King was embarrassed by this remark. It was the kind of thing he heard when walking through every bazaar in India. Carpet sellers said it all the time. Purveyors of articles made of brass, or soapstone, used it with cheap regularity. You are my very good friend, my brother. Come, just look. No need to buy. I will give you special price because we are brothers. And so on, and so forth. But here was a nawab, a king, telling him this and he had to receive it in a different manner.
This local monarch did not need anything from him, by way of money or favours. He ruled a land. The sergeant was inferior in rank and breeding. The sergeant was also a Christian, an untouchable. Yet Kashmar was an Indian, and therefore (it followed from King’s education in the narrow lanes of England) he should feel he was his inferior in the club of human beings. In short, though King felt different and strangely flattered, he also felt very uncomfortable. It was a complex creation, his growing relationship with this man, and he had not the learning to handle it. He had not yet mixed socially with Englishmen of deeper understanding, as his lieutenant had, and his impressions had been garnered mostly from men of lower intellect. In the villages and small towns, and even in the cities of England, a foreigner with a dark skin might be prince of a continent, but under it all he remained a heathen savage.
King suddenly realized something. ‘You had an English wife,’ he said, ‘and I had an Indian wife. I have a son, with a skin . . .’
‘As dark as mine?’ finished Kashmar, who then smiled. ‘There, I knew we were brothers.’
Once again, King felt a mixture of pride, shame and embarrassment and was puzzled as to the reason for these intermingled feelings.
But shortly after this he must have saved himself by falling asleep, for when he was roused it was morning. A dull grey light was penetrating the room. It had been the scent of hot tea which woke him. He sat up and rubbed his face with his hands, running his fingers through hair stiff with dust. He found a bowl of water, washed his face, and then drank some of the tea before going out into the courtyard. There he found Kashmar and around a hundred armed men on camels and horses, ready to ride. A saddled Samarkand was also waiting. A woman thrust a roll of bread in his hand, full of crushed banana. Kashmar nodded at him and then signalled for the gates to be opened.
Eight
The band rode out, following King’s trail now hardened into solid impressions under the morning sun. The sergeant did not recognize the country through which they passed, it having been in darkness when he travelled it the previous night. They covered ground quickly and easily, now that obstacles were visible and could be circumnavigated. King felt a little guilty that he might have overslept and therefore had failed to ride out at the earliest opportunity, but he was not going to say anything to the lieutenant. He just hoped Wynter did not bleed to death in the last hour before his saviours arrived.
Two thirds of the way back they saw a dust cloud coming towards them. King wondered if Lieutenant Crossman and the others had escaped. But he soon realized there were too many riders for that to have happened. In a short while he recognized British light cavalry. Another rescue party or simply a coincidence? Quite soon the two groups came up against each other, the captain of the cavalry lifting his arm to halt the nawab’s men. King’s heart sank when he saw who led the around a score of Queen’s Army troopers. Was there only one captain in Central India? He seemed to be everywhere – or at least, everywhere Crossman was. He also seemed to have a command of his own, uncontrolled by senior officers.
Deighnton kept his troops a little way off, to the front, eyeing the numbers of the nawab’s force. Then he noticed King. He frowned.
‘What’s this, Sergeant?’ he called. ‘Up to your old tricks?’
‘We are a rescue party, sir,’ cried King, unwilling to leave the nawab’s side in case it caused an attack. ‘My lieutenant is trapped by insurgents and we are on our way to save him and his men.’
‘Insurgents? You are riding with insurgents, Sergeant.’
‘I think not, sir. The nawab . . .’
‘Don’t argue with me, man. I tell you they are rebels. I know the family.’
Abdul Kashmar stood up in his stirrups. ‘Captain, my son was a rebel, but I myself, though not loyal to the British, refrained from joining against them. My son, the nazir, died in battle. He has paid for his zealous feelings. Now there are men who are in great peril. They will also die if they are not reinforced by superior numbers. Someone needs to assist them – if not us, then yourselves – or both? Time is of the essence.’
‘Don’t lecture me, you damned impudent dog!’ roared Deighnton, shocking King to the core. ‘I’ll cut you down where you stand.’
King boiled over with uncontrolled anger and spluttered, ‘How dare you speak to . . . to the nawab in that fashion?’
Deighnton smiled. ‘You heard that, Lieutenant?’ he called over his shoulder to a cavalry officer. ‘Insolence.’
This same lieutenant spurred his horse to the captain’s side. He spoke in undertones but because the wind was from that direction, King heard the words distinctly.
‘Sir, I do think we should investigate this claim of trapped men.’
Deighnton completely ignored his subordinate.
Instead he bawled, ‘Nawab, you will accompany me back to Gwalior – I order you to disperse your men.’
Kashmar was silent for a moment, then he called back. ‘Please do not try to prevent us, Captain. We outnumber you five to one. I am aware how well the British Army cavalry fights – only too well, having heard how my son was killed – but be aware that many, perhaps all of you, will die. My own men will fight to the death. They have their grievances too and scores to settle. Please stand aside.’
‘Are you mad?’ roared Deighnton. ‘Are you threatening me?’
The young lieutenant spoke in a clear firm voice. ‘Captain Deighnton, sir – we must investigate this claim. I will not be a part of your personal vendetta. I have had enough of these escapades.’
Deighnton drew a pistol and levelled it at the lieutenant’s chest. The lieutenant was startled but not cowed.
He said, ‘Have you lost your reason?’
‘You are refusing to obey an order, Lieutenant. I am within my rights to shoot you dead, sir.’
A rough-rider sergeant called out, ‘No you an’t, Captain. Beggin’ your pardon, we are all witnesses here. There has bin no order given yet.’
Deighnton spun in his saddle, red-faced and full of fury. Then, as he saw the mounted troopers behind him, staring at him, he seemed to calm a little. Clearly the captain was not a popular man. He was not one of those leaders beloved of his soldiers. In fact King could see the hate blazing in their eyes. These cavalry troopers were just looking for an excuse to destroy their captain. Only his Indian servant, riding just behind and to the left of him, retained a neutral expression. The servant looked as if he were a million miles away, on the mountains of the moon. He was a wise man, whose placid expression had saved him from many beatings.
‘There are a hundred warriors here, sir,’ continued the lieutenant in an even tone, ‘and we are twenty. I put it to you that to attack the nawab, who to my knowledge is not on the wanted roster, would be to sacrifice your patrol. At any subsequent inquiry I would have to proffer my opinion that I considered such a course of action unwise in the extreme, and what’s more, quite unnecessary. We can accompany the nawab and assist in the rescue.’
‘Rescue? Damn any rescue. What about a trap?’
‘Sir, there is a British sergeant over there, who has given us the reason for this armed band being abroad. Is he part of a plot to ambush us? Sergeant,’ called the lieutenant, ‘are you being coerced?’
King rode forward to confront the captain and lieutenant.
‘As you see, sir, I am not. Last night I escaped from an outcrop of boulders where my officer was trapped with three men and a boy. One of the men is bleeding to death and may well have passed on by now. I found the nawab in the dark and he agreed
to help me. On my mother’s grave, he is not an insurgent, I swear it.’
‘You would, would you, you damned idiot? You have an insight into this man’s black heart I suppose. You can read his mind? You have his history in a little notebook, I suppose?’ said Deighnton, but it was in the tone of a defeated man. ‘A mother you might have had, but not the name of your father.’
Before the sergeant could protest, Captain Deighnton ordered his men to wheel about, and follow the rebels.
King and Kashmar led the way, followed by the nawab’s army, with the British light cavalry taking up the rear. When they reached Crossman’s camp the situation seemed not to have changed from the previous evening. The British were still surrounded by guerrillas who were determined to break them. The guerrillas were soon routed by the combined forces of the nawab’s men and the British cavalry. Those that did not get away stood their ground and fought to the death, knowing they would be hanged, or worse, if they allowed themselves to be captured.
Captain Deighnton fought as bravely as any man on the field, but afterwards led his troop away before Jack had knowledge of his presence. Deighnton did not realize it, but Jack would have duelled with him on the spot if he had realized. Strangely, the cavalry captain no longer seemed interested in arresting the nawab any more. King could only surmise that there was no longer any profit in it for him. His main goal seemed to be, as ever, the destruction of Lieutenant Crossman. Now that had failed he showed his back to those he had helped rescue. King did not doubt they had not seen the last of this dogged captain. Even the sergeant was now convinced that there was more to this obsession that just an insult. Deighnton was hunting Fancy Jack Crossman down. He was waiting his chance to destroy him. Why else would he always be in the same area as his quarry?
Water was given to the thirsty men who had spent the night fending off guerrilla attacks. Apart from a terrible thirst, Crossman, Gwilliams, Raktambar and Sajan seemed to be hale and without wounds. Wynter, however, was still in the clutches of the thorn bush, buoyed up by the spiked branches.
Kashmar quickly arranged the building of a derrick. Two men were sent out to cut staves. When these were brought back they were lashed together with ropes. A makeshift crane was fashioned. With this tool they lowered a lightweight man down to within arm’s reach of Wynter’s body. The dangling man tied a rope to one of the trapped man’s wrists. Then a horse was used to winch the pale limp body of Private Harry Wynter from the centre of the thorn bush. Once he was clear an expert amongst the men removed the thorns that were embedded in his flesh. Some of the spikes were more than two inches deep. Wynter’s body had been almost drained. He was so weak he could not open his eyes nor manage more than a whimper. Several times he passed out and it seemed he would not regain consciousness again. On top of his present hurts those places where the thorns had penetrated began to swell into lumps the size of a man’s fist. It appeared there was a mild poison on the tips of the spines.
‘I’ve never seen a man look whiter than bread flour,’ said Gwilliams. ‘He’s a goner, for sure. He’s got no chance, that man.’
Jack said, ‘I wouldn’t write off Wynter if I were you.’
‘I’ll wager a quid of baccy, lootenant,’ said Gwilliams.
‘I’ll take that wager, Corporal.’
A shocked King said, ‘How can you gamble on a man’s life?’
‘We jest did,’ said Gwilliams, ‘as easy as you like.’
King stared at Wynter, lying naked and pale while one of the nawab’s men swabbed him down with ointment. One of Wynter’s eyes was protruding like an oversized ball from its socket, stretching the lids aside. The other was closed, though puffed. The tongue was swollen and stuck out between his lips like the stem of some succulent plant. Some of the lumps had burst and were oozing fluid down his legs, his back, his shoulders. It was only then the sergeant realized why Wynter looked so white: his hair had lost all its colour and was the hue of fresh snow. He looked like a ghost. He would soon be a ghost if he was not saved. Yet for all these disfigurements there was something very dramatic about the change this condition had wrought in Wynter. For the first time in his life the private looked contented. Strange. So very strange. A lifetime of whinging and whining, misery and self-hate, and now that Wynter was close to death he seemed happy. How odd was that?
‘Not a pretty sight,’ came a murmur close to his ear.
King turned to face his lieutenant.
‘Well done, Sergeant,’ said Crossman. ‘I shall commend you to our superiors for last night’s action. You did exactly right.’
King, unsettled by the praise, said, ‘You’ve never really had a high opinion of me, have you, sir? Of my abilities as a soldier, I mean?’
Crossman looked disturbed by this question.
‘I have not yet formed an opinion. You do not shoot well, it’s true, and that’s the first requisite of an infantryman. You are also more interested in maps than real soldiering – I think you’ll give me that too. But these days there’s more to the army than just drilling and killing. A man – even one of the rank and file such as I was and you are now – needs to use initiative. The time has gone when all a soldier had to do was obey orders. The army needs men to think for themselves. The fog at Inkerman took care of that. Regiments were broken up by the mist and groups of men had to decide for themselves the best course of action, often led by ranks as low as corporals who did just as good a job, if not better, than their generals were doing.
‘Last night you had the courage to make decisions – decisions that in the end proved to be the right ones. You placed your trust in a stranger about whom you knew nothing. You did not panic. You stood your ground before a captain of the light cavalry – one of the crème-de-la-crème who can do no wrong in the eyes of our generals – and did not back down. I am proud of you, Sergeant – proud to have you serve under my command.’
King blinked. This from the lieutenant? He had no words to reply, and before they came, Crossman had turned away. Next to come to him was Abdul Kashmar, the stranger in whom he had placed his trust.
‘Well, mapmaker?’ Kashmar smiled, his lean features forming a thousand creases in his weathered complexion. ‘You have saved the day.’
‘Not without your help, sir.’
‘Do not call me “sir” – we are now friends. More than friends. We have fought together and triumphed. There is a bond.’
The sergeant let out a short cynical laugh. ‘I fight together with generals and I would not dare to call them friends, for that they are not.’
‘We are not in the same army, mapmaker. It is permissible.’
King smiled. ‘I appreciate the honour . . . sir. Lord, I have to give you some title. You’re a sultan. I can’t just leave the words without a proper end.’
‘As you wish,’ laughed Kashmar. ‘Now, your lieutenant has agreed that we should take your man with us and care for him. I have given him my word of honour that this injured soldier will receive the best of attention. I hope you and I may meet again, mapmaker. You must tell me more about your science, and the art that accompanies it. I am fascinated. Perhaps you could map my kingdom, one day?’
‘I would be honoured,’ said King, delighted. ‘Most honoured, sir.’
‘Until then?’ A hand was proffered. King took it warmly and shook it.
‘And thank you, sir, for all your assistance.’
Kashmar waved a hand to say that it was nothing.
‘Please,’ King said, ‘please come and meet my son, before you go. He is a bright child. I think he’ll make something of himself . . .’
Later, when the group had organized themselves once more and they were riding out, Corporal Gwilliams said, ‘Mighty chummy with the locals, Sergeant?’
King frowned. ‘You have some objection to that?’
‘Nope. None at all. Just mentioned it, that’s all. Shakin’ hands and the like. Appeared you was the best of friends.’
‘Corporal,’ protested King, ‘he’s a nawa
b.’
‘Nawabs ain’t of great account at this point in time. Wouldn’t be surprised if John Company toppled ’em over. Anyways, had a lot to say for hisself, I expect. Not that I disfavour that. Him and his men saved my bacon, that’s certain.’
King stroked the neck of Samarkand. ‘Yes, he did.’ He went quiet for a few minutes, when all that could be heard was the clopping of hooves on stony ground, before he said, ‘You know his son was half-English? The nazir? The prince who would have succeeded him. His son and heir?’
‘Nope, I didn’t know that – why would I?’
‘No, of course you wouldn’t. But why I bring it up, is – he fought with the mutineers.’
‘Who, the nawab?’
‘No, the nazir. He was killed in one of the recent battles. Half-English. You would have thought he would have fought with his mother’s people. But he chose to fight with the half of him that was Indian. I find that very strange. After all, we’re Christians.’ King struggled with this anomaly. It was not personal arrogance that made him believe his race was superior, but the teaching of his fathers. ‘I mean, if I was half and half, I know which side I would be on.’
‘That ain’t strange. That’s normal.’
‘What do you know about such matters?’
‘Why, in America those that are half and half almost always fight on the side that’s been put down, trod on, pushed aside. What’s the real word . . .?’ Gwilliams screwed up his face and searched his brain. ‘Oppressed. That’s it, they usually fight against who they think are the terrible oppressors. In America it’s the white man who’s crushing the Indians. Here’s the same, only different Indians. Most men are lookin’ for a cause. A just cause, they think. So they fall on the side of the victim, thinking themselves victims, and liking to think that because it gives ’em a way to get rid of all that anger inside ’em, not realizing everyone’s got it, whether they’re victims or oppressors. Nah, that ain’t so strange. It’s normal.’
Rogue Officer Page 19
