Bugles at Dawn

by Charles Whiting

  ‘Madame!’ John knew he was in for a penny as well as a pound. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  The tall man smiled for the first time, and held up his hand for her to be quiet. Such was his commanding presence that even the Ranee of Burrapore fell silent. ‘My name is Cheethoo,’ he said simply in English. ‘I command the Pindarees.’

  Bold gasped with shock. So the rumours were true. There was a supreme leader of those cruel marauders.

  ‘I see you have heard of me, Mr Bold?’ Cheethoo said. ‘Come, let me show you something.’ He beckoned, and like a sleep-walker, the young Englishman advanced to the window and looked down into the crowded courtyard of the upper fort. He uttered a low moan, face suddenly contorted, at what he saw.

  It was Titch, the undersized youngest sowar in Bold’s Horse, a skinny ever-smiling boy who couldn’t have been a day over sixteen. Now Titch was no longer smiling. Instead his thin young face was contorted by agony as he writhed and wriggled his naked, sweat-lathered body to escape his torturers.

  But there was no escape. Tied to a crude wooden cross like some black Jesus, he struggled in vain as his torturers hammered in yet another nail. His right hand, already nailed, dripped thick red blood on to the white dust. While he screamed, tossing his head from side to side in pain, the long nail was hammered through his left wrist and deep into the wood.

  Furiously John swung his fist at the Pindaree leader. The chain jerked his arm back in mid-punch and the nearest guard raised his sword ready to cleave the Englishman’s skull. Hastily Cheethoo held up his hand and the guard lowered his arm.

  ‘My God, what ... what ... ’ John stuttered, so shocked that he could hardly think coherently.

  Below, Titch was racked with loud sobs, his body heaving, each of his thin ribs marked on his black chest, as if his rib cage might burst forth at any moment. Stolidly his torturers selected another nail and prepared to drive it through his feet.

  ‘Why ... why?’ John finally found the words. ‘Why do ... that?’

  Cheethoo clapped his hands and the guards thrust John away from the window. He prayed that those laboured sobs and moans would cease; that poor tortured Titch would fall unconscious, die — anything that would put him out of his dreadful misery.

  Cheethoo took his time, while the Ranee looked at him impatiently with dark flashing eyes. Even as he agonized, trying to drown out those sobs, John could see that her fate was inextricably bound up with that of the Pindaree leader. Beneath the surface, although they seemed so disparate, they were both animals — savages who would fight tooth and claw to protect their lairs.

  Finally the tall Indian spoke. ‘That wretch is an example of our power. Just as your Company shoots us off the end of cannon and thus condemns us to perdition, it amused some of my followers to condemn your hireling to die in the fashion of your Lord Jesus — a little joke. And you English are renowned for your little jokes, are you not?’

  John’s face turned an angry crimson. ‘Why, you goddamn murdering swine, let me get my hands free and I’ll rip your black heathen heart out, if it is the last thing I ever do!’ he shrieked, spittle flying from his lips.

  Cheethoo remained unmoved. ‘But your hands are not free, Mr Bold.’ His smile vanished. ‘You have seen then what we are capable of. Now hear this. The day that your Lord Hastings marches on Burrapore, we shall commence executing our captives. We shall start with your soldiers. That will not move Lord Hastings, but it will serve as a warning of our intentions. When they are finished with, we begin on your whites.’ His eyes bored into John’s, and the latter knew that Cheethoo was not bluffing one bit. ‘We shall erect a cross at every ten of your miles and nail one of you to it. Every ten miles, Mr Bold! Imagine what your Parliament will say to that? How valuable will your Company’s shares be then, eh?’

  The Ranee sneered, ‘Those Mahratta fools do not know how to deal with you English. We do!’ Her voice rose and now John could see the tremendous arrogance and pride that motivated her when she said, as if addressing a great assembly, ‘Then all India will know that the Ranee of Burrapore and her loyal friend Cheethoo, Chief of the Pindarees, have beaten the infernal English. They will rally to us. We will rule all India, as once did the old Emperors from the north. Once again the wind of change will come from the north, and we will sweep the English back into the ocean from whence they came! ... ’

  Sergeant Jones was silent for a long time after John had finished his account of that meeting. ‘Then, sir,’ he said finally, ‘we must escape.’

  ‘Escape?’

  ‘Yes, and take all the prisoners with us. White — and black — they cannot remain here to suffer like that. There will be no more crucifixions, sir.’ It was not a wish just a simple statement of fact.

  John was in full agreement. But: ‘How can we do it, Jones? We’ve already looked, and found no way.’

  ‘Then we must look again, sir.’

  John sat slumped in thought. Ignoring the problems of releasing themselves and the others, once out the white women and children, without the aid of bearers and transport, would be dead of heatstroke within twenty-four hours. The only possible way to get them out was by boat along the Burra River, which flowed due south and into the much bigger Nag. There were boats aplenty on the Burra, ranging from Arablike dhows, complete with sails, to primitive hollowed-out logs.

  By now, he knew where the women and children were lodged. While his sowars languished in the dungeons of the low fort, the white captives were housed in its upper chambers. More than once the noise of children had been carried up by the wind and once they had actually spotted a white woman on the flat roof of their dwelling. Somehow she had managed to clamber out of a window and was enjoying the pleasant cool of the breeze from the mountains until the guards dragged her back ...

  ‘Once we’ve released the sowars, Jones,’ he whispered that night as they lay in their charpoys, ‘they could take care of the boat. With either sail or oars, we would manage.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ Jones whispered back. ‘Most of them grew up along the coast, they’ll know a bit about boats. But it would have to be done at night.’

  ‘Yes, that it would. But first, how do we get out?’

  Jones dropped his voice even lower, as if Hawk-Face might be listening behind the door (by now they had concluded that Pudding-Face was in the pay of the chamberlain, Padmini, and she certainly meant them no harm). ‘I’ve been thinking of that, sir. The cropping-ken. Come and have a look.’

  Noiselessly they moved in the moonlight to the sanitation hole and removed the bamboo table. A faint stirring of cooler air came up from the hole.

  Jones knelt and extended his arms to indicate that it was big enough for a skinny man to pass through and John nodded.

  ‘Look there, sir,’ Jones whispered into his right ear. ‘Down below that big grey rock.’

  For a moment John could not make it out, then he saw it. The hole dropped sheer at first, but then changed direction, and at that point there was something ...

  He concentrated on the spot while Jones waited in silence. ‘A gun port perhaps,’ John said.

  ‘That’s what I think,’ Jones agreed. ‘There’s a big hole in the wall, where there might have been a cannon. There ain’t one now,’ he concluded cheerfully, ‘and that hole is big enough for a man to climb through.’

  Down below them there was a way back into the fortress underneath the floor of their room; and it was very probably unguarded.

  ‘Well, what do you think, sir?’ Jones whispered excitedly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ John answered impatiently. ‘You’ve got something there.’ But the distance from their hole to the other one had to be at least twenty feet. He frowned and said with a note of sad finality, ‘But where are we going to get a rope from, Jones?’

  FOUR

  The very next day brought an answer to that question. When Pudding-Face came with their midday meal he opened the door to reveal Padmini standing in the shadows.

  A finge
r to her lips, she beckoned John into the corridor. This time Pudding-Face did not attempt to chain John, and he followed, bewildered, to the little room where they had met the woman and baby. The place was bare save for a charpoy and a couple of rickety chairs. Padmini nodded to Pudding-Face, who closed the door and posted himself outside so that they would not be surprised.

  Now in the dusty sunshine John could see that she had been crying and there were dark circles under her eyes. Without any hesitation she blurted out, face desperate, ‘I must save her! She must not challenge the English. It would be fatal for her, Lieutenant Bold, but the Ranee ... ’ She faltered and shook her head, fighting back the tears, and John realized that Padmini was just as besotted with the Ranee as was Alice Elders. How could a woman hold such sway over others?

  ‘If the English march on Burrapore,’ she continued, ‘and she carries out her plan to kill all of you, the English will not just depose her, they will execute her! She thinks she possesses power, but the real power lies with Cheethoo and if he finds he is losing, he will disappear back into the mountains. Cheethoo is not a conqueror — he is a brigand who cares solely for adventure and loot. You must tell Lord Hastings that.’ She held up her clasped hands, begging him to help her.

  John was touched. Gently he took her hands and unclenched them. ‘Padmini,’ he said quietly, soothingly, feeling for her, ‘I understand well what you mean and you are right. Let the Ranee do what she likes with us, but she will not deflect Lord Hastings from his purpose. But what can I do?’

  ‘Escape,’ she whispered huskily.

  He forced himself to remain calm. ‘But how can I — all of us — escape?’

  ‘I shall help you. The guards — they can be bought. I have money.’ She made that cynical Indian gesture of counting coins. ‘Gold opens all doors, they say.’

  He shook his head firmly, though he longed to say yes. ‘Listen,’ he said urgently, ‘we shall escape and we will tell Lord Hastings what you have just told me. But none of your people must be involved. It would be too dangerous for you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand ... but how will you do it, John?’

  ‘That is my concern. All that I require from you is a rope, Padmini.’

  ‘It will be done, John,’ she answered and then she did something that took him completely by surprise. Her hands dropped and before he could stop her, she had unbuttoned the front flap of his ragged trousers.

  The vegetarian diet had not stilled his youthful fire. For the very instant her cunning little fingers touched his manhood, it stood erect. He willed himself to pull out of her grasp, but the ecstasy was too great and he submitted to her caressing. ‘How strong you are!’ she whispered softly and pressed her wet tongue to his ear momentarily. ‘How proud!’

  He shivered with delight. Georgina’s urgent, demanding lovemaking had not been like this. Padmini was seducing him in a way that was soft, yet thrillingly exotic, with promises of delights that a man could not even put a name to.

  Her lips parted. They were wet and sensual. She licked her little pink tongue along her pearl-like teeth slowly and significantly, keeping her dark eyes on his face. Slowly, very slowly, she started to sink to her knees in front of him.

  ‘Auparishtaka, we say in our language,’ she whispered, her voice throbbing with suppressed passion. Suddenly her warm wet lips took hold of his manhood and he gasped ...

  That evening she entered their cell, leaving Pudding-Face outside. John sprang from his charpoy, where he spent most of the afternoon dwelling on the exquisite pleasure she had given him. Again she held her finger to her lips. She seemed strangely bulky, and a moment later the two startled prisoners saw the reason why as she lifted her saree to reveal a great length of rope wound round her slim body.

  Jones’ jaw dropped and he gawped. Then as she began to unwind the rope, he hissed, ‘God bless you, Missy!’

  Urgently John indicated that he should be quiet, while he helped her to free the rope. Finally it was done, and after refastening her saree produced her second surprise — an ornately wrought great key.

  ‘To the dungeons where the sowars are held,’ she said. ‘I stole it. There is no need of a key where the women are kept. The Ranee is not afraid that they may escape, so there is no key — and no guard on their quarters.’

  Jones’ eyes lit up. ‘Then that makes it a lot easier, sir,’ he said, even as John was deciding that they would go this evening. But he must not tell Padmini that.

  ‘What about Alice Elders, Padmini? She’s not with the other white women.’

  Those dark eyes, which could look so loving and concerned, flashed fire and hate.

  ‘Never fear about her!’ she spat venomously, ‘I shall take care of Alice Elders.’ There was sheer naked murder in her face now and John thought it better not to pursue the matter.

  Instead, he said, ‘Now all I can do is to thank you. Ensure that for the next few days,’ he lied to her glibly for her own safety, ‘you stay as much as possible in the Ranee’s presence, so when we escape, you must not be suspected. You understand?’

  ‘I understand and I obey, John.’ She raised her clasped hands to her forehead in the Indian manner, her eyes now holding a look almost of love. ‘God be with you.’

  He took her in his arms, while Sergeant Jones gawped again and then looked oddly embarrassed for such an old veteran. Gently he kissed her forehead. ‘Thank you — thank you with all my heart, Padmini. One day I shall repay the debt I owe you.’

  A moment later she was gone, leaving the two of them brooding on only one thing — escape ...

  Midnight. No sound came from Burrapore. One by one the little yellow lights had vanished in the houses near the river.

  Jones crossed the cell in his bare feet and opened the flap in the door gingerly, praying that the hinges would not squeak. He waited a moment and then placed a sliver of mirror glass, wedged in a stick, through the opening, while John held his breath. Carefully Jones turned it and surveyed the corridor in one direction. Satisfied, he reversed the primitive gadget and checked in the other direction. Finally he squirmed round and breathed, ‘Nothing!’

  John didn’t hesitate. Swiftly he removed the table over the hole. In the last of the real light, hours ago, they had attached Padmini’s rope to it and dangled it in space. They had breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief when they saw it extended to the level of the gunport hole. It would do. They had also tested its strength.

  Jones scuttled across. ‘Sir, don’t you think — ’

  John cut him short. ‘We’ve had that argument before, Sergeant,’ he hissed. ‘It is my duty as an officer to go first.’

  ‘Yessir,’ Jones said, face a little crestfallen.

  ‘Now, this is what we are going to do — or at least what I am going to do, Jones,’ Bold lectured the sergeant in a low voice. ‘Once I’m level with the gunport, I’m going to swing at the end of the rope.’ He forced a grin, to which Jones, however, did not respond — the matter was too serious. ‘That was an unfortunate phrase, I must admit. Well, put it like this. I’m going to work my body back and forth like a clock pendulum. Once I let go, I’m diving for that port.’

  ‘God with ye, sir ... ’ Sergeant Jones stammered, ‘and if you pull this off, sir, why, you’ll be a hero.’

  For a moment John savoured the word. He imagined himself returning to the British lines to receive a hero’s welcome, with the Collector beaming all over his face and Georgina waiting for him with outstretched arms, a look of adulation on her beautiful face. Then he dismissed that little bit of wishful thinking and got on with the task at hand.

  Next instant he had swung himself lightly through the hole and was clutching the rope, the wind already tugging at his legs. Now he started to go down hand over hand, feeling the rope taking the strain, with the wind increasing its force by the moment. Ten feet ... fifteen ... twenty. Now he was climbing down along a naked rock face, with below him a sheer drop. Twenty-five. His hand grasped the knot they had made in the rope at
the depth that should bring him face to face with the gunport. He peered through the silver gloom of the spectral sickle moon.

  Yes! There it was. A hole in the manmade wall of about two by three foot. Thank God, it was big enough for him to squeeze through. He took a deep breath, feeling red-hot pain already beginning to shoot through his shoulder muscles; he couldn’t hang here above the abyss much longer. Now come on, Bold, a hard little voice at the back of his mind snapped coldly, live up to your name. Get on with it, man!

  ‘All right, you bastard, I’m going to do it!’ he muttered, and started to swing.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the rope started to move back and forth along the face of the precipice, creaking and groaning under the strain. He started to gain momentum. The rope creaked even more. The pain in his back and shoulders was murderous, like a burning poker thrust into his flesh.

  His body swung back and forth, breath escaping his lungs in harsh gasps, vision blurred. He struck the rock and gasped with pain. Next moment he was swinging out into that frightening void. Above Jones had begun to gabble the Lord’s Prayer.

  He hit the rock again, and clenched his lips just in time. Otherwise he would have screamed out loud with the pain of it. Once more he swung in a great arc, the cold wind howling against his battered body, threatening to tug him from the rope at any moment and send him hurtling to his death. The dark hole loomed up in front of him. He felt his strength ebbing rapidly. It was now or never!

  He let go. With both hands held in front, he hurtled towards the gunport, so temptingly near, yet so far. He slammed against the stone. Blindly his fingers grabbed for a hold.