The Maharajah's General (31 page)

‘Hold still.’

‘It bloody hurts!’

‘Don’t be such a baby.’ Isabel stuck the tip of her tongue out as she concentrated on tying off the bandage she had used to cover Jack’s wound.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Jack hissed the oath as the tight binding sent a spasm of pain running up his arm.

‘Listen to you.’ Isabel shook her head in resignation, busying herself gathering up the cloths she had used to clean the wound. ‘I’ve never heard such fuss.’

‘My apologies, ma’am.’ Jack opened and closed his hand, testing its mobility. The pain was like a red-hot poker buried deep in his flesh, but his arm was usable. He had been lucky. Khan’s strength had been failing when the blow landed. Had it been driven with full force, Jack knew he could have lost his arm.

‘You should take better care of yourself.’ Isabel tried to sound light-hearted, but Jack could hear the strain in her voice. A smear of blood had dried on her cheek, the grotesque rouge dark against her pale skin.

For the first time, Jack understood her father’s longing for her to live a normal life. She did not deserve to be surrounded by death. A girl her age should be worrying about what dress to wear to the ball, which young gentleman would receive the honour of being the first name on her dance card. She should not be forced to wallow in blood, bearing witness to the basest emotions of man.

‘You should go home, Izzy.’ He spoke softly.

Isabel bit her lip. He saw the pain in the green eyes that had so captivated him, from the first moment he had seen her at Proudfoot’s gathering the night he had arrived in Bhundapur. She didn’t speak, but Jack caught the slightest nod of her head as she acknowledged his words.

He reached across with his good arm, entwining his fingers around hers. ‘You deserve so much more than this.’

Isabel shook her head, forcing down the shudder that ran through her body. ‘There, that’s your arm done.’ Her voice was cool. She slid her hand from his, gathering up the remnants of bandage before wiping clean the bloodstained scissors that she then slipped back into the front pocket of her smock. ‘How does it feel?’

Jack lifted his arm, flexing the fingers to demonstrate the successful dressing of his wound. ‘It hurts, but it’s fine.’

‘It won’t stop you fighting?’

Jack looked up sharply as he heard the ice in her voice. ‘No. It won’t stop me. It can’t.’

‘So you can do your duty. You can go on killing.’

Jack closed his eyes. Her bitterness hurt. When he opened them once more, she was staring at him. ‘Yes.’ He acknowledged her condemning words. ‘I’ll fight.’

‘You frighten me, Jack.’ Isabel’s voice cracked. ‘And I am so tired of being scared.’

The words were like barbs.

She sniffed once before rising to her feet, brushing away the dirt that had stuck to her simple dress. The heavy tread of army boots prevented Jack from saying anything further, and he too eased himself upright, cradling his arm gingerly as he moved.

‘Begging your pardon, sir. I’m sorry to interrupt, but Major Proudfoot would like you both to join him.’ Colour Sergeant Hughes stood ramrod straight in the doorway, his eyes elevated as if embarrassed at spoiling the moment.

Jack smiled at the sergeant’s sensibilities. He couldn’t help thinking how he could have used a man like Hughes in the Crimea. ‘Thank you, Colour Sergeant.’

‘How’s the arm, sir?’

‘Bearable. It could’ve been worse.’

‘Indeed, sir. I was watching you.’ The colour sergeant spoke plainly. ‘You fought like the very devil.’

‘Mr Lark is a fool, Colour Sergeant,’ Isabel interrupted. ‘He throws himself around like a schoolboy, thinking he cannot come to harm.’

‘He’s an officer, ma’am. It’s what they do.’ Hughes offered the explanation as if it was all the answer that was needed. ‘The best of them, anyhow.’

Yet Jack heard the censure in Isabel’s words. The enemy were at the walls and he would have to fight again if he was to do his duty. But he knew he was losing the girl who had saved him. Doing his duty came with a price.

Jack helped Isabel across the barricade, cherishing the thin smile she gave him in thanks. They had been ordered by Major Proudfoot to join the deputation that would answer the enemy’s summons to a parley.

A party of exhausted sepoys were checking the enemy bodies that littered the ground outside the barricade, doing their best to separate the living from the dead. There was no time for anything more; the dead would simply have to be left where they lay. They had at least cleared a path, so that Isabel and the cantonment’s officers would not have to walk on a carpet of bodies, although the ground under their feet was still soaked in blood, the pale dusty soil stained dark mulberry.

Proudfoot was dressed in uniform, the first time Jack had seen him in the scarlet coat of a British officer. Ever the dandy, he had eschewed the regulation shako, preferring to wear in its place an old-fashioned bicorn topped with an enormous ostrich feather.

‘I hope the bastards are asking for permission to bugger off,’ Dutton growled as he walked at Jack’s side. ‘Beg your pardon, of course, Miss Youngsummers.’

Isabel looked across Jack and smiled sweetly. ‘I have spent too long with Jack to be shocked or offended by such words, Major Dutton. Have no fear for my sensibilities.’

Major Proudfoot heard the words and laughed aloud. ‘You have a great deal to answer for, Jack.’ There was no trace of nervousness on his face. Clearly being summoned to a flag of truce on a bloodstained battlefield did not daunt the British political officer.

‘As do you.’ Jack’s arm was hurting like the very devil, and his reply was belligerent.

Proudfoot simply shrugged the barbed comment away. ‘I am glad the Maharajah demanded that you and Miss Youngsummers join our jolly gathering. It would have been so dull with just Dutton for company.’

They picked their way over the bloodstained ground beyond the north wall in silence. Jack wondered at the Maharajah’s summons. He felt the twist of nerves deep in his gut as he walked towards the man he had abandoned. Isabel’s presence only added to his disquiet, and he wondered what strange design the quixotic ruler of Sawadh was trying to conjure.

As the two parties came together just fifty yards away from the defenders’ perimeter, Jack studied the three men who had called for the truce. He was not surprised to see the Maharajah; he could not imagine the ruler of Sawadh leaving the negotiations to anyone else. He was flanked by his son and by the grey-haired general Jack had met for the first time at the conference of war shortly before he and Isabel had fled.

‘Sire.’ Proudfoot opened the conversation. ‘I truly regret it has come to this.’

The Maharajah’s face creased as he tried to contain his temper. ‘No. I don’t think you do. I think this suits you very well.’

Proudfoot looked suitably shocked at the accusation. ‘I cannot fathom why you would say that, sire. No man can wish for war.’

The Maharajah snorted before focusing on Jack. ‘So, my general now fights against me?’

Jack had forgotten the force of the Maharajah’s personality. It was only as the man’s hard brown eyes fixed his own that he felt the first stirring of remorse. Until then, he had simply been carrying out his duty, doing what he knew best. Coming face to face with the Maharajah once again made him doubt the wisdom of his choice. ‘I had no option, sir.’

To his surprise, the Maharajah smiled. ‘I would not have expected anything else from you, Jack. You would have disappointed me had you betrayed the country of your birth. As much as I might wish you had chosen differently. I want you to know that I forgive you. I bear you no ill will.’

Jack found it hard to swallow, and remained silent as the Maharajah turned to Isabel. ‘You should not be here on the field of battle, Miss Youngsummers.’

‘Where else would I be, Your Highness?’ Isabel lifted her chin as she answered the Maharajah.

‘I would wish you were somewhere safe. I would ask you to consider coming back with me. I will personally vouch for your safety.’

Jack saw the look of longing in Prince Abhishek’s eyes. Clearly the heir to the throne had his own desire for Isabel’s company.

‘I will not go.’ Isabel’s voice quavered as she replied, but her face betrayed her resolution.

The Maharajah smiled at her conviction. ‘I did not expect a different answer, but I could not have lived with myself if I had not made the offer. Perhaps after this is over you will consider once again being my guest?’

Major Dutton had endured enough of the opening flattery and gave Isabel no opportunity to reply. ‘Let us dispense with the pleasantries. What do you want?’

The Maharajah’s eyes were cold as he turned them on the English major. ‘What I want, Major Dutton, is for you to leave my land. I will stand by the terms of the treaty my father signed, but I will no longer tolerate your presence in my kingdom.’

‘I’m afraid that really isn’t possible, sire.’ Proudfoot’s oiled tones reclaimed the conversation. ‘You must become accustomed to the idea that we will rule here when you are gone.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then we will rule here now.’ The oil was gone from Proudfoot’s voice. There was just steel.

‘In that case we have nothing more to discuss.’ The Maharajah’s face betrayed his anger. ‘I will allow an hour’s truce for removal of the wounded.’

‘Four hours.’ Proudfoot smiled with false charm as he countered.

‘One hour. My men will understand.’ The Maharajah’s voice was as hard as the rock that littered his land.

Proudfoot pouted and opened his mouth to carry on the negotiation, but the Maharajah raised a hand to silence him.

‘There is nothing more to say. You have one hour and then you will die.’

Jack saw the hard glare in the Maharajah’s eyes. He had seen this transformation before, the sudden switch from urbane gentleman to wolfish ruler.

The Maharajah turned, showing his back to the British party. There was no more to be said.

They had one hour. One hour to see to the wounded and prepare for the next assault. An assault they would have to repel.

One hour until they would have to fight or die.

The defenders sat in an uneasy silence. The hour had passed swiftly, the time spent in rushed preparations, the tired men harried as they prepared to fight again. Ammunition had to be distributed, weapons cleaned and reloaded and water had to be drawn from the well just outside the 24th’s barracks. Wounds had to be dressed and the dying cared for, whilst all the while watching for the enemy to reappear.

Jack had been forced to reduce the number of men stationed on the roof of the barracks to just five, under the command of a corporal. It was not ideal, but the 24th had lost nine men in the first assault and there would be too few to defend the barracks if he left the original number to act as sharpshooters. He had retained his small flying squad, although this time he had vowed not to do anything as reckless as throw himself out of the window and into the middle of the enemy.

‘Why don’t the buggers come, and get it over with?’ Private Jenkins asked the question that was on every redcoat’s mind. The waiting played at their nerves, the fear scratching at them, an itch that could not be ignored.

‘Are you off somewhere special then, Private?’ Jack had been peering out of the same window as the anxious redcoat.

‘I just want it over with, Mud. I mean, sir.’

‘We all do.’ Jack unbuttoned his holster and made sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. The rest of his men were doing the same, fiddling with their kit as they went through the superstitious rituals that they believed might be the difference between life and death, each fearing the dreadful lottery they would soon have to face.

‘They are brave, aren’t they now, those blue-coated buggers? They nearly got in here last time. For a moment I thought it was going to be like Chillianwala all over again.’

‘You were there?’

‘I was, bach. Bloody slaughtered, we were. There were only five of us left standing in my company when it was over. Those Sikh boys fight damn hard.’

‘Well we stopped this lot once. We’ll just have to do it again.’

‘That we will, boyo.’ Jenkins had clearly forgotten he should be addressing Jack as an officer. They were just two redcoats standing waiting for the enemy to appear. ‘No bloody heroics this time, though.’ Jenkins had been in the flying squad that had followed Jack on his foolish charge. ‘We are all getting too old for that kind of nonsense.’

‘I can’t promise.’

Jenkins shook his head despairingly. ‘Officers. They always know best, isn’t that right, bach? No matter how bloody foolish it may be.’

The crack of a musket firing prevented Jack from replying. A salvo struck the side of the barracks, each bullet smacking into the stone with an ear-splitting crack. The redcoats came to life, flinching instinctively as the fusillade gouged thick crevices in the heavy stone.

‘Bloody hell!’ Jenkins lost his shako as he ducked down behind the protective wall of mealie bags that blocked off the lower half of the window. ‘It’s going to be like that now, is it?’

Another salvo of musket fire cracked out. The second assault in the battle for Bhundapur was about to begin.

‘Mark your targets!’ Colour Sergeant Hughes snapped the order as the redcoats cowered from the steady fire. ‘Aim at the smoke.’

The Maharajah’s men had learnt from their first assault. This time there would be no wild charge. The musket fire coming from the windows and doorways of the buildings that lined the pathway leading away from the 24th’s barracks drove the redcoats down behind their walls and barricades.

Yet there was no precision to the enemy fire. There were no massed volleys, the gunmen shooting as they were ready, forcing the defenders to endure a constant barrage that sometimes died away before rising to a climax as half a dozen men fired at once. The cough of each gun sounded different, the redcoats under fire from a collection of weaponry ranging from ancient silver jezzails to Brown Bess muskets that would have been at home on the field at Waterloo. As varied as the guns were, each was still capable of killing if its bullet found its mark, and the redcoats kept as low as they could behind the windows, or stayed carefully to the side of the loopholes that dotted the wall closest to the enemy.

‘Commence firing!’

Jack was taking a risk. He had been tempted to hold back, waiting for a charge. But he had seen the anxiety on the faces of the redcoats as he made them endure the withering fire. He had to let them reply, trusting them to be able to reload in time if an assault looked to be building.

The muskets rang out almost in unison as the men’s tense trigger fingers were finally released. The deeper cough of their percussion muskets drowned out the enemy fire, the effect of nearly sixty guns firing together creating a thunderclap of sound that echoed loudly in the confined barracks.

‘Reload! Look lively.’ Jack urged. He peered through the window, screwing up his eyes at the inevitable cloud of powder smoke that billowed back to flood the room. He saw a couple of bodies slump to the ground as the 24th’s fire found its target, but it was difficult to tell how effective it had been.

Another smattering of bullets crashed into the barracks, gouging more holes in the already heavily pockmarked walls. It appeared the Maharajah’s men were happy to stay out of sight and engage the 24th in a duel of musketry. It would be a long, tedious war of attrition, but it would pin the redcoats in place, the idea of abandoning the barracks simply unthinkable.

A huge cheer sounded from outside. It was a feral roar, the sound of the mob screaming its hatred. The terrifying noise of warriors released to the charge.

‘Sir!’ Corporal Jones summoned his officer.

Jack bounded across the room, cursing aloud as an enemy bullet scorched past his ear and knocked a fist-sized lump of plaster from the scarred wall.

‘Sir! Hundreds of the bastards!’

Jack followed the corporal’s pointing finger. The Maharajah had altered his plan of attack, using the hour-long truce to gather together all his remaining foot soldiers. They had been formed into a huge phalanx that was aimed like an enormous fist at the north wall. The Maharajah was gambling everything on a single, massive assault, a sledgehammer blow that would smash a hole in the defenders’ frail perimeter and create an opening for his precious lancers.

Jack stared at the enemy’s massed ranks and saw certain defeat.

‘Half the company with me. Colour Sergeant Hughes, keep the rest of the men at the windows and return fire.’ He snapped off his orders. His men responded calmly.

Jack ran his eye over the Maharajah’s assault, which was already charging towards the north wall. They seemed unstoppable, and the tips of the sepoys’ muskets were wavering as they stared down the barrels of their weapons at the immense horde tearing towards them.

‘Fire!’

Jack clearly heard Dutton’s order before the roar of a massed volley crashed out. The major had timed it to perfection. The enemy horde was no more than fifty yards from the barricade when the horror was unleashed. At such close range the sepoys’ muskets couldn’t miss. The men leading the rush were struck down as if someone had suddenly lifted a rope to trip dozens of them at once. The musket balls tore into the packed formation, flaying the front ranks, the blood bright as bodies were torn and shredded.

‘Hold them!’ Dutton’s voice was huge in the shocked silence after the volley. His sepoys heard the cry, bracing to meet the wave of hatred that was coming for them. Every inch of the barricade was blocked, the sepoys standing shoulder to shoulder, their wicked bayonets reaching forward and presenting an unbroken front towards the enemy.

Then the screaming began.

The enemy wounded screamed, their voices rising in horror as their bodies were mangled and shredded by the well-timed volley. The living screamed as the shadow of death passed them by, the delight of living turned into a visceral shriek of hatred as they bounded past the ruined bodies of their fellows and used their sabres to hack at the men who had so nearly killed them.

There was no time for the sepoys to reload.

The enemy stepped past the dead and the dying, ignoring the cries for aid as they pressed home their attack. They came at the barricade in a rush, filling every part of the wall, the deep ranks of the mob driving those at the front forward, the power of the charge relentless.

The sepoys stood their ground. They stabbed across the barricade, punching their bayonets into the bodies of their enemies. Time after time they rammed the weapons forward, twisting and recovering the blades before thrusting again, trying to hold back the tide of shrieking devils that swarmed around them.

But there were simply too many men fighting against them. Sharpened spears reached across the barricade. The Maharajah had packed the leading ranks with the weapons, the longer reach of the spears allowing the attackers to stab at the sepoys whilst keeping away from the bayonets that the red-coated soldiers were using with such professionalism.

All along the barricade the redcoats fell. The long spears found their way past even the most determined defence, the vicious weapons driven deep into the sepoys’ flesh. The enemy leapt forward as soon as a gap in the line appeared, swarming over the barricade before turning and unleashing their talwars at the nearest defenders.

It was chaos.

Dutton’s men fought on, using the butts of their muskets as clubs, striking back at the enemy that now swarmed around them. They refused to be beaten, and here and there the enemy was driven back over the wall, the desperate defiance of the defenders sealing the gaps.

Dutton charged at the head of his flying squad. They tore into the largest gap, the cough of the major’s revolver loud enough to be heard even above the noise of the violent struggle. The charge drove deep into a pack of the Maharajah’s soldiers that had breached the wall, the sepoys flowing past their commander to ram their bayonets forward, the disciplined charge sending a shudder through the enemy ranks.

Yet too many holes had been torn in the defenders’ perimeter. Even as Dutton’s charge thrust a path into one gap, so another breach was made further down the line. The melee descended into swirling chaos, men fighting in desperation as they sought to kill or be killed. The shrieks of the living added to the screams of the dying to create a cacophony that belonged in hell itself.

A trumpet blared, its rising call clear even over the shrieks of the men fighting for their lives.

The Maharajah had waited for this moment.

His lancers rode forward, their ranks ordered and precise.

The trumpet called again, and the two lines of cavalry halted, dressing the ranks so that every spacing was in perfect order. The lances were lowered, each man crouching with the dreadful weapon tight under his right armpit, the vicious blade held still.

The trumpet blared for the last time. The lancers kicked their mounts in unison, ordering them forward whilst keeping the line straight, the precision drilled into them by the countless hours of instruction they had endured in preparation for this moment.

The horses lifted their heads, sensing the building excitement. Their riders were forced to pull hard on the reins to keep their mounts in check as they maintained the pace of the walk. The slow, steady movement would soon build into a trot, then a canter, before they were finally released to the madness of the gallop that would see them committed to the attack.

The Maharajah rode at the lancers’ head, leading his beloved cavalry forward, taking the power of his own sword to fight against those who would strip his descendants of their right to rule.