was himself, Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman, a man in the army under an assumed name. A father-hater who had learned that he was a bastard son of an English maid whom his aristocratic Scottish father had seduced. Jack thought he knew who he was until that duel with Captain Deighnton, when he deliberately injured himself to prevent a re-duel from taking place. Was he then a coward like Wynter, capable of courage but basically bearing a yellow heart in his breast? Had he thrown away his honour to save his miserable life?
Perhaps.
Seven
The clean-up operations began reasonably successfully. The group acted as spotters for a squadron of dragoons, who swept on past them and dealt with the guerrillas with a firm and sometimes not-so-just hand. There were murderers and rapists out there and it was difficult to tell them from those who were merely mutineers with noble aspirations. So the army tended not to discriminate and to treat them all as if they were as bad as each other. The less culpable were hanged along with the worst of brigands. It was a sorry time for all, but the British needed to stamp out the last vestiges of flames and prepare for a new beginning. Jack was not sentimental enough to disapprove of what they were doing, though he was often left wondering whether his soul was destined for hell.
When the guerrilla bands were small enough his own group dealt with them. Usually it resulted in a pitched battle and the rebels were shot before they could be captured. On such a day King and Gwilliams were riding ahead of the others and they saw three armed men strolling from some mud huts towards a gorge. The men were wearing remnants of Indian Army uniform. King gave a yelp, drew a large horse pistol that he carried, and fired before Gwilliams could stop him. He missed his target, who turned and after a second returned the shot.
Gwilliams cried, ‘Come on, we’ll have to finish ’em now.’
He spurred his mount forward.
King drew his sabre and was not far behind him. The runners began racing for the edge of a gorge. One tripped and went sprawling, his weapon flying from his grasp. The others left him to his fate, which he soon met at the edge of King’s sabre. He was still on his knees, trying to get up, when King sliced down to where the man’s neck met his shoulder. Blood pumped out on to the dusty ground as the man fell with a final groan. The other two reached the gorge and disappeared beyond its edge. King and Gwilliams rode to the lip and looked down.
‘Oh, Jesus and Mary,’ cried Gwilliams.
On a shelf just below the gorge were about twenty or so more rebels, around a dozen of them on mounts. Some immediately fired up at the two soldiers, but the excitement caused by the jabbering of their two recently arrived companions caused them to be inaccurate. Gwilliams fired down into the gorge and then turned his mount to race away. King instantly followed him. Within a minute they were being chased by rebel cavalry with fleet-footed infantry not far behind. There was a race across a dusty dry lake on the other side of which was rocky scrub-land. There the other members of Crossman’s group had stopped to rest their horses. It was Sajan who gave a shout.
‘Sahib – my father comes, with men after him!’
‘What?’ exclaimed Jack, looking up.
Indeed, through the curtains of heatwaves he could see King and Gwilliams riding for their lives.
‘Find some cover,’ Jack shouted to Wynter and Raktambar. ‘Try to pick off a couple of the leaders.’
Raktambar grabbed Sajan and was soon behind a boulder but Wynter ignored his orders. He threw himself up on to his mount. What he intended to do – run or fight – was never known. His horse shied at the unexpectedness of his rider’s actions and attempted to bolt. Wynter first pulled it up short with the reins. The Karashahrs had very hard mouths and the bit had little effect, so Wynter smacked the horse around the head with the flat of his hand. The animal kicked out his back legs, then bucked, sending Wynter flying through the air.
Wynter landed deep in the middle of a huge thorn bush. The bush carried three-inch thorns as protection against birds and goats. Wynter screamed like a broken woman. At first he struggled, but just sank deeper into the heart of a bush several yards in diameter. Those terrible spikes penetrated his cheeks, arms, legs and torso. His left eye had been spiked clean through the pupil: he would be blind on that side if he lived out the action. Another of nature’s stilettos had entered under his jaw and was gradually working its way up through his throat towards the underside of his tongue. Two more had struck him in the genitals. Wynter moaned loud and long while he still could: while his tongue was still unpinned.
Blood began running down the thorns into the middle of the bush, staining it bright red.
‘Help me! Help me!’
Jack and the others could do nothing. Gwilliams and King arrived and threw themselves off their mounts, to find cover. There were around a dozen horsemen bearing down on them. All four opened fire and emptied three enemy saddles between them. Shots were now coming from the guerrillas on foot, as they caught up with the riders. The cavalry decided one charge was enough and retreated out of range, to tether their mounts and then to join their comrades who had the British surrounded. There were twenty-odd rebels circling Jack and he realized it was a bad place in which to be caught. There was no real shade to be had, the temperature was well over a hundred and the water source out of reach.
‘Oh, gawd! Please get me out. Lieutenant, don’t leave me.’
‘We’re not going to leave you, Wynter – stop whining. It’s only a few prickles. You’ve been blackberrying before, surely.’
This was hardly fair. The thorns were as long as a sailor’s needles and probably twice as sharp. Small birds had been known to accidentally impale themselves on these long green spikes. But Jack had little time for Wynter’s complaints. He had three other men and a boy to consider. Bullets were zinging off the rocks now. Wynter was actually a sitting target and it seemed likely that his problems would not last a great deal longer. It seemed probable that he would soon be hit. Certainly some of the shots from the rebels zipped through the bush. But he was now low enough in his personal vegetation to be out of sight of the shooters.
‘Ahhhhhhhhhhh,’ came a long low sigh of despair. ‘I’m still goin’ down and now it’s got me in the ammunition pouch – ’ Wynter’s euphemism for his scrotum – ‘I’m done for. I’ll never have brats now . . .’
‘Thank heaven for that,’ muttered King.
Wynter was forgotten as the battle continued, with shots going back and forth without any material change in the situation. Then the guerrillas ceased firing and very soon it fell quiet again.
Rogue Officer Page 17
