‘Have they gone?’ King whispered.
‘Nah,’ growled Gwilliams. ‘They know they’ve got us pinned. They’ll wait now for our water to run out. They don’t need to kill us. We’ll die of thirst. I got to do somethin’ for that poor bastard Wynter.’
King was horrified as Gwilliams raised his rifle and took careful aim at the middle of the thorn bush, about ten yards away.
‘You can’t just kill him . . .’
But Gwilliams had fired and was reloading. Wynter had renewed his screams now, the sound echoing around the rocks. Gwilliams fired three more times in Wynter’s direction. Finally there was a crashing sound as the centre of the bush collapsed. King now saw that Gwilliams had been shooting at the main woody stem of the shrub and had finally weakened it enough for it to break under Wynter’s weight. The private was still under the attack of stabbing thorns, but at least he would not sink lower into them. He now lay a whimpering heap in the very middle of the vicious vegetation. However, a new cry came up from him.
‘There’s a snake.’
‘Well, ignore it,’ snapped King. ‘Try not to bother it.’
Sajan asked, ‘Is it a cobra?’
‘How the bloody hell should I know,’ shouted Wynter. ‘I’ve only got one good eye an’ the other’s full o’ blood. I can hear it slitherin’.’
Jack had not been listening to any of this. He had been making plans in his head.
‘We’ll hold them off until dark – then one of us will have to ride out of here, break through their lines, and get help.’
‘I’ll do it,’ growled Gwilliams.
‘No,’ called Raktambar from behind his boulder. ‘It shall be me.’
‘Sergeant King?’ asked Jack.
‘I don’t want to go,’ came the firm reply.
‘Well, I’m afraid you are going. You’re the worst shot. I need men with me who can hit things with their Enfields. You are not a great deal of good to us here. You must ride and fetch the dragoons.’
‘They’re all round us,’ King said reasonably. ‘I’m certain to get shot.’
‘There’s no moon tonight,’ Jack argued, ‘and if you stay here it’ll be even more certain that you’ll be killed. I’ve no choice but to send you.’
‘Why can’t we all go?’
‘There’s a man who can’t.’
King might have said, ‘It’s only Private Harry Wynter,’ but to his credit he remained silent.
Jack called, ‘Gwilliams?’
‘Sir?’
‘You know what I’m going to ask of you?’
‘Do some work with the knife, to cause a diversion?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Leave it to me, lootenant.’
Every once in a while one of the rebels would take a shot in the hope of hitting something. Every so often one of the British group would also try to flush out one of the enemy. There were no casualties on either side the whole day. In the defenders’ camp the water had to be eked out. It was a very hot day, even at the going down of the sun. A scarlet sunset seemed an ominous sign, if not for its colour then for the fact that the following day would be just as hot as the one they had just made it through. Slaked lips and dry throats seem that much worse when water is scarce.
The psychology of the situation was entirely against the defending group. Loud clicking insects seemed to mock them. During the day, birds had come and gone, freely and without hindrance. Bats replaced them in the twilight, gathering the massed insects above their heads. Other creatures could eat and drink with impunity, while they were denied sustenance. Flies drank their sweat and mosquitoes their blood. They were still able to give, but not to receive. Even their own horses, left to graze by the rebels to whom they were valuable beasts, were allowed to amble down to a pool not far away and drink their fill. Time crawled.
When darkness fell, the rebels lit fires all around. The nearest of the Karashahrs had been Jack’s horse. He was encouraged by others to call to it softly. The Karashahrs lived on a diet of wheaten flour and butter balls which they took in the evening, and a measure of chickpeas in the morning. On occasion they would be given a treat of sugar cane. Jack had no sugar cane to give it, but he had saved a ball of wheaten flour and butter.
‘Cadiz, Cadiz . . .’ Eventually he felt it nuzzle his hand.
‘You see,’ said Raktambar, ‘if you had not named your horse . . . ?’
The other Karashahrs followed Cadiz, including of course King’s mount.
‘Gwilliams?’ Jack said.
No one heard the corporal leave the camp. Jack gave him thirty minutes then told King to mount up. Another short while, then a horrible scream went up from the direction of the enemy, followed by shots flaring the darkness. King spurred the horse, heading straight for a gap between the fires. He had picked out a path earlier in the evening, when there was light, and knew there were no boulders on it. Jack and Raktambar let rip with their rifles at the fires, not trying to hit any figures for the sole reason that one of them might possibly be the returning corporal.
Then all went quiet again.
Gwilliams crawled into camp, a bloody dagger in his hand.
‘Did he get away?’ he asked.
Jack said, ‘I hope so.’
Then peace settled once again, except for the occasional soft groan from a nearby thorn bush where a man was gradually bleeding to death.
It began to rain.
King rode hard and fast out into the night, but soon reined in his mount. The skies had opened up, but the rain did not last very long. He hoped the lieutenant and the men had managed to collect some of the water. Out here on the plain it was as dark as the inside of a cave and, sure-footed though the animal was, there was a good possibility of it stumbling and perhaps breaking a bone. It was a credit to the beast that it charged on blindly, naïvely trusting that its master had the night eyes between them. Farrier King had called his mount Samarkand, a place he had vaguely heard of which sounded exotic to his ears. He was already growing fond of the creature, which was strange since, like his lieutenant, he was not sentimental when it came to horses. His father was a blacksmith and horses to King were simply machines that came to his father’s forge to be mended and sent on their way.
King dismounted and began walking, leading Samarkand by the rein. He waved his sabre in front of him, having learned a lesson from Wynter regarding thorn bushes. He also trod warily, cautiously, in case of drops. He had no idea in which direction he was heading, but he hoped if he kept on the move he would eventually see a light somewhere out in the night. Three or four times he tripped over in the dark, grazing his knees. He did not curse. King had been raised as a strict Presbyterian and very rarely used oaths. He always felt his father looking over his shoulder at him. King’s father was what local villagers called a good man. He was quietly reliable, honest and religious. He made no comment about the failings of others, but you could feel his censure if you behaved ill. King certainly worried about his father’s unspoken criticism and tried to live his life in the same right manner.
‘Oh, blessed light!’ King suddenly said to his horse. ‘Do you see it?’
Samarkand whinnied at the sound of his master’s voice after so long a silence.
In the distance was a twinkling star on the ground. As he headed cautiously towards it, it grew in size and luminosity. It was a lamp, not a fire, which encouraged him. He did not wish to stumble back into the guerrilla camp: how stupid that would have been.
When he reached the house he saw that it was a hunting lodge, probably of some rich nawab or rajah.
These had been uncertain times but the mutiny had been broken: any local ruler would have to be extremely foolish to side with rebels now that the British were back in control. In India if you had something – and most did not – you protected it by any means available to you. This land had had many foreign rulers. The wise amongst them waited patiently for a time when the invader either infused with those already there and became Indian thems
elves – as with the moghuls from the north – or they left.
So King hammered on the brass-studded doors with the pommel of his sabre.
‘Open up, in there! A traveller out here!’
After a short while a small door twelve inches square opened just in front of his face and a voice inquired in Hindi.
‘I’m a soldier,’ King said to a woman’s dark eyes which stared at him. ‘A soldier of her Majesty, Queen Victoria.’
‘What you want?’ asked the woman in heavily accented English.
‘I want to come in, of course. I’m lost. I need help.’
A male voice called from somewhere and the woman finally opened the doors. King led Samarkand into a courtyard. Lights were being lit all around. King could smell water and lemon trees. Eventually a tall lean man in an embroidered robe and a turban came out of the house. It took him only half a minute to assess Sergeant King before he held open his arms in a gesture of friendship.
‘Welcome to my house,’ he said in perfect English. ‘Do you have companions out there?’
King thought about this for a brief moment, but decided not to lie.
‘My companions are being held prisoner by guerrillas – I managed to escape.’
‘You are very fortunate. Come – ’ the man gestured towards an open doorway – ‘take some refreshments while you tell me of your troubles. My servants will take care of the horse. Does it need to be fed?’
‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’
King was led into a room where the walls were covered with tapestries and the floors richly carpeted. A hookah lay with its pipe curled around its brass belly in the corner. There was a writing desk in the middle of the room, with paper, quill and ink looking as if they had been abandoned in haste. Clearly the man had been working when King had seen the light. The sergeant thanked God for a diligent man, one whose duties carried him late into the evening.
‘I’m grateful for your hospitality,’ King said. He suddenly felt very weary. ‘May I sit down?’
‘By all means.’
There were no chairs, other than the scribe’s chair at the desk, so King flopped back on some large cushions.
‘My friends are in dire peril,’ he said.
‘Nothing can be done until the morning,’ replied his host. ‘I am Abdul Kashmar – and you, sir?’
‘King. Sergeant King. Engineers.’
‘Ah, an engineer. I have always admired engineers. You build bridges and roads?’
‘I’m a mapmaker.’
‘Even more interesting.’ Kashmar had very fine chiselled features and eyes that bore into King with a strange intensity. He was about fifty years of age and had an intelligent air about him. King could not decide whether he was a warrior or a clerk. His manner and bearing seemed to possess the ability to hold both qualities. He certainly did not seem to be one of those dissolute rulers one found so often in India, who were interested only in the pleasures of life. He looked too healthy to be a hedonist. ‘Will you take some food and drink?’
‘Most gratefully.’
Servants entered the room a short while later with trays of meat, bread, fruit and – blessedly – cups of tea and beakers of wine. King ignored the wine and gulped down both cups of tea, suddenly realizing how thirsty he actually was. Then he apologized, knowing he had swallowed his host’s tea as well as his own. He was told it was not a matter for concern and that Kashmar understood perfectly how it was. Then the pair settled down to eat together, though his host merely picked at the food, probably just to be polite. There were no utensils and King remembered to use his right hand, as Sajan had taught him, knowing the left was unclean.
As for his state of spirit and mind, he was elated to have come across such a friendly household but he also could not help feeling ashamed of himself, feeling horribly guilty, that he was here, safe and satisfying his needs, while his companions were still in great trouble. Wynter was slowly being drained of blood in that devilish thorn bush and maybe one of the others had been shot by now.
But Kashmar was right: there was nothing to be done during the dark hours.
‘Would you like to sleep now?’ he was asked.
‘I should, but I don’t think I could. Can you point the way to the nearest British settlement when dawn comes? I should like to be away as soon as possible.’
‘No need, mapmaker. I and my men will accompany you. How many bandits surround your officer and his men?’
‘Over twenty – perhaps twenty-five.’
Kashmar nodded. ‘I will gather some warriors tonight. They will be ready to ride at first light.’ He looked at the window. ‘It is fortunate that it rained. Your trail will be easy to follow.’
King blinked. ‘I hadn’t thought of that – how to find my way back.’
Kashmar smiled. ‘Hopefully all will be well.’
‘Do you have enough men amongst your servants?’
‘There is a village just three hundred yards away. You did not see it in the dark. I have men who sleep there. Men who are used to fighting.’
King thought about that then decided it was time to be very blunt with his host. ‘Which side were you on?’
Kashmar knew exactly what was being asked of him.
‘Mapmaker, you are speaking of history.’
King nodded. He believed his question had been answered. He felt he could trust this nawab as much as anyone could trust any man in these peculiar times. It had been better to discover the truth than to worry. It did not matter that they had been enemies: they were now, if not friends, allies. They might be enemies again one day, but not today. Today the strength was with the British and always in India when two men of honour met and liked each other, as King felt Kashmar did, then they suspended any feelings of hatred for this or that nation. His troubles were now Kashmar’s troubles. King knew he would be in safe hands.
‘If you cannot sleep, then tell me about maps,’ Kashmar requested. ‘I am very interested in your profession.’
Profession? Now there was a word which made King swell with pride. He had never heard his job called that before. It added huge prestige to a work which King had always regarded as something special, but believed he was one among few who did so. Profession! He would have to slip that into the conversation when next he spoke with Lieutenant Crossman. Right at this moment he would have given his soul to Kashmar, had that man asked to borrow it. ‘Be my guest,’ he would have said, ‘do as you will with it.’
Instead, he began to explain the system of triangulation to the nawab, telling him about the Great Arc, the tale of how India was mapped from one coast to the other, from South to North. He spoke of the terrible trials and tribulations, the deaths while travelling through perilous country, the early graves for those who caught some disease or other in swamps or rainforests or unhealthy estuaries. Kashmar’s obvious interest encouraged him and he spoke of measuring chains, Lampton’s huge theodolite (which weighed half a ton) and how it had to be transported across India by ox-wagon, the building of survey towers throughout the land, perambulators, and all the other tools and objects required by an artificer. His delight, now that he had an enthralled audience, was unbounded. He felt it a great shame that it had to be an Indian aristocrat who was prepared to listen to his enthusiasms, rather than a European gentleman, but not because he felt the man before him was any less intelligent or discerning – quite the opposite – he just felt it was a shame that his own countrymen were not able to appreciate this wonderful profession in which he – Sergeant Farrier King – was skilled.
‘How I wish,’ murmured the nawab, when King ran dry, ‘I had some obsession on which to fix my interest. Men like yourself must view the world through very different eyes, Sergeant King. I see nothing but bitterness and strife, whereas you see landscapes unfolding and draw maps which are works of art . . .’
‘You have experienced many tragedies?’
‘I have had a wife die in my arms and my only son fall in battle – those two terrible events
are enough to crush any man.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry. But,’ said King, ‘forgive me for saying this – you are a Mussulman – you must have other wives? Not, I hasten to say, that you did not love the wife who died, but you must have other children, surely? Are they then all female children?’
‘No, I have never had another wife. My first and only wife was an Englishwoman.’
Despite himself Sergeant King was shocked. It was one thing for men to come to India and marry Indian women, though these days even that was frowned upon, but for an Englishwoman to marry a Mussulman? His shock must have shown in his expression, for Kashmar explained, ‘We met in England – when I was sent to the court of your queen as an emissary.’
Inexplicably, King felt ashamed of himself, and lied.
‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that – I just remembered I haven’t looked at my horse since I arrived.’
Kashmar was quiet for a minute, then his dark eyes bore through Sergeant Farrier King again, as if he could see spectres beyond this substantial soldier. ‘Naturally my own people disapproved of my marrying an Englishwoman, a Mlecca. My father refused to speak to me until the day he died, when he cursed me for bringing dishonour to the family. My mother was kinder, but brothers and cousins were less so. For a time I was an outlaw in my own land. However,’ he said, lifting his chin, ‘I am a ferocious man when it comes to my own. I fought for my inheritance and wrested it from those who would keep it from me. I made them regret their treachery.’
King was bewildered. Surely it was the Englishwoman’s family who should have been shocked by the marriage, not the Indian household? After all, an Englishwoman was a great prize, or so the sergeant thought. How strange that there should be this double-edged sword opposing the love match.
‘I – I’m sure you did. But my horse?’
‘He will be well looked after,’ Kashmar reassured his guest, knowing full well the sergeant had not been thinking of his steed. ‘Now, you must think how very ill-mannered it is of me, to be heaping private information on a relative stranger, but from the first moment I saw you I knew we were brothers under the skin. I felt we knew each other well, that our destinies were tied. Did you feel that, mapmaker?’
Rogue Officer Page 18
