Rogue Officer (25 page)

‘Well, mapmaker?’ Kashmar smiled, his lean features forming a thousand creases in his weathered complexion. ‘You have saved the day.’

‘Not without your help, sir.’

‘Do not call me “sir” – we are now friends. More than friends. We have fought together and triumphed. There is a bond.’

The sergeant let out a short cynical laugh. ‘I fight together with generals and I would not dare to call them friends, for that they are not.’

‘We are not in the same army, mapmaker. It is permissible.’

King smiled. ‘I appreciate the honour . . . sir. Lord, I have to give you some title. You’re a sultan. I can’t just leave the words without a proper end.’

‘As you wish,’ laughed Kashmar. ‘Now, your lieutenant has agreed that we should take your man with us and care for him. I have given him my word of honour that this injured soldier will receive the best of attention. I hope you and I may meet again, mapmaker. You must tell me more about your science, and the art that accompanies it. I am fascinated. Perhaps you could map my kingdom, one day?’

‘I would be honoured,’ said King, delighted. ‘Most honoured, sir.’

‘Until then?’ A hand was proffered. King took it warmly and shook it.

‘And thank you, sir, for all your assistance.’

Kashmar waved a hand to say that it was nothing.

‘Please,’ King said, ‘please come and meet my son, before you go. He is a bright child. I think he’ll make something of himself . . .’

Later, when the group had organized themselves once more and they were riding out, Corporal Gwilliams said, ‘Mighty chummy with the locals, Sergeant?’

King frowned. ‘You have some objection to that?’

‘Nope. None at all. Just mentioned it, that’s all. Shakin’ hands and the like. Appeared you was the best of friends.’

‘Corporal,’ protested King, ‘he’s a nawab.’

‘Nawabs ain’t of great account at this point in time. Wouldn’t be surprised if John Company toppled ’em over. Anyways, had a lot to say for hisself, I expect. Not that I disfavour that. Him and his men saved my bacon, that’s certain.’

King stroked the neck of Samarkand. ‘Yes, he did.’ He went quiet for a few minutes, when all that could be heard was the clopping of hooves on stony ground, before he said, ‘You know his son was half-English? The nazir? The prince who would have succeeded him. His son and heir?’

‘Nope, I didn’t know that – why would I?’

‘No, of course you wouldn’t. But why I bring it up, is – he fought with the mutineers.’

‘Who, the nawab?’

‘No, the nazir. He was killed in one of the recent battles. Half-English. You would have thought he would have fought with his mother’s people. But he chose to fight with the half of him that was Indian. I find that very strange. After all, we’re Christians.’ King struggled with this anomaly. It was not personal arrogance that made him believe his race was superior, but the teaching of his fathers. ‘I mean, if I was half and half, I know which side I would be on.’

‘That ain’t strange. That’s normal.’

‘What do you know about such matters?’

‘Why, in America those that are half and half almost always fight on the side that’s been put down, trod on, pushed aside. What’s the real word . . .?’ Gwilliams screwed up his face and searched his brain.
‘Oppressed.
That’s it, they usually fight against who they think are the terrible oppressors. In America it’s the white man who’s crushing the Indians. Here’s the same, only different Indians. Most men are lookin’ for a cause. A just cause, they think. So they fall on the side of the victim, thinking themselves victims, and liking to think that because it gives ’em a way to get rid of all that anger inside ’em, not realizing everyone’s got it, whether they’re victims or oppressors. Nah, that ain’t so strange. It’s normal.’

King digested this, not completely understanding it.

Gwilliams chuckled. ‘Back home we have Southern gals who’re married to Northern men and their offspring don’t fit in either society. Neither Yankee nor Southerner. You’ll have ’em too. Commoners married to aristocrats. Yep, life’s full of half ’n’ halfers. One meself. Half-idiot, half-genius.’ He roared with laughter at his own joke and startled his horse, Champlain.

Later that day the patrol entered a vast jungle and a difficult life became an almost impossible one, with mosquitoes, snakes and impenetrable foliage to contend with, as well as guerrillas who knew the area better than Crossman.

At the time Crossman and his men were entering the jungles of Central India, continuing their mission of rooting out guerrillas, Major Nathan Lovelace was setting up an intelligence network which would, his superiors hoped, ensure that any further uprisings would not surprise the British command in India. There would always be discontent, there would always be those who treated the native population with arrogance and contempt and thereby aroused their fury, but it was Lovelace’s job to see that this fury was recognized in time to stamp on it. This was being done at the express wish of Lord Canning. Lovelace was required to recruit Indians, whose loyalty could be trusted, to act as spies. He called them his Watchmen.

Lovelace was ambitious and utterly ruthless in his work. He was one of a new breed of men who had read Niccoló Machiavelli’s
The Prince
and thought the ideas in there were damn good ones. There was too much talk of gentlemanly conduct; too many leaders like the late Lord Raglan, who had called spies ‘skulkers’ and would have nothing to do with them.

If men like Lovelace had been in charge of the Indian Army there would have been no mutiny in the first place. He was unsentimental, cold-hearted, and genuinely patriotic. Had Lovelace not been a man who kept his innermost beliefs private, Jack would not have courted his company for a minute. Fortunately, neither man knew each other well enough to understand what it was that separated them. Jack was as private a man as was his superior officer. Each thought the other a conscientious officer of the Queen, which indeed they both were. Lovelace believed he could turn the raw material that was Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman into a man as uncompromising as himself.

Lovelace had now formed the core of his Watchmen and a certain amount of training had taken place. He had sent some of them out into the field to test their abilities. Amongst them were Hindus, Mussulmans, Jains and Sikhs. They came from across all five of the main castes, including the Untouchables. They spoke several different languages. Finally – an entirely revolutionary idea – some were even women. Lovelace had thought long and hard about including this last group, but he reminded himself that women could be present yet entirely unnoticed when men gathered to plot and plan their activities. At this moment in time he was not concerned with any further uprisings: they would come later, if at all, for the country had been bloodied and no one was in any mood to rise up out of the gore and begin a new civil war. No, he had another task in mind for his spies: a private venture of his own. He had sent them out to gather information regarding the growing of flowers. How they performed on this training exercise, as individuals, would determine whether they would be retained for the more hazardous government missions of the future.

In the meantime, Major Lovelace went in search of a certain Captain Deighnton, whom he found based at Gwalior. Lovelace had his horse stabled, took a bath and shave, then stepped into a fresh clean uniform held out at arm’s length for him, item by item, by his Indian batman. He always carried his silver-mounted brushes and combs, without which any gentleman would feel naked and exposed. Using these essential implements his barber combed his blond hair into a style which suited the shape of his face. Lovelace was an extremely handsome man, but was not greatly interested in women. He enjoyed their company, but found it frivolous for the most part.

Lovelace discovered Deighnton in the mess, drinking and playing cards with a group of cavalry officers. At first the major remained by one of the huge black marble pillars, which stood on a white marble floor supporting a ceiling painted with scenes of hunting in mythical-looking forests full of tiger, deer and birds bearing fantastic plumage. After a while he moved over to the card tables, where he smoked a cigar and affected to be interested in the run of play until someone addressed Deighnton by name. Then he raised his eyebrows and stared at the cavalry officer.

Deighnton did not look up, but seemed to know there were eyes on him.

‘Something bothering you, Major?’ he said, as he dealt.

‘I do beg your pardon, Captain,’ replied Lovelace. ‘Awfully ill-mannered of me to gaze like that – but I have heard your name before.’

Deighnton snorted softly. ‘Famous, am I?’

‘No, nothing like that – well, you may be for all I know. No, I’ve heard it from one of my subordinates, a Lieutenant Crossman. He complains about you. Says you’re chasing him over hill and dale. I’m Lovelace, by the by.’

Now Deighnton looked up, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

‘Oh, yes, he’s spoken of you, Major. Pulls your name out as if you’re his trump card. That man is a menace. What do you want?’

‘Here,’ said a captain in the uniform of the 14th Light Dragoons, ‘are you playing cards or holding a conversation?’

‘I’m talking,’ replied Deighnton, throwing the pack on the table. ‘And I’ll thank you, Willoughby, not to interrupt.’

With that the captain left the table and motioned Lovelace to join him at another table, where Deighnton signalled to a mess waiter, resplendent in scarlet puggree turban and
jodh-puri
suit, gliding between the potted plants.

‘Whisky?’ Deighnton asked.

‘Certainly, thank you. My tipple exactly.’

The waiter was given his orders.

‘Now,’ said Deighnton, ‘are you going to warn me off seeking a duel with your Lieutenant Crossman – it won’t wash, you know. Fellah’s a menace.’

‘So you said before,’ replied Lovelace coolly. ‘In what way?’

‘He insults gentlemen and then expects to get away with it.’

‘I understood you and he have already fought your duel.’

Deighnton’s eyes narrowed. ‘There was some trickery. My own weapon misfired.’

‘And the lieutenant eloped?’

‘No, he had already discharged his weapon – he missed.’

‘Ah. And so you want a second go?’

‘He refused a second attempt on the spot. There was some nonsense about a wound to his hand. Listen, Major, I have no argument with you. If you have something to tell me, please say it and leave . . .’

Lovelace said, ‘Duelling is illegal, of course.’

‘This is India, not England. Here a gentleman needs to protect his honour or what is he?’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Lovelace, wondering what possible honour there was in killing a callow youth like Ensign Faulks. ‘I’m entirely with you on that. You and I know that nothing is more precious than a man’s honour. I understand you’ve had to protect yours three times in the last five years?’

Deighnton sat back and observed Lovelace, then lit up a pipe.

‘Do you wish to make further comment on the subject?’ he asked eventually.

Lovelace feigned surprise. ‘No, no. A man must look to his family name, however many duels, but – ’ he leaned closer to Deighnton and affected to glance around the room before speaking – ‘what of the authorities? As you say, this is India – but the army doesn’t sanction duels. An officer might get away with it once, but three times? Bit excessive, what? How is it they haven’t come down on you? I have no problem with duelling, you understand – just intrigued, old boy.’

A smile hovered around Deighnton’s lips. ‘Ah – well, that’s a bit of a secret, Major. Here’s the whisky . . .’

The waiter with the tray placed the whiskies carefully on the table, then said to the captain in a quiet tone, ‘Your servant is outside, sahib. He wishes to know if he’s to stay there or return to your quarters to prepare your bedding?’

‘Tell the damn fool he’s to wait where he is,’ replied Deighnton irritably. ‘I’d have sent a message if I wanted him back at the bungalow.’

‘Yes, sahib.’

The turbaned waiter melted away as they always did. There and gone, like a flickering shadow. Lovelace had always admired this skill at being shadow. It was exactly what was required of a spy, to be there but to be unnoticed, and to leave like a grey cat in a grey dawn, without a sound, without being seen to leave. He was expecting great things from his newly formed team of Watchmen.

Deighnton threw a look back at the table where the card game was in progress.

Lovelace said, ‘So, Captain, what brings you to India?’

‘My regiment, of course.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Lovelace, smiling, ‘but you didn’t need to come here. You have a choice. You could have bought out, or transferred. This land is pretty hostile to us, is it not? Ridden with disease and lately with hostility. We’re all lucky to be alive, you know – it was a close run thing, this uprising. If the mutiny had spread further than Bengal, we’d all be corpses by now. India is not a place an HM soldier comes to get rich either – we’re not like the Company men, are we? We’re not given much chance to line our pockets.’

Lovelace made it sound as if only an idealistic fool or someone with no choice in the matter would come to such a bedevilled land for no profit. He had gauged Deighnton correctly, for he could see from the man’s face that he agreed with every word. Lovelace sensed that Deighnton despised India. And although the major knew Deighnton was a second son, he also knew the cavalry captain was not a poor man. Deighnton certainly had the means to leave or change his regiment, if he had wished to remain in Britain or obtain a posting to a much more tranquil clime.

Deighnton felt the need to protect himself from this accusation of being gullible. ‘Oh, I don’t know. One can find opportunities here, if one looks for them.’

‘Such as?’

He laughed. ‘Major, I’m hardly likely to tell you, am I? My own close friends are not privy to such information. Otherwise I’d have competition. Let’s just say I know some people who need the kind of skills I have to offer.’ He suddenly realized the whisky was making him indiscreet. ‘But you, Major. You’re here too.’