King digested this, not completely understanding it.
Gwilliams chuckled. ‘Back home we have Southern gals who’re married to Northern men and their offspring don’t fit in either society. Neither Yankee nor Southerner. You’ll have ’em too. Commoners married to aristocrats. Yep, life’s full of half ’n’ halfers. One meself. Half-idiot, half-genius.’ He roared with laughter at his own joke and startled his horse, Champlain.
Later that day the patrol entered a vast jungle and a difficult life became an almost impossible one, with mosquitoes, snakes and impenetrable foliage to contend with, as well as guerrillas who knew the area better than Crossman.
At the time Crossman and his men were entering the jungles of Central India, continuing their mission of rooting out guerrillas, Major Nathan Lovelace was setting up an intelligence network which would, his superiors hoped, ensure that any further uprisings would not surprise the British command in India. There would always be discontent, there would always be those who treated the native population with arrogance and contempt and thereby aroused their fury, but it was Lovelace’s job to see that this fury was recognized in time to stamp on it. This was being done at the express wish of Lord Canning. Lovelace was required to recruit Indians, whose loyalty could be trusted, to act as spies. He called them his Watchmen.
Lovelace was ambitious and utterly ruthless in his work. He was one of a new breed of men who had read Niccoló Machiavelli’s The Prince and thought the ideas in there were damn good ones. There was too much talk of gentlemanly conduct; too many leaders like the late Lord Raglan, who had called spies ‘skulkers’ and would have nothing to do with them.
If men like Lovelace had been in charge of the Indian Army there would have been no mutiny in the first place. He was unsentimental, cold-hearted, and genuinely patriotic. Had Lovelace not been a man who kept his innermost beliefs private, Jack would not have courted his company for a minute. Fortunately, neither man knew each other well enough to understand what it was that separated them. Jack was as private a man as was his superior officer. Each thought the other a conscientious officer of the Queen, which indeed they both were. Lovelace believed he could turn the raw material that was Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman into a man as uncompromising as himself.
Lovelace had now formed the core of his Watchmen and a certain amount of training had taken place. He had sent some of them out into the field to test their abilities. Amongst them were Hindus, Mussulmans, Jains and Sikhs. They came from across all five of the main castes, including the Untouchables. They spoke several different languages. Finally – an entirely revolutionary idea – some were even women. Lovelace had thought long and hard about including this last group, but he reminded himself that women could be present yet entirely unnoticed when men gathered to plot and plan their activities. At this moment in time he was not concerned with any further uprisings: they would come later, if at all, for the country had been bloodied and no one was in any mood to rise up out of the gore and begin a new civil war. No, he had another task in mind for his spies: a private venture of his own. He had sent them out to gather information regarding the growing of flowers. How they performed on this training exercise, as individuals, would determine whether they would be retained for the more hazardous government missions of the future.
In the meantime, Major Lovelace went in search of a certain Captain Deighnton, whom he found based at Gwalior. Lovelace had his horse stabled, took a bath and shave, then stepped into a fresh clean uniform held out at arm’s length for him, item by item, by his Indian batman. He always carried his silver-mounted brushes and combs, without which any gentleman would feel naked and exposed. Using these essential implements his barber combed his blond hair into a style which suited the shape of his face. Lovelace was an extremely handsome man, but was not greatly interested in women. He enjoyed their company, but found it frivolous for the most part.
Lovelace discovered Deighnton in the mess, drinking and playing cards with a group of cavalry officers. At first the major remained by one of the huge black marble pillars, which stood on a white marble floor supporting a ceiling painted with scenes of hunting in mythical-looking forests full of tiger, deer and birds bearing fantastic plumage. After a while he moved over to the card tables, where he smoked a cigar and affected to be interested in the run of play until someone addressed Deighnton by name. Then he raised his eyebrows and stared at the cavalry officer.
Deighnton did not look up, but seemed to know there were eyes on him.
‘Something bothering you, Major?’ he said, as he dealt.
‘I do beg your pardon, Captain,’ replied Lovelace. ‘Awfully ill-mannered of me to gaze like that – but I have heard your name before.’
Deighnton snorted softly. ‘Famous, am I?’
‘No, nothing like that – well, you may be for all I know. No, I’ve heard it from one of my subordinates, a Lieutenant Crossman. He complains about you. Says you’re chasing him over hill and dale. I’m Lovelace, by the by.’
Now Deighnton looked up, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
‘Oh, yes, he’s spoken of you, Major. Pulls your name out as if you’re his trump card. That man is a menace. What do you want?’
‘Here,’ said a captain in the uniform of the 14th Light Dragoons, ‘are you playing cards or holding a conversation?’
‘I’m talking,’ replied Deighnton, throwing the pack on the table. ‘And I’ll thank you, Willoughby, not to interrupt.’
With that the captain left the table and motioned Lovelace to join him at another table, where Deighnton signalled to a mess waiter, resplendent in scarlet puggree turban and jodh-puri suit, gliding between the potted plants.
‘Whisky?’ Deighnton asked.
‘Certainly, thank you. My tipple exactly.’
The waiter was given his orders.
‘Now,’ said Deighnton, ‘are you going to warn me off seeking a duel with your Lieutenant Crossman – it won’t wash, you know. Fellah’s a menace.’
‘So you said before,’ replied Lovelace coolly. ‘In what way?’
‘He insults gentlemen and then expects to get away with it.’
‘I understood you and he have already fought your duel.’
Deighnton’s eyes narrowed. ‘There was some trickery. My own weapon misfired.’
‘And the lieutenant eloped?’
‘No, he had already discharged his weapon – he missed.’
‘Ah. And so you want a second go?’
‘He refused a second attempt on the spot. There was some nonsense about a wound to his hand. Listen, Major, I have no argument with you. If you have something to tell me, please say it and leave . . .’
Lovelace said, ‘Duelling is illegal, of course.’
‘This is India, not England. Here a gentleman needs to protect his honour or what is he?’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Lovelace, wondering what possible honour there was in killing a callow youth like Ensign Faulks. ‘I’m entirely with you on that. You and I know that nothing is more precious than a man’s honour. I understand you’ve had to protect yours three times in the last five years?’
Deighnton sat back and observed Lovelace, then lit up a pipe.
‘Do you wish to make further comment on the subject?’ he asked eventually.
Lovelace feigned surprise. ‘No, no. A man must look to his family name, however many duels, but – ’ he leaned closer to Deighnton and affected to glance around the room before speaking – ‘what of the authorities? As you say, this is India – but the army doesn’t sanction duels. An officer might get away with it once, but three times? Bit excessive, what? How is it they haven’t come down on you? I have no problem with duelling, you understand – just intrigued, old boy.’
A smile hovered around Deighnton’s lips. ‘Ah – well, that’s a bit of a secret, Major. Here’s the whisky . . .’
The waiter with the tray placed the whiskies carefully on the table, then said to the captain in a quiet tone, ‘Your servant
is outside, sahib. He wishes to know if he’s to stay there or return to your quarters to prepare your bedding?’
‘Tell the damn fool he’s to wait where he is,’ replied Deighnton irritably. ‘I’d have sent a message if I wanted him back at the bungalow.’
‘Yes, sahib.’
The turbaned waiter melted away as they always did. There and gone, like a flickering shadow. Lovelace had always admired this skill at being shadow. It was exactly what was required of a spy, to be there but to be unnoticed, and to leave like a grey cat in a grey dawn, without a sound, without being seen to leave. He was expecting great things from his newly formed team of Watchmen.
Deighnton threw a look back at the table where the card game was in progress.
Lovelace said, ‘So, Captain, what brings you to India?’
‘My regiment, of course.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Lovelace, smiling, ‘but you didn’t need to come here. You have a choice. You could have bought out, or transferred. This land is pretty hostile to us, is it not? Ridden with disease and lately with hostility. We’re all lucky to be alive, you know – it was a close run thing, this uprising. If the mutiny had spread further than Bengal, we’d all be corpses by now. India is not a place an HM soldier comes to get rich either – we’re not like the Company men, are we? We’re not given much chance to line our pockets.’
Lovelace made it sound as if only an idealistic fool or someone with no choice in the matter would come to such a bedevilled land for no profit. He had gauged Deighnton correctly, for he could see from the man’s face that he agreed with every word. Lovelace sensed that Deighnton despised India. And although the major knew Deighnton was a second son, he also knew the cavalry captain was not a poor man. Deighnton certainly had the means to leave or change his regiment, if he had wished to remain in Britain or obtain a posting to a much more tranquil clime.
Deighnton felt the need to protect himself from this accusation of being gullible. ‘Oh, I don’t know. One can find opportunities here, if one looks for them.’
‘Such as?’
He laughed. ‘Major, I’m hardly likely to tell you, am I? My own close friends are not privy to such information. Otherwise I’d have competition. Let’s just say I know some people who need the kind of skills I have to offer.’ He suddenly realized the whisky was making him indiscreet. ‘But you, Major. You’re here too.’
‘You know what I do for a living. Oh, I know you think it ungentlemanly – but it’s something I’m good at. Probably the only thing I’m good at. Where else in the world at this point in time would I get the opportunity to practise my art? India is ideal, being rife with intrigue and murder at the moment. I couldn’t wish for a better stage at this point in my career. At this rate I’ll be a colonel within the year, perhaps even a general within two. There’s not a lot of competition in my game either.’
‘Lieutenant Crossman?’
‘Fancy Jack? He’s hasn’t the callousness to progress too far. Too many principles. Too much integrity. He’s not a ruthlessly ambitious man, like me. He’s happy to progress slowly, by keeping in touch with my coat tails. I do not think less of his character for that: one way is as good as another. We each of us have our skills, Captain, and this was actually not his chosen profession. I brought him into it kicking and screaming. That’s not to say he’s not good at the kind of work I need him for – he’s assiduous and dogged when it comes to a task. That’s the kind of man I need working under me – officers who do the job and do it well.’
Deighnton looked down into his whisky glass. ‘I have learned to dislike the man intensely . . .’
‘Not from the beginning?’
‘No – but he’s as slippery as an eel.’ Again, Deighnton felt he had said too much, for he added, ‘Not that I wouldn’t be the same in his position. I’m a very good shot, though I say it myself.’
‘It takes more than being a good shot to kill a man in a duel,’ replied Lovelace, finishing his glass.
‘That’s true. I’ve got that too. Whatever it is.’
Deighnton looked back at the card table, then said, ‘Was there anything else you wished to talk about, Major?’
‘Oh, no – nothing in particular. I hoped to persuade you to leave my man alone, but obviously that’s not on.’
‘This thing between me and Crossman, there’s no stopping it now, I’m afraid. It’s gone too far for that. I couldn’t hold my head up if I pulled out.’
‘An apology from him?’
‘Sorry, Major, won’t do.’
Lovelace sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. And what’s more I don’t think he’d do it. He doesn’t want the duel, but he’d never kowtow to avoid it. Well, it’s between the two of you. I’m sure I would do the same in your place. I admire a man who’s prepared to put his life on the line for the sake of his honour,’ said the major, intending to fence verbally with Deighnton over this matter. ‘My God, there have been some glorious duels in the past, eh? What about the one between Cardigan and – now who was it? – oh yes, Harvey Tuckett. Captain Tuckett was badly wounded, wasn’t he? And Cardigan was arrested and tried in the House of Lords.’
‘Acquitted though,’ added Deighnton quickly, who knew exactly what Lovelace was doing and he sought to lighten the tone. ‘But what about the petticoat duel? Lady Almeria Braddock and Mrs Elphinstone?’
Lovelace chortled and slapped his knee. ‘Oh, that one – over Lady Almeria’s true age, I believe?’
‘In the first exchange of pistol fire, Lady Almeria’s hat was damaged!’
The two men roared out laughing.
‘Then,’ continued Lovelace, wiping away a non-existent tear, ‘when they took to the swords, one of them was pinked and the other apologized.’
They roared again.
‘Women!’ said Deighnton, nodding. His eyes narrowed and Lovelace knew something more significant than a petticoat duel was coming. ‘But my favourite is the duel between the Marquis of Londonderry and an ensign in the marquis’s regiment, a boy named Battier. Battier’s pistol misfired, but he declined to reload and shoot again. Battier walked, much like our Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman, and was later horsewhipped for it by Sir Henry Hardinge, one of the marquis’s seconds.’
Lovelace murmured, ‘I’m sure he deserved it,’ then slipped into a casual mode of conversation in which he subtly explored Deighnton’s likes and dislikes. Lovelace was a great believer in ‘know thy enemy’. He cleverly explored Deighnton’s background and preferences without appearing too inquisitive. They had more whiskies, more cigars and pipe-fills, and the evening mellowed on, card games forgotten in the pleasure of stories of watching barefist fights, female conquests at masquerades, tales of wagers which had made fortunes for some gentlemen and wagers which had ruined aristocrats – all those tales in which two like-minded officers indulge, on Lovelace’s part mostly fictitious.
‘I expect you hunt of course, when at home?’ Lovelace asked.
Deighnton nodded, saying that pig-sticking in India was not a patch on chasing a fox or deer back in England. ‘But one makes do with what’s available. Tigers. Now there’s a sport . . .’
And so it went on. Lovelace himself did not hunt or shoot wild animals for sport. It was not something he found any entertainment in. He could kill a man, if it was expedient and absolutely necessary to do so, without compunction. But Lovelace was not a person who did such things simply for the pleasure of letting blood. He saw no good reason to spend a day tracking down a perfectly harmless stag and shooting it for the sake of its antlers. He saw such sport as a waste of good time. However, he did enjoy fly-fishing. He found it relaxing and it gave him time to think over those many knotty problems which beset assassins and spies like himself.
‘Do you like angling?’ he asked Deighnton, thinking that such a slow sport would not interest the captain. ‘I am fond of it, myself.’
Deighnton laughed. ‘Do I like it? I adore it. I’m a member of the Houghton.’
For the first ti
me that evening Lovelace was taken aback. In fact he was stunned. Astonishment was quickly followed by a feeling of monstrous envy. He could hardly believe his ears. The Houghton Fishing Club (along with its sister club, the Amwell Magma) was the oldest and most exclusive fishing club in the United Kingdom. It had only twenty-four members, all immensely wealthy men, and it owned something like a ten-mile stretch of the River Test and its leaders – a length of water which boasted the best trout fishing in the whole of Great Britain. There were thirteen wardens who looked after the Houghton’s interests along the Test, tending this prime piece of fly-fishing heaven. How in God’s name, thought Lovelace, did a man like Deighnton become a member of such an exclusive club?
‘I would sell my mother into slavery to be a member of the Houghton,’ he said, aware that jealousy laced his every word. ‘How did you do it? Prime Ministers, Field Marshals, members of the Royal Family – they’ve tried and failed to enter the portals of the Houghton. I myself once went to the Boot Inn in Stockbridge just to catch a glimpse of the men who do belong.’
‘I know,’ said Deighnton in a self-satisfied tone, ‘it’s delightful, is it not?’ He frowned a little, as if in thought. ‘Perhaps I could take you along as a guest sometime? We seem to like the same things. Get on well together, I would say. Yes, I’m sure that could be arranged, once we’re both back on home soil.’
‘Well, that’s mighty handsome of you. I would like that above all things,’ said Lovelace. He glanced at the mess clock. ‘Now, I have to go. I think you’re needed back at the table. Thanks for the chat.’ They shook hands.
Outside in the cool evening air, Lovelace drew deep breaths. What a loathsome creature was Captain Deighnton. A slug. Yet a member of the Houghton! He was very valuable to someone, that much was certain. You only got into the Houghton when a member keeled over and died. Who had purchased Deighnton the unobtainable? And why, for God’s sake? It was a mystery which needed unravelling and Lovelace was determined to do it. Clearly Deighnton must be involved in some scheme which made other people a lot of money, and was well paid for it, and therefore made it worthwhile for the captain to put up with being in a land he hated, full of people he loathed. Lovelace had seen the way the captain had looked at the Hindu waiter, and had heard the way he spoke of his servant. It was quite obvious Deighnton despised the local population, perhaps even more than he did the country.
Rogue Officer Page 20
