'Touché,' Jack said, equally quietly. He looked at her sideways. 'Have you been back home?'
'Not yet.' Mary shook her head, so she had to clutch tightly to her hat. 'I want to visit, but I haven't got the tin.' She looked away. 'That's the word, isn't it? The tin – the money?'
'That's one word for it,' Jack said. 'It's a word that schoolboys and young ensigns will say, rather than educated women.'
'I was taught to speak properly in the mission school' Mary adopted what she evidently considered an educated voice. 'But sometimes I wish I could talk as the British-born do.' She glanced at him and away again.
'You are fine just the way you are,' Jack said. 'More than fine.'
'Thank you.' Her hand touched his arm lightly. 'If I ever visit home.' She paused as he waited. 'Will they like me?'
'Of course, they will like you,' Jack said. 'Why ever would anybody not like you?'
'Because I am half Indian,' Mary said quietly. 'Some people call me half-caste or nigger or black or other things.'
Jack controlled his sudden surge of anger. 'I hope nobody calls you such things when you go home to Britain,' he said.
'I call Britain home, as we all do,' Mary said, 'yet I'm not sure if I think of it as home really.' She sighed. 'I'd like to visit and see all the marvellous things. Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park, Old Father Thames and snow at Christmas, the Queen and horse racing at Epsom, Trafalgar Square and Georgian Bath, the Scott Country and Burn's cottage.'
'I would like to take you to all these places.' Jack realised he meant exactly what he said. He also knew that being seen with an Anglo-Indian woman in Britain would ruin any possibility of social or career advancement. He tried to imagine what his mother, or his brother William and his new wife, Helen Maxwell, would say. It doesn't matter he told himself. Damn them all.
'I beg your pardon?' Mary looked quizzical. 'What doesn't matter?'
Jack started. 'Sorry, I was thinking out loud,' he said.
'Oh?' Mary looked sideways at him again. 'You said that Lucknow must have been wonderful before this idiot war started.'
'Did I?'
'Yes, you did,' Mary said. 'I heard you. I thought you soldiers all welcomed wars so you could prove yourselves brave and get promotion and loot.'
'I used to think like that.' Jack remembered his time in Burma when he had volunteered for every crazy mission and led his men on near-suicide attacks for exactly those reasons.
'But not now?' Mary asked.
'Not now,' Jack said no more.
'Why not? What happened to change you?' Mary turned away from the city to face him, her eyes deep and brown and calm as she probed into his soul and waited for an answer.
Jack pondered. How could he tell her of the piles of shrieking wounded at the Redan and Inkerman? How could he tell her of the rows of hanged bodies swaying beside the Great Trunk Road? How could he tell her of the horrors of the march along the Crimean beach with men flailing in the agonies of cholera? 'There is nothing glorious about war,' he said at length. 'It is ugly, sordid and dirty, a failure of politicians, diplomats, kings and emperors to work things out properly.'
'Do your fellow officers think as you do?' Mary asked.
'It is not something we talk about.' Jack thought about Elliot's constant drinking, Kent's seeming desire to avoid anything troublesome and the tense professionalism of Prentice. 'I don't know.' He wondered how much he could trust this strange, complicated woman. 'Gentlemen and officers do not voice their fears or feelings. It is not the done thing.' He waited for her reaction.
'I thought not,' Mary said. 'Yet you told me.'
'I would be obliged if you do not tell anybody else.' Jack knew that if even a whisper about this conversation could damage his reputation.
'I will never tell anybody,' she said. 'Please don't tell anybody what I said about being – being what and who I am.'
Only then did Jack realise that she had confided in him as much as he had in her. Their trust was mutual. 'I won't, Mary,' and for some reason, he could not understand he added, 'thank you.'
Mary turned away so suddenly that Jack wondered if he had offended her in some way. 'Over there,' she pointed to the south-east, where two ornate buildings stood within a swathe of green parkland, 'is La Martiniere, where boys from Britain and Europe go to school, and the Dilkusha Palace.'
'Another palace,' Jack said.
'Another palace,' Mary confirmed. 'How many are there in London? Buckingham, St James, Kensington and Windsor.' She continued without waiting for his answer. 'And up-river, where we can't see, is the Machchi Bhawan, the old fort, and a collection of country mansions known as the Musa Bagh.'
'It's a fine city, as I said.' Jack tried to memorise all the names and places although he knew it was pointless. Once he and his men were down on the ground, fighting through the narrow streets and alleys, he would see nothing but blank walls and closed doorways. 'Where is the Residency? Where are our people holding out?' He knew where it was on the map; it was always different on the ground.
'Up there,' Mary pointed to the north-west and gave him a brief, near-nervous smile. 'It's the building with all the holes in it.'
The Residency stood tall on a plateau, not far from the river. To reach it Havelock's men would have to cross the Charbagh Bridge over a canal and then there was a choice. Fight for two miles through a succession of walled palaces or through Lucknow city, where the bulk of the population existed in a maze of narrow streets and flat-topped houses. 'Fighting through to there won't be easy,' he said.
'Do you have to fight all the time?' Mary asked. 'Could you not leave the Army and live in peace?'
Jack considered. If he resigned his commission, what else could he do? Nothing; his skills were all focussed on the military. He had never studied agriculture or business, law or commerce. 'No,' he said, more abruptly than he had intended.
'Oh,' Mary looked away again. Jack wished he had given a different response. 'When are you attacking?'
'Tomorrow morning,' Jack said.
'Take care,' Mary touched his arm. 'Please take care.'
Jack looked up as the rain began again. Their little window had ended, and it was time to concentrate on the war again.
Chapter Sixteen
'Are you all set, lads?' The men stood in their ranks, still wearing the travel-worn khaki- stained linen, still holding their Enfield rifles, faces drawn, nutmeg-brown, some shaking with excitement, others striving to appear nonchalant.
'Loosen your bayonets,' Jack ordered. 'Check you each have sixty rounds, caps and a full water bottle.' He watched as they patted and looked through their equipment. 'The pandies will fight this time so watch out for each other; don't go wandering off alone. You'll get lost, and the pandies will gut you like a fish.' The men nodded; by now they were all veterans. They knew what war in India was all about. 'The Residency is still holding out,' Jack told them. 'But we don't know for how much longer. They're short of ammunition and not sure how long the native troops in the garrison will stay loyal.'
Number Two Company, 113th Foot nodded. Some stamped their feet or frowned. 'Here's what we're doing,' Jack said. 'We advance to the Charbagh Bridge, bear right and follow the left bank of the canal to a group of palaces.' The men listened, trying to retain the information on which their lives depended.
'There are bazaars there as well as the palaces. You'll see the Residency then; it's the one where our men are holding out and defending our women.' Jack held Riley's gaze for a moment and looked away. 'We'll have our artillery with us, and we'll move in two brigades. General Outram will lead the first one, including us and the guns, while General Havelock commands the second.' The men nodded; they knew of Outram as a fighting general. 'Good luck, men. Follow orders, do your duty and support each other.'
'Cry Havelock!' O'Neill took up Elliot's battle cry, and the men all joined in. 'Let loose the dogs of war!' They grinned at each other, knowing that call was unique to the 113th; it had become a regimental tradition.<
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Shortly after eight the word 'advance' came through, and General Outram spurred on his horse toward the Charbagh Bridge.
'Follow the general,' Jack lengthened his stride to lead on his men. On either side of the road, Mutineers hid amidst the long rank grass, shooting at the advancing column. More rebels fired from loopholes in the garden walls as well as from the windows on both stories of a substantial house.
'Ambush Alley,' Coleman shouted. 'Keep your heads down, boys!'
A cannon boomed from the right flank, and a nine-pounder ball tore into the second rank of the 113th, ripping the legs off a man. He fell without a sound and stared unbelievingly at the blood that spurted from his stumps.
'Push on!' Jack fired his revolver at the two-storey house, knowing his shots had little chance of taking effect. He ran on, following Outram on his horse, seeing white powder-smoke clouding around the houses and rising from the grass. Fountains of dust and chips of stones revealed where bullets smacked against the road.
Private Riordan staggered as a bullet hit his shoulder. He swore as a second crashed into his knee. He fell, shouting in Gaelic and English. 'Go on boys! Give them hell!'
'Here come the guns,' Elliot yelled. The men cheered when Captain Maude brought up his six pounders, unlimbered and opened rapid fire with grapeshot and canister through the grass before concentrating on the buildings. The rebel fire slackened. The British pushed on.
Losing men, firing back whenever they saw a target, swearing profusely, already hot and sweating, the British advanced. The Mutineers' fire increased again, with a battery of artillery on the Lucknow bank opening up as the 113th pounded to the bridge. A twenty-four- pound cannon ball ripped overhead to land somewhere in the column further back. Jack heard somebody scream; there was musketry from houses on the Lucknow bank and a sharp and accurate volley from the high wall of the Charbagh Gardens. More men fell to lie still or roll around the ground, cursing.
'They're ready for us,' Elliot said. 'That's a high rampart.' The seven-foot high earthwork blocked the road from side to side with only a single central gap. Even as Jack watched the six-cannon battery on the parapet of the earthwork fired again, spraying grapeshot across the bridge.
Knowing an advance would bring heavier casualties than they could afford the British found cover on the wrong side of the bridge. Outmatched by the rebel artillery, they fired back, with the Enfield bullets kicking up spurts of dust and small chips from the stone walls of the houses and gardens.
'This is the hottest fight so far,' Elliot said as he reloaded his revolver. 'Somebody has taught the pandies how to fight.'
Jack nodded, checked his men, shouted for Thorpe to keep his fool head down and fired in the direction of the twenty-four pounder. 'Aye; they're fighting now.'
There was a stalemate, British and Mutineers exchanging musketry and then there was the jingle of harnesses and the creak of wheels as Maude brought up his faithful battery of artillery.
'He won't get them up that narrow road.' Jack flinched as a bullet whined off the road a few inches in front of his face.
'Yes he will,' Elliot said as Maude set up his brace of cannon.' He's a brave man.'
They watched as Maude set up his guns, and within a few moments, he opened fire. The Mutineers responded at once, with six cannons blasting back.
'This isn't good,' Elliot ducked as a rebel roundshot crashed into a building twenty feet away.
'There goes Outram,' Jack said as the general led the 5th Fusiliers off to the right to storm the walled Charbagh Gardens. 'Once the Fusiliers take the Charbagh they'll be able to fire on the Mutineers flank. They may have come late to the war, but they're making up for it now.'
Jack checked the British position. In the centre, Maude's two guns were fighting their unequal battle with the larger and heavier Mutineer artillery. Slightly to the left and a few yards forward were twenty-five Madras Fusiliers, firing furiously at the heavily manned houses opposite. To the right of Maude's guns were Jack's 113th, bringing repressing fire onto the Charbagh to give Outram's company a chance. Others of the Madras Fusiliers were lying behind a wall to the rear of Maude's cannon, waiting for the word to advance. General Neil stood calmly beside the wall of the Charbagh, while young Lieutenant Havelock sat astride his horse on the opposite side of the road.
'Keep firing lads, but don't waste ammunition!' Jack remembered the Crimea when his men had to sometimes search for bullets.
When any of Maule's men fell, willing volunteers from the 113th or the Madras Fusiliers stepped forward to man the guns. Maude had already taken the place of a fallen gun-layer, with Lieutenant Maitland loading for him. 'Havelock!' Maude shouted over the bark of his battery. 'We're getting murdered here. Do something for God's sake!'
Lieutenant Havelock kicked in his spurs, riding past Jack to approach Neill. Against the constant hammer of the cannon, Jack could not hear what the lieutenant said, but he guessed Havelock was requesting permission to charge. By a strange coincidence, all the guns stopped together as Neil replied 'I cannot take the responsibility; wait for General Outram.'
'Sir,' Jack ran up, ducking when a Mutineer musketeer aimed specifically at him. The ball whined past his head. 'General Neil; I can take my men forward and capture these guns.'
'You will do no such thing, Captain Windrush.' Neill glared at him. 'You will remain where you are until you receive further orders. We will wait for the commander.'
Jack glanced at the high wall separating them from Outram and the 5th Fusiliers. Nobody knew what was happening over there although the crackle of musketry told its own story.
'Captain Windrush' Lieutenant Havelock was grinning, full of fire. 'Are your men ready to fight?'
'We're the 113th!' Jack gave the simple reply.
'Then with your permission, sir, I have an idea.' Lieutenant Havelock said and withdrew to the rear as Jack returned to his men.
'The lieutenant's turned coward,' Thorpe said. 'Look at him; he's running away!'
'Not a chance.' Coleman shook his head. 'Not that young scud. He's his father's son, that one.'
Thorpe frowned. 'Of course, he's his father's son, Coley. You say some right stupid things. Eh, it was stupid, Parker?'
Before Parker could reply, Lieutenant Havelock galloped back, reined in his horse in a flurry of hooves and threw Neill an impressive salute. 'You are to carry the bridge, sir!'
'Cheeky young beggar,' Coleman said. 'He's pretending he asked the general for permission. Now watch him go.'
Lieutenant Havelock waved his sword, kicked in his spurs and charged. 'Come on the Madras Fusiliers!'
Lieutenants Arnold and Tytler of the Madras Fusiliers jumped up from cover and led forward their men. The Fusiliers' boots thundered onto the bridge as the Mutineers behind the earthwork rose in a red-coated body while the cannon opened fire with lethal grapeshot.
'It's slaughter,' O'Neill said as the Madras Fusiliers were scythed down. Arnold yelled as grapeshot crashed into both his thighs; he fell, writhing, with Tytler curled beside him, his horse dead and a ball in his groin. Of the twenty-five Madras Fusiliers, twenty-four were down and only a lone private named Jakes upright. Untouched, Lieutenant Havelock still waved his sword. 'Follow me!'
'Come on, lads before the guns reload.' Jack rose and charged forward onto the bridge, knowing his men would follow. If they failed to relieve Lucknow, the rebels would take heart and tens of thousands more might rally to their cause. They could sweep the British out of India in a scarlet storm of bloodshed. Jack had to cross the bridge and push past the pandies. The future of British India, the prosperity of Great Britain and possibly the stability of the world depended on it, for without the British Empire the oceans would lose their policeman and Europe its model of security and resolution.
The 113th followed, yelling, roaring, swearing, firing as they ran, bayonets gleaming in the sun and boots hammering on the bridge. With them were the remainder of the Madras Fusiliers, desperate to avenge their fallen comrades.
In front, Lieutenant Havelock and Private Jakes still stood, facing the entire Mutineer defence line.
The mixed 113th and Madras Fusiliers crashed across the bridge and threw themselves onto the earthwork. Jack leapt up, grappled for a handhold, felt somebody pushing him from beneath and tumbled over the top. There was a sea of Mutineers there, some in white uniforms, some still in scarlet, together with local warriors in all manner of clothing from simple loin-cloths to spiked helmets and chain mail.
Jack shot a white-uniformed Mutineer, ducked under the swung of a tulwar, kicked the wielder in the groin and fired at another Mutineer who lunged at him with a bayonet. He felt the sting as the spear-point sliced his left arm and then Logan was at his side, yelling his incomprehensible slogans.
'That's for Charlotte you murdering pandy bastards; that's for Gondabad, and that's for Cawnpore!'
'Cry Havelock!' Elliot shouted, with the cry being taken up along the length of the line. The 113th and Madras Fusiliers spread right and left, bayoneting and shooting, crushing any resistance, killing the artillerymen who had done so much damage and stabbing at their dead bodies again and again.
'Roll up the line!' Jack ordered, dropping cartridges as he reloaded feverishly. 'O'Neill; how many casualties?'
Even in the midst of the chaos of combat, O'Neill kept a sharp eye on his men. 'We lost Manson and Evans on the bridge sir, and MacLeod is wounded.'
Jack swore; his company could not afford many more losses. 'We'll miss them. Keep the pressure up, push the pandies back before they have time to reorganise.'
'Yes, sir!'
As more British arrived, the Mutineers withdrew step by stubborn step. Jack took a deep breath of the humid air. The road to the Residency was won but only after bitter fighting. He looked back at the litter of dead men and broken bodies on the bridge and its approaches. Was the Empire worth such a price in human suffering? Was anything worth the loss of husbands, sons and brothers? Sliding down, he flexed his left arm where his wound flowed blood. It was only a scratch, but in this climate, it could fester. He would have to take care of it.
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