Rogue Officer

by Kilworth, Garry Douglas

  ‘I’ll take the floggin’,’ he said in a surly tone. ‘Won’t be the first.’

  King led his man outside and requested a rope end from a stable boy.

  Kashmar went back to where Jack was sipping cold tea. He sat down opposite the officer.

  ‘You have a good man in that sergeant, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  After a while, during which neither man said anything, Jack asked, ‘Is King returning?’

  ‘He is whipping your soldier.’

  Jack straightened his back. ‘What?’

  ‘There was something about a letter. Sergeant King gave the soldier a choice – court martial or whipping. He chose the whipping.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Finally, King came back, grim-faced.

  ‘Wynter is repentant, sir.’

  ‘I expect he is, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sir, shall we say no more about the matter?’

  Jack was at a loss to think of any other course which would improve the situation. ‘I think so, Sergeant.’ He then went to see Wynter himself.

  The private was having the lacerations on his back caused by the lashing treated with a creamy balm by a matronly looking woman with a very proud Roman nose. She looked a no-nonsense sort of female who was certainly not putting up with Wynter’s complaints, for both were speaking at once and neither listening to what the other had to say. It was as if they were both talking to a separate crowd of people, their voices both loud and penetratingly insistent in their views. Finally the woman slapped Wynter’s back to show she was finished and the soldier put on his shirt. Then he climbed slowly to his feet and went to attention.

  ‘Sir!’ he said, but without his usual tonal insolence.

  Jack stared at the man before him. He was a very sorry-looking individual. One of his eyes was half-closed and crazed with whiteness. His hair was as grey and grizzled as that of a man twice his age. Hollow cheeks and sallow skin, covered in pock-wounds from the thorns, did nothing to improve his countenance, which was dry and cracked, especially around his mean-looking mouth. Wynter now stooped like a washerwoman with a heavy burden to carry, his thin frame bent and crooked. His shoulder blades stuck out and upward like stunted wings from his back, stretching the skin taut. His ribs formed deep furrows on his chest, between which were nasty sores. The bare feet were gnarled and corn-infested, the filthy toenails having cracked and split away in places to leave a rawness that must have been painful.

  It was impossible not to feel pity for the soldier.

  ‘Private Wynter,’ said Jack in a softer tone than he had intended to use, ‘stand at ease. Wynter, I’m sorry to see you in such a poor state. A man who has marched from the Crimea to India deserves that his body should be in a better condition. How is your wounded eye?’

  ‘Blind, sir. Black as death.’

  ‘Is it indeed? Well, that’s a great pity.’

  Wynter managed a crooked smile which was made more sinister by the stare of the milky eye. ‘But at least I got both me hands, an’t I?’

  Jack shook his head slowly. There was, in his tone, the implication that at least he was not a cripple like Jack. The man’s natural bent was to kick back at any authority, no matter what his condition. There was something rather tragic and strangely admirable in that. It was impossible for Wynter to shed his contempt, no matter how much punishment his body received, either by accident or from the army. He could be lying broken to the point of death and he would try to spit on the shoe of the man who had put him there. Wynter’s bitterness was constant.

  ‘You took your punishment, we shall say no more.’

  ‘I never wrote no letter.’

  Jack noticed the small single-shot pistol given to Wynter by the Dutchman. It rested by his pillow.

  ‘I said we shall say no more on the matter. Your wrongs have been accounted for.’

  ‘I never did no wrongs. You lot did. You left me to bleed to death,’ said Wynter, his voice full of emotion with the memory of his night in the thorn bush. ‘I was like Christ on the cross out there – the life just drainin’ from me. Jesus Christ himself just wore a crown of thorns on his head – I wore ’em like a bloody greatcoat.’

  ‘There was no help for it. We could not reach you.’

  Wynter shrugged. ‘Anyway, I didn’t die, like you wanted. I got saved by that foreign bastard and his men.’

  ‘Do not call the nawab names, Wynter, or you will be in serious trouble again. The nawab saved all our lives with his timely arrival, just when I had given up hope. I have had my fill of your insubordination. Be assured that if you anger me again you will spend the rest of your miserable life in prison. I don’t care what it takes, I’ll have you behind bars. My patience is at an end. Am I understood?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I mean it, soldier. Believe me.’

  Wynter nodded. ‘You got me, sir, you and your kind. You’ve always had me down and I an’t now got the strength to fight it. But I’ll always think I’m the better man. You can’t take that from me. I come up from nothin’ to be a respected soldier, while you was spoon fed from your cradle to your manhood. But I’ll buckle, if it needs it. I’ll buckle. When do we leave this heathen place? I’m fed up with bein’ among pagans. I need to be back among Christians like meself again.’

  Jack did not point out the obvious flaws in this speech, but allowed Wynter the luxury of believing himself to be a respected Christian. He pointed at the pistol lying on the hair-filled mattress.

  ‘I hope you were not contemplating using that, Wynter – it’s a tragic way to leave the world.’

  Wynter glanced at the weapon which he believed elevated him above his normal station and then shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘That? I already tried.’

  Jack was puzzled. ‘You’ve used it?’

  Wynter’s face twisted into a wry grimace. ‘I missed.’

  Jack realized Wynter was serious and he believed he knew what had happened. It was not rare. A suicidal man might put the pistol to his temple, even squeeze the trigger, intending to blow out his own brains. But at the last moment life-grasping reflexes thwart those intentions. He finds his hand has jerked the muzzle aside. Jack looked at the wall behind the bed. There was indeed a hole at the right height.

  Jack nodded. ‘Next time you’ll have to put in a marker shot first.’

  Wynter snorted with laughter at this attempt at humour.

  ‘What, you mean practise on the left side of me head, afore doin’ it to the right?’

  ‘It could improve your aim.’

  Jack could hear Wynter’s snorting long after he turned his back and left the room and walked along the passageway. Maybe humour was the way to deal with this difficult and complicated man?

  Ten

  Captain Deighnton had arrived back at Gwalior just a week before Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman. Before his servant had had time to take off his boots and brush the riding dust from his coat, the captain was summoned to appear before the colonel of his regiment. The subaltern who delivered the message came in for a deal of abuse, but of course Deighnton’s sword and pistol, along with his short temper, were feared amongst the younger officers.

  An older man when challenged would simply remind Deighnton that duelling had been against the law since the second decade of the century and that they were in a no-win situation: if they were shot by their opponent they were likely to die, yet if they hit their target they would probably never be able to go back to Britain. Older officers knew that duels proved nothing. They knew their mettle having faced musket ball, cannon, grapeshot, canister and all manner of iron missile. They had cut and been cut with sabres, had horses shot from under them, had looked down countless barrels of death and had survived. They would not be likely to throw away their lives at the whim of a maniac duellist.

  The young officers, however, were still more afraid of being labelled a coward than being run through or shot. They were still afraid of disgracing their family name. T
hey were still afraid of losing the good opinion of others, especially loved ones back home in Britain.

  Deighnton marched into the office of Colonel Weightmane.

  The colonel was standing, leaning on a false mantle on which were photographs of his wife and children, all slaughtered in the uprising. He waved a piece of paper at Captain Deighnton.

  ‘Is this your handiwork?’ asked the colonel, who then let the paper fall to the floor.

  Deighnton stared down at it. It was a letter. Deighnton’s eyes were legendary. The eyes of an eagle. He recognized the handwriting as his own, even from halfway across the room. It was the letter he had sent to Jane Crossman, the wife of Lieutenant Jack Crossman. Deighnton said nothing. He simply stared in contempt at his colonel: a similar sort of contempt to the one Wynter bore towards his superior officer.

  Finally, after a long period of silence, the captain asked, ‘Where did you get that letter? Who gave it to you?’

  ‘Why, are you going to call him out?’

  The colonel’s voice was calm, but his hands trembled as he reached for a glass of whisky on the mantle.

  ‘Captain Deighnton, I have thoroughly investigated the claims you made in that missive to Mrs Crossman. While on the surface there have been some exchanges between the daughters of a corporal and this Lieutenant Crossman, deeper investigation revealed that they were in fact innocent exchanges. The officer concerned was actually plagued by the girls, whose father tells me they are difficult to handle.’ He glanced at the mantle. ‘I know what he’s talking about. I had girls of my own.’ The colonel then turned back to the captain. ‘This is malicious gossip. I am amazed that an officer of your experience should sink so low. Even had the rumours been true, it was not your place to inform to a wife on a brother officer. You are a disgrace to your regiment, sir, and I want nothing more to do with you.’ The colonel’s voice was now taut with emotion. ‘What have you to say for yourself, sir?’

  Deighnton shrugged. ‘I had the devil’s own job to get him to fight. He kept shying off. This seemed a sure way.’

  ‘And that’s another thing.’ The colonel slammed down his glass, bringing his servant running into the room. ‘This damn duelling. It has to stop. Well, it will stop, because you, sir, are no longer welcome in my regiment. I would like you gone by tomorrow.’

  The servant bowed out, very quickly.

  ‘Gone? Where shall I go to, sir?’ asked Deighnton mildly.

  ‘Go anywhere, and I would sell out, if I were you.’

  The captain said, ‘You know of course that I have powerful friends back in England . . .’

  ‘Damn your friends!’ the colonel exploded, his eyes now steely with their own brand of contempt. ‘God damn them, and God damn you! I’m sure he has already. You have several deaths on your hands. You may have had some friends, but you have also made some powerful enemies now that you have robbed families of sons and brothers. You think I care for your friends, now that my own family are all gone? Get out of my sight, sir. If you are here tomorrow I shall announce your misdemeanours to the regiment on parade. See then if you still feel you have behaved with honour! Gather then the true opinion of your fellow officers!’

  Deighnton stared for a while at the trembling colonel, then turned on his heel and marched out of the room, his anger now at white heat. He strode towards his own bungalow. The warm wind of the evening was in his face and the foetid blown atmosphere of distant cesspits did nothing to improve his temper. Once he was on his own veranda he took a riding crop that hung on the doorpost. With this he began savagely to slash at the bamboo furniture, venting his temper. In the middle of this tirade his servant came out to see what the noise was about. Deighnton turned on the man and struck him several times around the face, causing bloody welts to appear. The servant was used to abuse, but never so bad as this, and put his arms over his head to try to protect himself. He cried out, ‘Sahib, sahib, I have done no wrong. Please, sahib.’

  But Deighnton was relentless. Someone had to pay. If he could not whip the man who was to blame for him being put in this position, he would whip this man just to hear him squeal. He laid about the servant’s shoulders and back. The man crouched and cried out for mercy. Finally Deighnton’s anger dissipated and he realized this was a silly occupation. Why whip a servant when one has to kill an enemy? First things first, though. He needed to find out who had given the colonel that letter.

  The captain threw down the riding crop.

  ‘Pick that up. Oh, come on, man, you’re not badly hurt. Good God, I got worse from my schoolmasters for flunking Latin. Don’t whimper like a baby, it disgusts me. If anyone calls tell them I’m out seeking the adjutant – I’ll find out who carried that letter from England, if it takes me all night. And tell the cook I would like creamed chicken and sweet potatoes. Come on, man, leap to the task. That’s it! You’ll be done with me by tomorrow. I’m leaving this damn hell hole for better pastures. Hah! That’s brightened your eyes, hasn’t it? You’ll be out of a job tomorrow, but it pleases you. Human nature, it is a mystifying force . . .’

  Later than evening Rupert Jarrard was in his room in one of the backstreet boarding houses when there was a rap on the door. Opening it he was confronted by a cavalry captain.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Captain Deighnton. Mr Jarrard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand, sir, that you are a postman.’

  ‘If that means a mailman, you understand correctly.’

  ‘Ah, you know the letter to which I refer then?’

  ‘Perfectly. Delivered by my own hand to your colonel.’

  ‘In that case after I’ve levelled your friend,’ said the captain, ‘I shall be obliged if you will give me the satisfaction of doing the same with you.’

  Jarrard opened his coat to show the captain his Navy Colt.

  ‘Happy,’ he said.

  ‘Good. I was afraid that American gentlemen were not familiar with the European art of duelling.’

  ‘Oh, we’re familiar all right. A weekend sport with us.’

  ‘Really? Until then?’

  Jarrard nodded coldly and the captain left.

  Unruffled, the newspaperman went back to writing his column.

  He chewed the top of his pencil.

  ‘Pervasive? Omnipresent? Ubiquitous – that’s the word I want. Ubiquitous. Much more sinister in tone . . .’

  Jack had not been back in Gwalior one hour when he received another summons, this time to attend to the major who had arrested him at Bareilly, Major O’Hay. It appeared the major had arrived the previous day and wished to speak with him urgently. Jack suspected more trouble: the business over his supposed desertion had still not been settled to the satisfaction of the senior staff at Bareilly.

  Wearily he left his quarters and went to meet the major at the local headquarters. When he entered the building Major O’Hay failed to recognize him until he had introduced himself, then the portly field officer nodded. ‘Ah, yes, Lieutenant Crossman, isn’t it? How d’ye do? Some refreshment?’ This did not sound like the prelude to a court martial for desertion. Jack began to feel more comfortable with the situation.

  ‘I was rather hoping to rest – I’ve had a long ride,’ said Jack.

  The major frowned. ‘So have I, my boy. So have I.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Yes, of course. How can I help you?’

  ‘If I recall correctly you were the officer brought up in front of Colonel Boothroyde at Bareilly?’

  So this was about the charge of desertion brought by Deighnton. Jack’s heart sank once again.

  ‘Look, Major, I still haven’t had the chance to contact my superior officers – I’m sure they’ll be able to clear up this misunderstanding once and for all . . .’

  ‘I expect they can. Colonel Boothroyde is convinced of it – but we could progress from there without the word of your own colonel. During the inquiry you mentioned a civilian – Dutchman by the name of Hilversum?’

  ‘Yes. I
said he could verify that I had been abducted by rebel sepoys and taken over the borders of Chinese Tartary.’

  ‘Quite, but you will recall I said the fellow was an unmitigated rogue, who sold guns to badmashes and dacoits? Other crimes too, that’s a fact. Well, we have now located the fellow and want him arrested. You, sir, have been chosen as the arresting officer.’

  Jack’s heart sank even further now. ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘Logical, ain’t it? You’re known to him. Friends – or at least acquaintances, ain’t you? You can get close to him without being shot dead. Fellah’s a sharpshooter, so I hear. Knock the pip out of an ace card from twenty yards. Wouldn’t want to send an officer to his death just for the sake of arresting a blackguard. No, you’re the man for it. Bring him back alive or dead and we’ll forget the other thing.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘Disobeying an order, old chap. Could be as serious as the charge of desertion. Added to it, no chance of getting off whatsoever.’

  Jack knew he was being held to ransom. They wanted Hilversum for something more than a firearms charge, he was certain. They would not go to all this trouble just to get a man who sold the odd handgun to rich maharajahs and nawabs, for no one else could afford Hilversum ‘s silver-mounted pearl-butted pistols. He was equally certain that he would not find out what it was until he asked Hilversum himself.

  ‘Where will I find the Dutchman?’ he asked.

  O’Hay unfolded a map and spread it out on a table.

  ‘Place here by the name of Narwar, further down the river Sinde. He’s visiting a talukdar by the name of Chandra. Know what a talukdar is?’

  ‘An Indian aristocrat, of sorts.’

  ‘Quite. Back home he’d be called “landed gentry”.’

  ‘And Rudi Hilversum is staying with this Chandra.’

  ‘Ah, Rudi. You know him by his Christian name, eh? Good. Knew we’d picked the right man. When we got orders from General Sir Matthew Martlesham to arrest the rogue, I recalled you knew him. Yes, guest of the talukdar. Selling him weapons, no doubt, with which to shoot the British. Never did trust the Dutch, not after that business with the nutmeg.’