Rogue Officer (22 page)

‘He’s a horse. He will not even know he has a name.’

‘Of course he will, sahib,’ said Sajan, firmly on the side of his countryman even though he knew nothing about horses. ‘You will tell him his name and he will come to you when you call him.’

Jack sighed. ‘If you say so.’ He became briskly authoritative, partly in order to cover his chagrin, and partly because it was necessary. ‘Now, listen up, everyone. We have a task to do. We are to assist in clearing central India of guerrilla bands. Naturally we’re a small group, so if we come across a large band of rebels I will send a rider back here to inform the commander and dragoons will be dispatched to deal with the enemy. Or for a really large force, infantry will be sent. But our task is to seek out and inform. You’re well-used to this work and it doesn’t need me to tell you that we have to remain as anonymous as possible. It’s dangerous work, of course. If the guerrillas realize that someone is marking them, they’ll send out their own squads to deal with us, so if we’re discovered for what we are we cannot afford to let any individual escape. We are going back to our old foxhunts, from Crimea days.’

‘We kill them all?’ said Gwilliams, dispassionately. ‘Wipe ’em out? No prisoners?’

‘Unpalatable, but necessary,’ Jack confirmed. ‘Oh, if it’s one or even two men, we can take them prisoner and send them back with an escort, but we are few and they are many – we have to preserve the integrity of our group. Any more questions?’

There were one or two, especially from Wynter. As ordinary soldiers of the rank and file they did not have a history of being consulted by their commanders or being asked for an opinion, but Jack ran his group a little differently from the normal army way. It was necessary that he did so. From time to time strong initiative was required of his men – individual inventive decision-making and action – and he needed to encourage his soldiers to use what resources were at their command. It had been necessary to help them awaken and nurture original thinking in brains that were, in the past, expected to do nothing but listen to orders and to follow them. Initiative usually lay dormant and was in any case discouraged as being dangerous. But Jack allowed his men to act on their own, something the army considered unhealthy.

Who did he have for this type of work?

Corporal Gwilliams, a North American barber, who used a razor for tasks more nefarious than just shaving a man’s face. Gwilliams was a backwoodsman of sorts who knew how to think for himself and act upon his decisions. A very good man to have in such circumstances. Lacking in discipline it was true, but Fancy Jack’s group had only use for discipline when they were not out in the field engaged in espionage and sabotage.

Sergeant King, who was an engineer and mapmaker. Slightly resentful of anything that impinged on his career, King too was capable of original thinking. A little insubordinate at times. As could be expected of a man who knew about topography he was a good navigator and could pinpoint positions with magical accuracy. Moreover, he kept Private Harry Wynter in check in a way that Fancy Jack Crossman could never do. Farrier King had fists of iron but unfortunately could not hit the side of a mountain with a rifle.

Private Harry Wynter was a reprobate. Capable of great acts of bravery and also of base cowardice, he was an enigma to Jack who as a child had been shielded from such characters. Crafty, sly creatures like Wynter had been outside his experience. He did not know how Wynter thought or what processes the man used when making decisions. Certainly Wynter had initiative but it was a fox-like, rat-like, snake-like intuition. He was a drunkard when he had the means, a whore-chaser, complained about everything and everyone, hated manual work, yet had saved Jack’s life on many occasions. He was a puzzle.

Raktambar was a reluctant bodyguard given to Jack by a maharajah for the duration of his stay in India. He was a good solid soldier, whose loyalties were split between Jack and the cause for independence of his country. He claimed to have no feelings for the British, yet remained by Jack’s side nonetheless. Jack admired the man for his strong sense of honour and his capabilities as a warrior.

Sajan was merely a boy, but very useful in certain circumstances, and like the rest of the group, Jack was very fond of the child.

Then there was himself, Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman, a man in the army under an assumed name. A father-hater who had learned that he was a bastard son of an English maid whom his aristocratic Scottish father had seduced. Jack thought he knew who he was until that duel with Captain Deighnton, when he deliberately injured himself to prevent a re-duel from taking place. Was he then a coward like Wynter, capable of courage but basically bearing a yellow heart in his breast? Had he thrown away his honour to save his miserable life?

Perhaps.

T
he clean-up operations began reasonably successfully. The group acted as spotters for a squadron of dragoons, who swept on past them and dealt with the guerrillas with a firm and sometimes not-so-just hand. There were murderers and rapists out there and it was difficult to tell them from those who were merely mutineers with noble aspirations. So the army tended not to discriminate and to treat them all as if they were as bad as each other. The less culpable were hanged along with the worst of brigands. It was a sorry time for all, but the British needed to stamp out the last vestiges of flames and prepare for a new beginning. Jack was not sentimental enough to disapprove of what they were doing, though he was often left wondering whether his soul was destined for hell.

When the guerrilla bands were small enough his own group dealt with them. Usually it resulted in a pitched battle and the rebels were shot before they could be captured. On such a day King and Gwilliams were riding ahead of the others and they saw three armed men strolling from some mud huts towards a gorge. The men were wearing remnants of Indian Army uniform. King gave a yelp, drew a large horse pistol that he carried, and fired before Gwilliams could stop him. He missed his target, who turned and after a second returned the shot.

Gwilliams cried, ‘Come on, we’ll have to finish ’em now.’

He spurred his mount forward.

King drew his sabre and was not far behind him. The runners began racing for the edge of a gorge. One tripped and went sprawling, his weapon flying from his grasp. The others left him to his fate, which he soon met at the edge of King’s sabre. He was still on his knees, trying to get up, when King sliced down to where the man’s neck met his shoulder. Blood pumped out on to the dusty ground as the man fell with a final groan. The other two reached the gorge and disappeared beyond its edge. King and Gwilliams rode to the lip and looked down.

‘Oh, Jesus and Mary,’ cried Gwilliams.

On a shelf just below the gorge were about twenty or so more rebels, around a dozen of them on mounts. Some immediately fired up at the two soldiers, but the excitement caused by the jabbering of their two recently arrived companions caused them to be inaccurate. Gwilliams fired down into the gorge and then turned his mount to race away. King instantly followed him. Within a minute they were being chased by rebel cavalry with fleet-footed infantry not far behind. There was a race across a dusty dry lake on the other side of which was rocky scrub-land. There the other members of Crossman’s group had stopped to rest their horses. It was Sajan who gave a shout.

‘Sahib – my father comes, with men after him!’

‘What?’ exclaimed Jack, looking up.

Indeed, through the curtains of heatwaves he could see King and Gwilliams riding for their lives.

‘Find some cover,’ Jack shouted to Wynter and Raktambar. ‘Try to pick off a couple of the leaders.’

Raktambar grabbed Sajan and was soon behind a boulder but Wynter ignored his orders. He threw himself up on to his mount. What he intended to do – run or fight – was never known. His horse shied at the unexpectedness of his rider’s actions and attempted to bolt. Wynter first pulled it up short with the reins. The Karashahrs had very hard mouths and the bit had little effect, so Wynter smacked the horse around the head with the flat of his hand. The animal kicked out his back legs, then bucked, sending Wynter flying through the air.

Wynter landed deep in the middle of a huge thorn bush. The bush carried three-inch thorns as protection against birds and goats. Wynter screamed like a broken woman. At first he struggled, but just sank deeper into the heart of a bush several yards in diameter. Those terrible spikes penetrated his cheeks, arms, legs and torso. His left eye had been spiked clean through the pupil: he would be blind on that side if he lived out the action. Another of nature’s stilettos had entered under his jaw and was gradually working its way up through his throat towards the underside of his tongue. Two more had struck him in the genitals. Wynter moaned loud and long while he still could: while his tongue was still unpinned.

Blood began running down the thorns into the middle of the bush, staining it bright red.

‘Help me! Help me!’

Jack and the others could do nothing. Gwilliams and King arrived and threw themselves off their mounts, to find cover. There were around a dozen horsemen bearing down on them. All four opened fire and emptied three enemy saddles between them. Shots were now coming from the guerrillas on foot, as they caught up with the riders. The cavalry decided one charge was enough and retreated out of range, to tether their mounts and then to join their comrades who had the British surrounded. There were twenty-odd rebels circling Jack and he realized it was a bad place in which to be caught. There was no real shade to be had, the temperature was well over a hundred and the water source out of reach.

‘Oh, gawd! Please get me out. Lieutenant, don’t leave me.’

‘We’re not going to leave you, Wynter – stop whining. It’s only a few prickles. You’ve been blackberrying before, surely.’

This was hardly fair. The thorns were as long as a sailor’s needles and probably twice as sharp. Small birds had been known to accidentally impale themselves on these long green spikes. But Jack had little time for Wynter’s complaints. He had three other men and a boy to consider. Bullets were zinging off the rocks now. Wynter was actually a sitting target and it seemed likely that his problems would not last a great deal longer. It seemed probable that he would soon be hit. Certainly some of the shots from the rebels zipped through the bush. But he was now low enough in his personal vegetation to be out of sight of the shooters.

‘Ahhhhhhhhhhh,’ came a long low sigh of despair. ‘I’m still goin’ down and now it’s got me in the ammunition pouch – ’ Wynter’s euphemism for his scrotum – ‘I’m done for. I’ll never have brats now . . .’

‘Thank heaven for that,’ muttered King.

Wynter was forgotten as the battle continued, with shots going back and forth without any material change in the situation. Then the guerrillas ceased firing and very soon it fell quiet again.

‘Have they gone?’ King whispered.

‘Nah,’ growled Gwilliams. ‘They know they’ve got us pinned. They’ll wait now for our water to run out. They don’t need to kill us. We’ll die of thirst. I got to do somethin’ for that poor bastard Wynter.’

King was horrified as Gwilliams raised his rifle and took careful aim at the middle of the thorn bush, about ten yards away.

‘You can’t just kill him . . .’

But Gwilliams had fired and was reloading. Wynter had renewed his screams now, the sound echoing around the rocks. Gwilliams fired three more times in Wynter’s direction. Finally there was a crashing sound as the centre of the bush collapsed. King now saw that Gwilliams had been shooting at the main woody stem of the shrub and had finally weakened it enough for it to break under Wynter’s weight. The private was still under the attack of stabbing thorns, but at least he would not sink lower into them. He now lay a whimpering heap in the very middle of the vicious vegetation. However, a new cry came up from him.

‘There’s a snake.’

‘Well, ignore it,’ snapped King. ‘Try not to bother it.’

Sajan asked, ‘Is it a cobra?’

‘How the bloody hell should I know,’ shouted Wynter. ‘I’ve only got one good eye an’ the other’s full o’ blood. I can hear it slitherin’.’

Jack had not been listening to any of this. He had been making plans in his head.

‘We’ll hold them off until dark – then one of us will have to ride out of here, break through their lines, and get help.’

‘I’ll do it,’ growled Gwilliams.

‘No,’ called Raktambar from behind his boulder. ‘It shall be me.’

‘Sergeant King?’ asked Jack.

‘I don’t want to go,’ came the firm reply.

‘Well, I’m afraid you
are
going. You’re the worst shot. I need men with me who can hit things with their Enfields. You are not a great deal of good to us here. You must ride and fetch the dragoons.’

‘They’re all round us,’ King said reasonably. ‘I’m certain to get shot.’

‘There’s no moon tonight,’ Jack argued, ‘and if you stay here it’ll be even more certain that you’ll be killed. I’ve no choice but to send you.’

‘Why can’t we all go?’

‘There’s a man who can’t.’

King might have said, ‘It’s only Private Harry Wynter,’ but to his credit he remained silent.

Jack called, ‘Gwilliams?’

‘Sir?’

‘You know what I’m going to ask of you?’

‘Do some work with the knife, to cause a diversion?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Leave it to me, lootenant.’

Every once in a while one of the rebels would take a shot in the hope of hitting something. Every so often one of the British group would also try to flush out one of the enemy. There were no casualties on either side the whole day. In the defenders’ camp the water had to be eked out. It was a very hot day, even at the going down of the sun. A scarlet sunset seemed an ominous sign, if not for its colour then for the fact that the following day would be just as hot as the one they had just made it through. Slaked lips and dry throats seem that much worse when water is scarce.

The psychology of the situation was entirely against the defending group. Loud clicking insects seemed to mock them. During the day, birds had come and gone, freely and without hindrance. Bats replaced them in the twilight, gathering the massed insects above their heads. Other creatures could eat and drink with impunity, while they were denied sustenance. Flies drank their sweat and mosquitoes their blood. They were still able to give, but not to receive. Even their own horses, left to graze by the rebels to whom they were valuable beasts, were allowed to amble down to a pool not far away and drink their fill. Time crawled.