The Cannons of Lucknow (11 page)

“That's not the case, sir. The general—”

“Ah, but it is, Tytler, it is, damn it all! I'm greeted with an eleven-gun salute and the news that I'm to remain in command here, whilst General Havelock has the honour and glory of relieving Lucknow. But until he goes”—Neill's voice shook—“I'm not to issue a single order. In God's name, what am I to make of that, sir?
You
tell me if you can!”

“These are confidential matters,” Tytler again attempted to remind him. “They should not be discussed in public.” He glanced round, as if hoping that the other officers might, without being ordered, vanish into the rain-wet darkness, but no one moved, although their faces, Alex saw, reflected varying degrees of shock and bewilderment and all, it was evident, wished themselves elsewhere. Sharing their feelings, he knew that he, at least, must remain; he had sparked off James Neill's outburst and—whatever the reason for it—he had to stand his ground until the matter was resolved. If it could be resolved … he expelled his breath in a long-drawn sigh.

That he had incurred Neill's bitter enmity he could no longer doubt—the attack on him had been personal and it had not been made without premeditation, but, try as he would, he could think of no reason to account for it. Nothing that Charles Palliser had said, surely, could have aroused such deep, vindictive feeling in a man to whom he was a stranger? Unless … there was a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had expressed himself freely—too freely, perhaps—on the subject of James Neill to Barrow on Sunday evening, as they had ridden back from Bithur with the Nana's captured guns. Lousada Barrow would not have betrayed his confidence, of course, but there had been others riding fairly close behind them, who might have overheard more than he had realised. Dear heaven, if even part of that conversation had been repeated out of context to Neill, then his reaction was at least explicable. He was said to be sensitive to criticism, and criticism of his failure to relieve Cawnpore, particularly if it came from a survivor of the garrison, might well have struck him on the raw. As, evidently, General Havelock's reception had also struck him …

“Alex—” Lousada Barrow touched his arm. “The general's leaving.”

Alex looked up. General Havelock, he saw, had mounted his horse and, shoulders hunched against the rain, was moving slowly past the second batch of Highlanders, to whom he addressed some words of encouragement as they waited for the boats to return. They did not cheer him; sodden and dispirited, even his favourite regiment failed to respond to his overtures, and Neill said, raising his voice again in unconcealed rancour, “What's Havelock done since he took command? Halted the advance column, disarmed Charlie Palliser's sowars—who behaved in exemplary fashion when
I
was commanding them—appointed his son D.A.A.G. in Beatson's place … my God, Tytler, there's no damned end to it!”

Observing General Havelock's departure, Fraser Tytler gave vent to an exasperated sigh. “Sir,” he began, “If I may suggest—”

Neill ignored the interruption. “And now,” he stated wrathfully, “he wants Victoria Crosses for his protégés, including one for the gallant Lieutenant-Colonel Sheridan, whose brevet rank, devil take it, was given him for a command in Lucknow which—because his wife was here—he's never actively held! I'm not satisfied with the account he's given of his actions. I want to know a hell of a lot more than he's seen fit to tell us. I want a full report and—”

Colonel Tytler managed at last to make himself heard. “As I endeavoured to point out to you some time ago, General Neill,” he said, with weary resignation, “this is neither the time nor the place to discuss such matters. Colonel Sheridan has been suffering from amnesia, as the surgeons will confirm, but I feel sure that he will submit a full report as soon as he able to. If you have any charges to bring against him, they can only properly be brought through official channels. Indeed, I think they will have to be the subject of an enquiry, in view of the fact that you have aired them publicly. I shall have to inform General Havelock of what has been said here, of course.”

“Don't be such an infernal old woman, Tytler!” Neill snapped. “There's no need to make an official matter of this or to bring General Havelock into it. He has enough on his plate—damn it, he has to relieve Lucknow! I'm not proposing to bring any charges—certainly not until I've seen Sheridan's report, if and when he chooses to submit one. As to airing my opinions publicly, we're all entitled to our opinions, for God's sake, and Brevet-Lieutenant-Colonel Sheridan has seen fit to air his opinion of
me
equally publicly, or so I've been informed. Well, we're all officers and gentlemen here, are we not? The devil fly away with it, we can keep this matter between us, surely?”

There were eager nods and murmurs of acquiescence; for James Neill it was a climb down and they were all anxious, now, to escape from what had become an awkward and embarrassing situation. Several of them looked at Alex and Lousada Barrow said stiffly, “If Colonel Sheridan is satisfied—”

Unable to trust himself to speak, Alex inclined his head. The matter would not and could not end here, he thought wretchedly, but to attempt to prolong this bitter, humiliating scene would serve no useful purpose.

Neill's powerful shoulders rose in an elaborate shrug and he gathered up his reins. Addressing himself to Alex again, he said curtly, “I take it you intend to make a full report to General Havelock?”

“I do, General Neill,” Alex managed, his voice devoid of expression.

“I shall read it with more than usual interest,” James Neill told him. “And if I am wrong about you, Sheridan, I shall make you a public apology.” He nodded and set spurs to his horse. Stephenson and the rest of his small staff rode after him; Palliser and Simpson, after a moment of indecision, followed in their wake.

“My God!” Tytler exclaimed, mopping at his streaming face. “My God!” He appeared otherwise bereft of words and Alex, miserably silent, was grateful that he asked no questions. Lousada Barrow swore, long and loudly.

“I think,” he said at last, “that we'd all be better to sleep on this. You in particular, Alex.”

“I have a report to write,” Alex reminded him wryly. “And a court martial to attend at eight-thirty. If you'll forgive me—”

“Take all the time you need to write that report, old man,” Barrow exhorted him. “I'll relieve you of your duties until it's done. Use my tent; you'll have no one to disturb you there. And you'll find writing materials in my valise. And now you really ought to get some sleep. Work on the report in daylight, when your mind's clear.” In Tytler's presence, he said no more, but his sympathy, for all the gruff tone in which it was expressed, did much to raise Alex's flagging spirits. He followed his commander's sensible advice and slept until one of the mess servants wakened him, with
chota hazri
on a tray and the information that Captain Barrow wished to see him as soon as it was convenient.

When he reported to Barrow's tent, he found its owner already booted and spurred and a servant busy packing his valise and sleeping bag. Writing materials had been set out on a folding camp table and, waving an inviting hand to these, Lousada Barrow said, “All yours, my dear Alex … the tent, too. I shan't be needing it for some considerable time, alas!”

“You won't be needing it … but—” Alex looked round at the preparations for departure. “Are you following the Highlanders then?”

“Yes—I'm taking all our original Volunteers. Orders came first thing this morning. The Highlanders have formed a bridgehead on the Oudh bank, but they are being harassed by rebel cavalry, so we're to go across, together with a half-battery of guns.” Barrow went into brief details. “As soon as sufficient troops have crossed, we're to move forward five or six miles to a walled village, Mungalwar, and establish our base there.”

“I see. And what orders have you for our recruits?”

Lousada Barrow gave a mirthless laugh. “Your week is cut to a mere five days, Alex. They're to join us by Sunday evening at the latest, so you'll have to perform miracles, I'm afraid.” He took his watch from his pocket. “Don't worry about this morning—Bob Thompson can take care of the preparations and, as we're not due to cross until three or four o'clock, I'll take your recruits and have the Riding School cleared out for you as promised. The court martial has been postponed, which is a blessing—the new provost-marshal, Bruce, who came in with Neill, wants to interrogate the prisoner before he's brought to trial. I suspect that's Neill's doing but”—he shrugged—“I may be wrong. Anyway, it's a break for you. It gives you this morning to write your report. Can you do it in one morning?”

Alex smiled. “I have a very powerful incentive, haven't I? My honour and possibly my future depend on it … yes, I damned well can do it, Lou.”

“The sooner the better,” Barrow advised him. “It must be in General Havelock's hands before he crosses into Oudh. I don't have to remind you that, when he leaves here, Neill will be in command.”

“No, you don't have to remind me of that,” Alex agreed, with feeling.

“I've ordered your meals to be sent over from the mess. I thought it would be … that is, I—” the older man hesitated, reddening beneath his tan.

“You thought it would be better if I didn't meet Palliser and Simpson until this matter's cleared up,” Alex finished for him. “Is that it, Lou?”

Barrow's flush deepened. “Something like that, Alex. It's obvious that they talked out of turn to Neill. Anyway, I'm taking them both with me, and I'm afraid I'll have to take young Fergusson as well. We're few enough, heaven knows. I can leave you the
Rissaldar
, if that's any help.”

“Yes, he's good. So are some of the infantrymen, one in particular, a Tipperary man named Cullmane. Can I make any of them up to N.C.O.s?”

“They're in your hands, my dear fellow; after this morning I shan't set eyes on them. Just give me a troop of cavalry I can use.” Lousada Barrow buckled on his sword belt and reached into his hip pocket for the cheroot case he carried there. He selected a cheroot, rolled its brittle leaves between his two big palms and, making something of a ritual of lighting it, went on, avoiding Alex's gaze, “What happened last night, Alex, I … oh, the hell with it! I was sickened, sickened and disgusted. And to have to sit there, not saying a word, when I knew what you'd been through—my God, I—”

“You don't have to tell me, Lousada,” Alex assured him.

Barrow looked up, his expression relieved. “No, perhaps I don't. But I'd like you to know that it was I who suggested that you should be recommended for a Victoria Cross and by heaven, Alex, I'm going to see you get it if it's the last thing I ever do!”

Alex thanked him, his throat tight. When he had gone, a mess
khitmatgar
appeared with breakfast and he settled down at the camp table to collect his thoughts. Once he had started writing, he found the task less difficult than he had feared; describing incidents, he remembered names and faces, and his pen began to move across the paper with ever-increasing speed. Outside the tent the monsoon rain hurtled down, but he was oblivious to it; in memory he was back in the stifling heat of the entrenchment, his throat parched, his body tortured and dehydrated, his sight dimmed by the relentless glare, his nostrils filled with the terrible, unforgettable stench of human excreta and putrefying flesh.

But his must be a strictly factual report, he knew, giving details of each day's happenings and accounting for each day's toll of dead and wounded without emotion, expressed in stilted military terms. He shut his mind to the voices—and, in particular, to Emmy's voice—which rang in his ears and wrote prosaically under the date:

The rebels established twenty-four-pounder gun batteries in the Church compound, to the east, and in the Riding School, to the north-west, with which they kept up a heavy fire throughout the hours of daylight but did not launch any direct attacks on our position. Considerable damage was caused to both the hospital and the flat-roofed building by round-shot and several women and children, sheltering in the former, were injured by falling masonry.

Five other ranks of H.M.'s 32nd died this day of heat apoplexy when serving the guns, and Lieutenant Dempster and a sergeant and two gunners of the 6th Battalion, Bengal Artillery, were killed by round shot. Colonel Williams, of the 56th Native Infantry, who had earlier suffered sunstroke, died of fever during the night …

It was odd how clearly he could remember those first few days of the siege. He had been fit then, alert and reasonably well fed, and the casualties, because they were the first and there had been comparatively few of them, stood out as individuals in his mind. He recalled the artillery sergeant's name—Murlow—and added it to the report.

Another date, more names … dear God, what a ghastly catalogue of misfortune it seemed, told thus, without any mention of those human touches and acts of kindness and self-sacrifice which had made the siege endurable! Alex sighed as the memories came flooding back and let his pen fall, momentarily distracted from his task.

There were the women, who had crawled so bravely across the shell-craters—Emmy among them—to bring water to exhausted gunners and riflemen, after they had stood all day at their posts … water, in pitiful pannikins, often stained with the blood of those who had risked their lives to draw it from the well. Water they had denied themselves. There had been other women, too, who had crouched behind the mud wall, in the full glare of the sun, loading and reloading the muskets and Enfields with which their husbands had driven off yet another of the mutineers' attacks, whilst their children lay, mute and apathetic, in holes scooped out of the bare ground beside them.