Land of Hope and Glory (27 page)

Saleem whimpered. ‘Why did the Rajthanans do this? They’re only farmers.’

‘To stop them helping the rebels,’ Jack replied. It was standard practice. He’d torched huts himself in Dalmatia when the officers had suspected the locals of aiding the enemy. But he’d never seen women and children blatantly murdered like that. It wasn’t the way of the army – not the army he’d joined at any rate. The officers might have overlooked looting or even raping, but slaughtering innocents wasn’t tolerated.

The cart rattled on along the path and they left the bodies to the cackling birds.

More blackened fields ranged about them, more charred houses, more bodies. They saw corpses lying in ditches beside the road, slaughtered sheep, bodies burnt to soot and bones and grinning skulls. And everywhere the crows, with their harsh cries and glossy black feathers, hopping and flying, watching as the cart went past before returning to their feasts.

‘Damn birds.’ Charles threw a parsnip at a group of the creatures gathered about the body of a man. The birds fluttered away a short distance, but soon returned.

Jack felt his face darken. The destruction was too complete to be a tactic to cut off the rebels. It looked more like revenge. He remembered the stories of the massacre at Westminster – all of Rajthanan society had been outraged by the news. He’d been outraged himself. But now the Rajthanans seemed to be engaged in the same actions, breaking their own code of honour.

A shot rang out, a distant thunderclap. Crows flew into the sky.

Jack stopped the cart. He heard another crack, closer this time. He squinted up the road and saw that what had at first appeared to be a cottage was in fact an elephant, with a figure atop it, ambling across a field.

A puff of dust rose from the road. Four horsemen – Rajthanan cavalry in russet tunics and turbans – came galloping towards the cart.

Another shot.

Charles raised the musket.

‘No.’ Jack pushed the muzzle down. ‘We’ll have to run for it.’

They leapt from the cart and charged across the field to the left, Jack with the pistol and Charles with the musket and a satchel of ammunition. Their boots scattered ash. Dead sheep lay about, burnt so badly they were like skeletons dipped in tar. Saleem made tiny yelps as he ran along. Jack’s heart flew and his chest pinched.

A row of stark trees appeared ahead. Two shots were fired and this time Jack heard the whistle of the bullets. Looking back, he saw the cavalrymen leave the road and race across the field, black clouds of soot rolling out from the horses’ hooves.

He reached the trees, and found a short slope on the far side. A grey river ran along the bottom of the slope, and beyond this lay further charred fields.

A bullet swished past.

He led the way down the slope and stood on the bank. The river was more than 150 feet wide, with no crossing in sight. He stared into the water, but it was too murky to gauge the depth.

He strode in, the cold enveloping him, and within a few paces the water was up to his chest. He looked back at Charles and Saleem. ‘Quick.’

The three of them began to swim. Charles held the ammunition satchel out of the water, but there was no way to keep the firearms dry.

Halfway across, pain suddenly split Jack’s chest. He gasped for air and lagged behind the others.

Damn his injury.

Charles slowed and looked over his shoulder.

‘Keep going,’ Jack said, but he was finding it difficult to swim. He floundered about in the cold water.

Charles paused, handed the satchel to Saleem, then swam back.

Jack spluttered. ‘I said to keep going.’

Charles didn’t reply and instead put his shoulder under Jack’s arm and began to swim along on his side. Jack helped as best he could by kicking and flailing with one arm.

Shots slapped the water as they neared the bank. Charles and Saleem hauled Jack out on to the grass. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled and he slipped to the ground. He rasped and choked and the world circled dizzily about him. Distantly, he could hear the clatter of pistols and carbines.

‘We’ve got to run,’ Charles shouted.

Jack looked up and saw the lad’s worried features through what seemed like wavering gauze. He swallowed and tried to stand again. This time Charles and Saleem were at his side and held him firmly when he almost slid down again.

A bullet lisped in his ear, and this was enough to spur him forward. He jogged with Charles and Saleem to either side, their arms locked about his back.

A three-foot-high earth embankment stretched a few yards away. They climbed over this and as they stumbled to the other side the breath was squeezed completely from his lungs. He slipped, a dead weight that not even his two companions could support, and rolled on to the ground, back against the embankment and just below the line of fire. He tried to breathe. Nothing. He tried again and this time air wheezed down his throat and the curtains of darkness began to recede.

He wiped the water and sweat from his forehead, his arm shaking slightly. When he glanced at Charles and Saleem he was taken aback by their expressions – they were both staring at him with their brows creased and jaws slack.

‘I’m not dead yet,’ he said.

Charles gave a small laugh and shook his head. ‘You all right now, though?’

‘Of course.’

Carbines spattered and bullets shrilled past.

Jack turned and raised his head gingerly over the top of the ridge, blinking away the water running into his eyes from his damp hair. The Rajthanans were pacing up and down on their horses on the far bank, seeming to consider whether or not to cross. When they saw him they fired another volley and he ducked back down again.

‘We have to get out of here,’ he said. ‘Can’t wait for that lot to find a way across.’

‘Can you run?’ Charles asked.

‘I’ll be all right.’ He reached into his pocket, took out the vial of jatamansi and unscrewed the lid.

‘What’s that?’ Charles asked.

‘Medicine.’

He took a sip. Would it work?

At first nothing happened, but then, after a few seconds, his chest began to hum with warmth. The constriction and his breathing eased a little – he was sure he wasn’t imagining it.

He shouldn’t have doubted the jatamansi. Indian medicine was the best in the world.

A minute later he felt strong enough to stand again. He limped as they ran across the field, but he was still able to keep up the pace. The Rajthanans fired a couple of times but soon gave up.

After fifteen minutes they left the charred fields behind and crossed grassland untouched by the devastation. The ground inclined slightly towards the hills. Jack looked back from time to time, but no one was following them.

They slowed to a jog. The low hills buckled around them and the sky above was slate.

‘Up there.’ Jack pointed to the woods covering the summit of one of the hills.

They ran up the slope, but then slowed to a walk when Jack lost his breath. They reached the trees, stood beneath the canopy and looked down the way they’d come. Jack could see the drab river cutting across the black and grey fields, and beyond that the pale line of the road. Traces of dust revealed riders moving along the road in both directions.

‘We have to keep moving,’ he said.

They followed the line of the forest, across the summit, down into a valley and then over further hills. Jack kept an eye on the land below and saw riders on the road occasionally, but no sign of anyone coming across the fields.

He was tired and stumbled over tree roots and rocks.

‘We should rest,’ Charles said.

‘No,’ Jack replied quickly. But then he saw the look of concern on his companions’ faces. ‘All right. Until nightfall, then we carry on.’

They rested in a gully, hidden amongst the rocks and trees. They took off their damp tunics and draped them over stones to dry. Saleem gave a yelp as he laid out his clothing – he lifted the hem of his tunic to show a perfectly round bullet hole in the material.

Jack grinned. ‘You were lucky.’

Saleem’s eyes were wide and his face pure white. He licked his lips and put the hem down again.

Jack examined their weapons and supplies. When he opened the ammunition satchel he found that Charles and Saleem had kept the bag of powder dry, but there was only a handful of cartridges, percussion caps and pistol balls. The musket and the pistol had both received a good soaking in the river, and he carefully took them apart with the musket tool and tried to clean the pieces as best he could with a cloth.

Charles assisted and Jack noted that the boy was quick at reassembling the musket. Jack nodded with approval when Charles screwed the lock into place and held the weapon up with one hand.

They slept into the evening, taking turns to keep watch. Jack tried to rest, but his mind spun ceaselessly.

‘Remember, in the army we are here to uphold dharma,’ Jhala had said to him many times. ‘Dharma defines the rightful order of things. The Empire has brought dharma to Europe. We are upholding the rightful kingdom, Rama’s kingdom.’

But Jack kept seeing those bodies lying in the burnt fields below. Was this dharma? Was this Rama’s kingdom?

He’d thought he knew the Rajthanans. Some were kind, some were harsh. But, at a basic level, they were an honourable people. Now he wasn’t so sure.

When it was dark they set off again and picked their way up the side of the gully. Cloud smothered the moon and there was little light beneath the trees. An owl hooted.

Jack paused at the top of the scarp to get his breath back.

A man’s voice in the dark said, ‘Greetings, friend.’

Jack jumped and Saleem gasped. Charles had the musket off his shoulder in a second and released the knife-catch, the blade clacking out.

‘We’re friends,’ the man said. ‘Don’t shoot.’

Jack narrowed his eyes. It was difficult to see in the dark. He made out a rocky ridge, and beneath it about thirty hooded figures, some sitting, some standing.

‘Who are you?’ He took a few steps towards them, his hand resting on the pistol in his belt. Charles and Saleem came up behind him.

‘Just travellers, like you.’ The man stood, his face hidden by his cowl.

‘They’re lepers,’ Saleem hissed. He pointed at the castanets that were tied to the man’s bleached wrist – all lepers were required to carry these when they travelled.

‘We are,’ the man said. ‘You’d best keep your distance.’

Saleem and Charles backed away.

Jack looked around the forest. ‘You live here?’

‘No. We left our colony when the Rajthanans came. So far they’ve left us alone but we’re not taking any chances. We’re headed for Wiltshire.’

Jack nodded. ‘Good luck to you.’

‘Which way are you going?’ the man asked.

‘To London.’

‘You’re going east? The quickest way is through the Thames basin. But don’t go that way. Go to the north instead, towards Oxford.’

‘We can’t make a detour. We have to get to London quickly.’

The man’s cloak rustled as he moved. ‘Something bad happened at the mills. I heard rumours. The rebels destroyed the place months ago and now the air’s poisoned with sattva.’

‘We’ll have to take our chances.’

‘Then God keep you.’ The leper raised his white hand, the castanets rattling like bones.

‘God keep you too,’ Jack said.

He turned. Charles and Saleem were staring at him and shifting nervously. Silently, he led them away through the forest, still heading towards London and the Thames basin.

‘What did he mean – poisoned with sattva?’ Saleem asked as they walked.

‘Don’t know,’ Jack replied gruffly.

‘Shouldn’t we go another way?’ Saleem tripped on a stone, but regained his footing.

Jack stopped suddenly and turned. Saleem was starting to irritate him. ‘The Thames basin is the quickest way. Right, Charles?

‘Yes.’ Charles’s voice was slightly cracked.

‘Then that’s the way we’ll have to go. You’re both free to go home if you want to.’

‘I’m carrying on,’ Charles said without hesitation.

Saleem paused. ‘So am I. I’m going to do my bit.’

Jack’s muscles felt heavy. He didn’t even have the strength to be irritated any more. When he looked at Charles and Saleem he could see that, despite everything, they were determined to get to London. He couldn’t think of anything to say to discourage them, unless he was going to reveal that he wasn’t a supporter of the mutiny at all, that he was . . . a traitor? That was what Harold had called him. But that was right, wasn’t it? That was what he truly was.