The Maharajah's General (29 page)

The sepoys never stood a chance.

Here and there a subedar managed to gather together enough men to force the Maharajah’s irregular cavalry to veer away, but most of the native soldiers were simply cut down where they stood, butchered by the horsemen who rode them down with cruel precision.

Some tried to run, throwing away their muskets as they made a desperate bid for safety, but there were simply too many horsemen for them to stand a chance. The sepoys were slaughtered, their heads and shoulders sliced open by the sharpened talwars. Dozens were killed in the first few minutes of the attack, flung to the ground to lie like discarded rag dolls, their precious lifeblood soaking into the parched soil beneath their ruined bodies.

‘Form on me!’ Major Dutton screamed in desperation as he tried to rally the remains of the three shattered companies. ‘On me! On me!’

A horseman rode close, his talwar aimed at Dutton’s heart. Before he could get close, Dutton lifted his arm, aiming his revolver with bloodshot eyes. The bullet took the rider in the throat, snatching his body backwards, throwing him from the saddle.

‘On me! Spencer, here!’ Dutton saw a hatless Lieutenant Spencer stagger from the melee. The tall officer looked up, and Dutton was given just enough time to see the look of anguish on his face before the young lieutenant was ridden down, a thick pig-sticking spear punched through his stomach from behind.

Dutton bellowed in rage. He emptied his revolver, killing another pair of fast-moving horsemen. He spied one of Gartry’s subedars holding a small group of sepoys together and rode towards them, dodging around the wild hooves of a fallen horse that thrashed the ground in agony, a sepoy’s bayonet driven full length into its chest.

‘Reload!’ Dutton snapped the command as he forced his horse in among the sepoys. ‘Form two ranks. Front rank, kneel and present bayonets!’

The orders came fast as he sought to bring order from the chaos. More men ran to join them, adding weight to the frail formation. Dozens more tried but failed, the Maharajah’s horsemen circling through the valley, cutting down the slowest, spilling still more blood on the arid soil.

‘Ready!’ Dutton’s hands worked furiously to reload the five chambers on his revolver. ‘Fire!’

Fewer than a dozen muskets answered the order, a desultory volley that still managed to knock over a couple of the circling riders. Dutton glanced up quickly before returning his attention to his revolver.

‘Reload! Front rank, prepare to receive cavalry.’ He snapped his revolver shut and looked around, trying to begin to make sense of the disorder. He heard the ordered commands of a British officer and through a gap in the cloud of powder smoke that billowed across the battlefield he saw the 24th’s square. The redcoats were firing when ready, a stream of musket fire rippling around the tight formation. Their steady fire was exacting a toll on the circling horsemen, who were already backing off, seeking easier targets amongst the scattered ranks of Dutton’s own soldiers, the men he had failed, rather than face the disciplined bayonet walls of the 24th.

Dutton sucked down his shame and his despair. The redcoats were still fighting. All was not lost.

Jack stood in the centre of the square that inched slowly away from the carnage. Even with only twenty men on each face it was an ungainly manoeuvre, many of the men forced to march either sideways or backwards as they tried to make progress towards the cantonment. The sergeants and corporals were screaming themselves hoarse as they constantly dressed the ranks to ensure they kept a wall of bayonets presented outwards. The redcoats were still firing on the enemy, but there were long gaps between shots, the sheer difficulty of reloading whilst constantly moving slowing their rate. Yet there were still enough muskets to fire on any rider who ventured close, and the irregular cavalry were becoming wary of the white-faced redcoats and their accuracy.

Step but weary step, the 24th were dragging themselves clear.

‘Company! Company halt!’ Jack’s voice cracked as he shouted the order, the foul-smelling powder smoke sucking every last drop of moisture from his parched mouth. He pushed himself into one of the flanks of the square so he could get a better view. The 24th had stopped barely two hundred yards from where they had waited so patiently for the enemy to arrive. Two hundred yards that were now covered with the fallen bodies of the enemy cavalry, the company’s passage marked in blood and spent cartridge wrappers.

He took another faltering step away from the safety of the square, unable to fully comprehend what he was seeing.

The enemy riders had gone.

‘They’ve gone to loot the cantonment.’ Captain Kingsley elbowed his way out of the square. ‘And you are going to hang.’

Jack was too tired to argue. ‘Form the men into column, Kingsley. Let’s get them back whilst we can.’

He looked anxiously down the valley, expecting to see the rest of the Maharajah’s force arrive at any moment. He offered a silent prayer of thanks to whichever God had been looking over the redcoats. If they had been facing the Maharajah’s elite troops, then the battle would still be raging. Thankfully, the wild men from the hills were driven as much by the lust for plunder as they were by achieving the military aims of the Maharajah’s lightning strike against Bhundapur. They had fought hard, winning a fabulous victory by destroying the redcoats’ frail line, but when faced with the choice of continuing the fight or being first into the cantonment, they had raked back their spurs and raced for the bungalows and barracks of the British camp, leaving their dead and dying comrades to bleed and suffer in the dust.

‘Damn you!’ Kingsley spat the words into Jack’s face.

Jack was certain a raised fist would follow the oath, and he instinctively twisted on the spot, his arms rising to defend himself. Yet Kingsley was no fighter, and he took a step backwards, as if he too had expected to see a blow aimed squarely in his direction.

‘Corporal Jones. Disarm this bastard and guard him. I want him in irons the moment we are back in the barracks.’ Kingsley snarled the order, hiding his fear under a thin veil of anger.

Corporal Jones eased his way through the ranks of men, who stood and stared at the captain. ‘Sir?’

Kingsley’s anger flared. ‘Damn you, Corporal. Arrest this man.’

Corporal Jones stamped to attention. ‘Sir!’

Satisfied, Kingsley turned his back on Jack and stomped angrily into the safety of the square, bawling for Colour Sergeant Hughes to form a company column for the march back to the hastily erected fort that Dutton had insisted on building, and which now offered the redcoats their only hope of sanctuary.

‘Sorry, sir.’ Corporal Jones was apologetic as he reached for Jack’s musket.

Jack handed over the weapon. ‘Looks like you can drop the “sir” again, Corporal.’

Jones offered a thin-lipped smile. ‘The man’s a cock.’

‘He’s an officer.’ Jack returned the grin. ‘What else do you expect?’

‘Captain Kingsley! Well done. Well done indeed!’

Major Proudfoot stood just outside the temporary wall that had been built from mealie bags and storage crates. He had begun to clap as the weary company from the 24th trudged back, and now he shouted his approval to welcome their return.

Kingsley strode forward, his chin lifting as he accepted the applause. He shook Proudfoot’s hand before turning back to face his command. If either officer saw the scathing looks on the grimy faces of the redcoats, then neither made any remark of it. The two officers stood back and watched as the exhausted soldiers clambered over the three-foot-high defensive wall.

‘I had to have that bounder Lark arrested. He tried to run.’ Kingsley’s smug expression betrayed his satisfaction at delivering the accusation as Corporal Jones reluctantly brought Jack to stand in front of the two officers.

‘That’s a bare-faced lie.’ Jack delivered his reply calmly. ‘I saved this fool’s company, although I had to knock him down so I could do it without his damn interference. But his men fought well. They are good soldiers.’ He raised his voice so that the tired redcoats could hear his praise.

Proudfoot turned to face Captain Kingsley as if Jack had never spoken. ‘Well done, Kingsley. You have delivered your men safely. That is highly commendable under the circumstances, highly commendable indeed.’

Corporal Jones cleared his throat noisily.

‘Corporal. You wish to speak?’ Major Proudfoot lifted an eyebrow as the corporal dared to interrupt.

Jones’s face glowed as scarlet as his jacket. It was likely the first time he had ever spoken to anyone as senior as a major. ‘Yes, sir. If you please, sir.’

‘Well, out with it.’ Proudfoot was all warmth. He glanced over his shoulder and saw dozens of the 24th watching him, the whites of their eyes bright against the thick caking of dust and sweat that smothered their young faces. ‘Do not be afraid to speak.’

‘Mr Lark didn’t run, sir.’

‘Shut your mouth, Corporal,’ Kingsley interrupted. He stepped forward so that he stood chest to chest with Jones. ‘This is not the time for your damn lies.’

‘Captain Kingsley. Let the man speak.’ Proudfoot’s voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the authority in his tone.

Kingsley opened his mouth to argue further. ‘I shall not stand here and—’

‘Let him speak.’ Proudfoot screamed the words. The sudden rage was astonishing, and Kingsley quailed. ‘Please carry on, Corporal.’ Proudfoot was all polite reason again, the sudden flash of bright anger hidden once more.

‘Sir!’ Corporal Jones stood to attention, seeking some familiar security as he dared to speak out. ‘Mr Lark saved us, sir. Not Captain Kingsley. Without Mr Lark I reckon we would all be dead’uns.’

‘Thank you, Corporal.’ Proudfoot turned and smiled warmly at the watching redcoats. ‘I am glad you felt you could speak out. I thank you for your words.’

Jack was close enough to see that none of the warmth reached Proudfoot’s eyes. He met the major’s stare, sensing the anger that simmered just below the surface.

‘Corporal, please carry on.’ Proudfoot gave the order and a relieved Jones stamped his foot once before scurrying away. ‘Captain Kingsley. Mr Lark. Please come with me. We have much to do.’

Proudfoot turned on his heel and walked away.

Behind them, the remnants of Dutton’s command were limping towards the temporary fortress. Less than half of his men were still standing, and the watching redcoats of the 24th saw the horror in the native soldiers’ eyes as they staggered towards the barracks.

Dutton rode in alone. None of his three lieutenants had survived the massacre, and so he returned at the head of his battered command as the sole surviving white officer. Not one of the watching redcoats could meet his eye as he clambered wearily from the saddle, the bitterness of defeat hanging around him like a cloud.

‘He’s gone?’ Jack was astonished.

‘Fenris left an hour ago with the last of Proudfoot’s cavalry. Gone to summon assistance.’ Dutton sounded bone-weary as he replied.

Jack looked hard at the British major. For a reason he could not fully fathom, Proudfoot had let him go free, despite Kingsley’s loud protest for him to be locked away. With no other responsibilities to tend to he had sought the major out, bringing with him a bottle of Proudfoot’s brandy to loosen Dutton’s tongue and allow him some solace. Jack had seen the man’s shame. He himself could well remember the heavy burden of having failed when faced with the enemy for the first time. They sat on the defensive wall barricading the small area where the tired sepoys and redcoats huddled together, sharing the harsh spirit and watching in silence as the cantonment burnt. The sounds of the looters were loud in the darkness, the wild, cackling laughter and shrieks of delight reaching the ears of the exhausted redcoats who had been dispersed around the short perimeter.

Occasional gunshots rang out, but whether they were fired in anger or in celebration Jack could not tell. Dutton’s fortress had good fields of fire on three sides, the wide sweep of the parade ground wrapping around the 24th’s barracks, which formed the eastern wall of the defensive line. On the far side of the barracks a series of administrative buildings lined a neat pathway that had been edged with whitewashed rocks. It was the one weak spot in the fortress, and all the men knew it.

The 24th had spent the last hours making their barracks as impregnable as possible, gouging dozens of loopholes in the side facing the east and barricading the wide windows that had once been so coveted but which were now the building’s biggest weakness. There was nothing else they could do. They all knew the barracks would be the scene of the heaviest fighting when the Maharajah’s army arrived to attack the survivors of Proudfoot’s forces.

‘Wanted to keep his special chum safe, I expect.’ Dutton’s voice was slurred, and he took another large mouthful of the brandy. ‘Good riddance, if you ask me.’

Jack reached out for the bottle, wiping the neck on the sleeve of his red coat before taking a more circumspect sip. He was surprised at Proudfoot’s decision to send Fenris away. ‘Where will he go?’

‘Fort St John. There is a column based there. Mainly cavalry, too.’ Dutton looked longingly at the brandy as Jack drained a fair quantity of the precious liquid. ‘Because of me, we need help.’ His head hung in shame as he admitted his error.

‘You wanted to fight. That’s what it’s like.’

Dutton looked up at Jack’s harsh words, pain etched into the lines on his face. ‘I was a fool. I wish I had died with my men.’

Jack scowled. ‘Then you truly are a fool. You are alive. Be thankful for that.’

Dutton snatched the brandy back, lifting the bottle to his lips but keeping his eyes on Jack as he drank, careless of the fiery liquid that spilled from his mouth to run into his beard. When he finally lowered the bottle, he turned to stare outwards again, the light of the burning cantonment reflecting in his moist eyes.

‘I killed them, Jack. I killed my own men.’

‘No. Those bastard horsemen killed them.’

Dutton shook his head slowly. ‘I fired too late. If I had given the order earlier, we would have stopped them. As you did.’

‘You did your best.’

‘And I failed.’ Dutton’s head hung so that his chin rested on his chest, as if his neck was no longer capable of supporting its weight.

‘I know.’ Jack waited for Dutton to look at him. It took a while, but eventually the major raised his head. ‘It was your first battle.’ Jack spoke softly. ‘It’s not some bloody parade. It’s vicious and it’s violent.’ He held Dutton’s stare as he spoke, delivering his biting judgement with bitter honesty. ‘Either you live or you die, and there is bugger all you can do about which of those it is. You and your men fought hard and you brought as many of them here as you could. That’s all that matters.’

Dutton looked at Jack for some time, as if trying to come to terms with what the younger man had said. Eventually his face softened, whether from finding some peace of mind or simply from the large amount of brandy he had consumed Jack could not tell.

‘So what happens tomorrow?’ Dutton asked, his voice calm once again.

‘They attack. Those horsemen today were his irregular cavalry. The main body of his army has only just arrived. I expect we will have to face his infantry first, and believe me, there are a lot of those bastards. They’ll hit us on all sides, and if we break, he’ll send in his bloody lancers.’

Dutton listened to Jack’s prediction before sucking in a deep breath. ‘So tomorrow we die.’

Jack snorted at the melodramatic phrase. ‘No. Tomorrow we fight.’

He turned as he heard the soft tread of footsteps behind them, wary of anyone coming to interrupt his conversation.

‘Good evening, General.’

‘Isabel.’ Jack could not hide the pleasure in his voice. ‘Does your father know you’re here?’ He smiled as he helped her on to the fire step behind the barricade, offering her his hand so that she could sit beside him.

‘Father is drunk.’ The corners of Isabel’s mouth twitched in disapproval.

‘Sensible fellow.’ Dutton took another slug of brandy, already too drunk himself to be concerned about his behaviour in front of a lady.

‘Perhaps. May I?’ Isabel held out her hand questioningly towards the brandy, which Dutton passed over, as if sharing hard spirits with young women was an everyday occurrence.

She took a demure sip, grimacing at the harsh taste. ‘Your wife is asking after you, Major Dutton. She seems most concerned.’

Dutton shook his head ruefully. ‘Poor Hilary. She is not cut out for any of this.’

Jack felt Isabel’s body pressing against his side as she sat beside him. She smelt wonderful, the delicate fragrance of her fresh perfume a balm to his soul, its subtle aroma driving away the smell of burning and of death.

‘She is made of sterner stuff than you give her credit for,’ she replied evenly, brushing at her dress. ‘She is with the wounded. Doing what she can to help.’

‘She is a fine woman. She deserves better.’

‘None of us chooses our fate.’ Isabel looked at Jack as she offered her advice to Dutton. ‘It chooses us. All we decide is how we face it.’

The three sat in silence as they contemplated Isabel’s words. The cantonment was well ablaze, the heat of the flames warm on their faces as the chill of the night set in. Shadowy figures flitted into view amidst the burning buildings, but none ventured close to the temporary refuge the British had erected. It seemed the survivors were to be left in peace for the night.

Isabel slipped her hand forward so that it rested on Jack’s thigh. ‘Perhaps we didn’t do the right thing after all.’ She broke the silence with a whisper, her mouth close enough to Jack’s ear that he could feel the warmth of her breath on the side of his face. Her fingers were like red-hot coals on his leg and he wished they were alone.

‘And miss all this. How can you even think that?’

Isabel rapped his leg. ‘So what happens now?’

‘We fight.’ An unexpected voice answered her question.

None of the three had heard the footsteps of Major Proudfoot as he approached. ‘We hold here until the flying column from Fort St John arrives. Isn’t that right, Lark?’

Proudfoot bounded on to the fire step, the jet-black cloak draped over his shoulders billowing around him as he leapt athletically over the wall of mealie bags, landing on the balls of his feet before turning to face his meagre audience.

Jack looked at the odd creature that had capered across the wall like a demented goat. ‘I reckon that’s right.’ His voice was guarded.

‘Major Dutton.’ Proudfoot lifted a quizzical eyebrow in his subordinate’s direction. ‘Can we hold?’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

Proudfoot nodded his head as if Dutton had offered wise advice rather than such a bitter statement. He spun on his heel and studied the burning cantonment for some time.

‘Do
you
think we can hold?’ Isabel asked the question to the back of Proudfoot’s head when she could stand the silence no longer.

‘Of course,’ the major answered without turning round. ‘But perhaps you should ask the commander of the 24th?’

‘He’s not here.’ Jack answered the odd question. ‘Kingsley appears to have disappeared.’

‘Captain Kingsley is indisposed.’ Proudfoot steadfastly refused to turn around and remained facing the fires. ‘He is with the sick. He will stay there until after the battle. He took a nasty blow to the head and it has quite addled his wits.’

‘Then ask your lapdog when he gets back.’ Jack’s opinion of the lieutenant was clear in his derisory tone.

Proudfoot wheeled round suddenly and Jack felt Isabel start at the dramatic posturing. ‘Fenris does not command the 24th.’

‘Then who will?’ Jack’s tone was belligerent. He had endured enough of the major’s games.

‘You. You will command them.’

‘Me!’ Jack was genuinely astonished.

‘As of this moment I am promoting you. You are to be Captain Lark. The 24th are yours.’

Jack blinked hard. ‘I thought I was to hang?’

Proudfoot smiled. For the first time Jack saw some warmth make its way into the major’s eyes. ‘That was before. This is now. I want you to command the 24th. You are the best man for the job. You proved that today.’

Jack laughed. He threw back his head and guffawed, careless of the men who turned to stare at the madman hooting so loudly.

‘Do you accept?’ Proudfoot chuckled, joining in Jack’s mirth.

‘Oh yes. I accept.’ Jack slipped from the wall and walked to stand in front of the major.

‘Then you will be wanting this.’ Proudfoot pulled open his cloak. For the first time Jack saw that he was wearing a sword.

His sword.

He watched, his heart hammering in his mouth, as Proudfoot undid the buckles that held the scabbard around his waist. It was only when the major handed him the fabulous weapon that he realised how much he had missed it since it had been taken from him when he had first been arrested. He had never owned anything of such extraordinary value, yet it was not the wealth it gave him that he had missed.

He had been awarded the sword for his bravery. He had not bought it. He had not taken it. He had earned it.

Jack took a step backwards and carefully, reverentially, buckled the slings of the scabbard to the belt around his waist.

He was a captain. This time he hadn’t stolen the rank. It had been granted freely. He was an officer. It might only be temporary and out of convenience, but it did not matter. He had been a maharajah’s general, then a British redcoat. Now, for the first time, he was Captain Jack Lark. Perhaps it would only be for a matter of hours, but Jack did not care. He would lead the 24th into battle, and he vowed he would not let them down.