Rogue Officer (3 page)

Corporal Gwilliams was North American. Sometimes he claimed to be a Canadian. Other times he said he was from the United States. At all times he claimed to be the barber who had shaved every famous frontiersman from Kit Carson to Jim Bowie. Certainly he was very good with a razor, as Jack had found out when he’d sent the corporal sneaking into enemy camps at night. Gwilliams was also a crackshot with a rifle. His prowess was not confined to weapons. Raised by a preacher, Gwilliams had read all the classics in his adopted father’s book-shelves and reckoned he could ‘out-classic’ any Englishman he met. His association with Jack’s spies and saboteurs was not yet a long one: he had joined Jack’s peleton a short while before the end of the Crimean War and Jack’s eventual posting to India, but he had proved himself very able in that short time.

‘It’s my problem, but thank you for the offer, corporal.’ Jack turned his attention to his sergeant. ‘And you need not apply, Sergeant King, we all know your lack of prowess with a firearm.’

King stiffened. ‘I’m getting better all the time, sir.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘But I wouldn’t fight a duel if I was the best shot in the regiment. I think it’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. What’s wrong with settling an argument with your fists?’

Jack sighed. ‘It’s not permanent enough for some people,’ he said. ‘Nothing but my corpse will satisfy Deighnton. Now, you heard the trumpets and drums, let’s strike camp. It seems we’re off to Rohilkand at last. The sooner this rebellion is quelled, the better. Civil war is so ugly. We seem to commit more atrocities against friends than we do enemies.’

‘This is not civil war, sahib,’ interrupted Ishwar Raktambar, who was unhappily torn between two sides. ‘This is a war to drive you foreigners from India.’

The reluctant Rajput bodyguard of Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman had been raised in a village in Rajputana, the son of a poor farmer. When he was eight years of age, his uncle, a gardener at the palace of the maharajah of Rajputana, sent for him with the promise that he would assist the boy in becoming a palace guard. When his father packed him off to the palace, his uncle simply used him as a personal slave until Raktambar reached the age of eighteen. He was by that time a muscular youth with a fine physique due to the hard work his uncle had put him through. Finally, the boy rebelled and wrestled with his uncle in the courtyard of the palace, a scene which was witnessed by the maharajah’s vizier.

The Grand Vizier was impressed by the youth’s strength, as he saw him bodily throw his uncle, first into the goldfish fountain, then into some thorn bushes. Having come to the notice of the vizier, Ishwar Raktambar was then taken on as personal bodyguard to the maharajah himself. However, his good looks and natural ability with weapons also made him a favourite in the maharajah’s harem, a fact known to the maharajah himself, and when a British officer visited him he saw a way of ridding himself of this tall, handsome young warrior, without having to execute him and upset half his wives and most of his concubines. He offered the young man as a bodyguard to the lieutenant, hoping the pair of them would be dead within a few months from the bullets or swords of rebel sepoys.

‘As you say,’ replied Jack, not wishing to argue the rights and wrongs of the matter with Raktambar. ‘Now, Gwilliams, will you get the mounts up here. We need to join the division.’

There were five of them altogether, including the boy Sajan. These intelligence-gatherers, being independent of the rest of the division and needing to move rapidly in the area of the fighting, had been provided with horses by their colonel. There had been some grumbling amongst the staff officers regarding the boy being mounted, but Jack pointed out that Sajan was sometimes an invaluable gleaner, being able to slip into a market place or village and listen to the gossip amongst the local population.

As they were preparing to join the rest of the division in Lucknow, commanded by Brigadier Walpole, two young Eurasian girls came running up to greet Lieutenant Jack Crossman. These were daughters of a corporal drummer named Flemming and his Punjabi wife. To Jack they were a perfect nuisance. The older one, Silvia, a mere seventeen years old, was besotted with him, and the younger one, Delia, a year behind her, followed her big sister everywhere. They wore saris, ran around without shoes on their feet, and both had long black coils of hair hanging like a thick rope down their backs. They were slim, lithe and incredibly beautiful.

‘Captain, captain,’ called Silvia as they both rushed up to Jack, tears in their eyes. ‘You are going away from us. Please, please stay to protect us from the badmashes.’

‘Girls,’ he said in despair, as the square-faced Sergeant King’s face split with a grin, ‘please don’t bother me now. I’m trying to get ready to march with the rest of the division. You know what your father told you. You must stay away from me. I’m – I’m a
bad
man.’

‘No, no, you are not,’ cried the lovely Silvia, grasping his sleeve with her slim fingers. ‘Those cavalry officers, they are the
bad
ones.’ She and her sister both spat into the dust to physically register their disgust of officers of horse. ‘They want to steal the flower from us. You are a good man, sir. We will come with you. Delia and I cannot stay here while you are fighting war. We must be by your side, Captain.’

‘Yes, we must,’ cried Delia dutifully.

This younger one had convinced herself she too was in love with her sister’s ‘captain’. If Silvia was so madly in love with this tall one-handed officer with the black hair and scarred but handsome face, there must be something very special about him. Thus Delia Flemming was also moon-struck. The pair of them were driving Jack mad. He had told them countless times he was not a captain – and indeed they knew it – but they had decided they were too proud to be in love with a mere lieutenant, so they had promoted him and insisted on that rank. He was their captain and even though he had informed them he was a happily married man, they were convinced he would one day come to hold them in high regard. All this because he had once shown them simple kindness by acknowledging them with a ‘good morning’ and a smile. Had he but known what he was bringing on his head he would definitely have snarled at them.

‘Girls, please,’ said Jack, ‘your father will bring me up in front of the commanding officer if you keep following me around. Do you want to get me into trouble? This is silly infatuation . . .’

‘No, no, it is true love,’ said Silvia, her large dark eyes full of sincerity. ‘You must believe it, sir. You must.’

Gwilliams glanced back and forth between the two girls, chewing a quid of tobacco slowly. His expression told you nothing but Jack presumed the crusty corporal was wondering what he would do in such circumstances. Gwilliams was absolutely sure what he would do and it was not the act of a gentleman. King just grinned and shook his head, the bowl of the clay pipe between his clenched teeth red hot with being overpuffed. Sajan simply looked disgusted, and well he might for he was just a young boy.

It was Raktambar who stepped in and saved the lieutenant.

‘Go away,’ he bellowed at the sisters. ‘Go away or I shall beat you with the flat of my sword! You are interfering
baba-logue
.’

The girls did not like to be called ‘children’, and they glowered at the Rajput, who was not finished with them.

‘Here is an important man! He cannot be bothered with mere girls. Be off with you or I shall make smackings on your backsides.’

Gwilliams’ eyes opened visibly wider at this last remark and registered expectation. But the girls were afraid of the tall Rajput in the red turban. They made faces at him, stuck out their tongues and waggled the tips, but they began to walk away. When Raktambar stepped forward quickly, they turned on their heels and ran back towards their father’s quarters, yelling something unintelligible over their shoulders.

Jack heaved a sigh of relief. He let Gwilliams strap on his sword, since there was no time for him to fiddle one-handedly, then he checked his double-triggered Tranter revolver. He had become quite adept at holding the weapon between his knees and loading it with his right hand. When he felt sure they were all ready, he motioned his group forward.

‘Come on, before those two nuisances come back,’ he said.

They mounted and moved up to join the column. There were one or two old acquaintances in the region: people he had met during the Crimean campaign just over a year ago. Sergeant-Major Jock Mclntyre was here with the 93rd. As was General Sir Colin Campbell, who had commanded the 93rd in their now infamous
thin red streak
stand at Balaclava. Sir Colin was commander-in-chief in this region. Now known as ‘Old
Khabardar
’ (Old Be-careful) he was the man who had ordered Walpole into Rohilkand to hunt down the rebel leader Nirpat Singh.

Some known civilians were here too: war correspondents who had been in the Crimea. William Howard Russell, of
The Times
, and Rupert Jarrard, of the
New York Banner
, were present, though Jack had not before crossed paths in India with his good friend Rupert. This was one reason he liked the army. Comradeship. These were men he respected and they had known him under fire. Some of them not well, it was true: Colin Campbell would have difficulty in remembering a sergeant standing in line with his beloved 93rd during the Russian charge, but Jack remembered, and that was the important thing. It felt like a close-knit club, but not one of those London clubs like Whites, where the
ton
snubbed the little men. He knew if he were to say to Sir Colin, ‘I was there,’ he would receive a warm and knowing acknowledgement. Men who had fought beside each other under adversity were welded together until death, no matter what their rank. A corporal who stood with his king at Agincourt had that hour of his life when he was level with his liege and neither would deny it.

So, joining Brigadier Walpole’s column, Jack found the 93rd Sutherland Highlanders, the 42nd and 79th Cameron Highlanders were ready to move with the 9th Lancers (Deighnton’s lot, who in their distinctive blue uniforms reminded Jack of the Cossacks who had hunted him down in the Crimea), the 2nd Punjab cavalry, the 4th Punjab Rifles, two troops of horse artillery, two 18-pounders and two 8-inch howitzers. He and his small group had been given the freedom to join with the column as they pleased.

Jack Crossman’s group’s main task in India was intelligence, with the odd foray into sabotage and some map-making on the side. These were strange times, however, and the land had been turned on its head by the mutiny of the Indian sepoys. The East India Company were outnumbered a thousand-fold by the native troops of their own army and if all the native regiments had revolted the British would have been driven into the sea by now. As it was the Company Army, along with those regiments of Her Majesty stationed in India and thereabouts, had been able to contain the rebellion thus far. It had been touch and go for John Company.

There had been some horribly ugly events at Cawnpore and Lucknow which Jack hoped would eventually fade in his mind. The slaughter of British families – women, children, babes – which had sickened his comrades-in-arms. There was some terrible retribution going on, with innocent natives being executed alongside guilty ones. The scales of justice and mercy had been knocked flying from the hands of those who held them and extreme violence was flowing back and forth, first on one side, then the other. Men were blinking away the misty blood from their eyes to find they had been part of something very grisly and awful. Some were already trying to justify it on both sides, while others were dumb with horror. This deluge of violence was a numbing thing to sensible men.

Jack and his men fell in behind some khaki-uniformed Punjabis, happy to stay out of the way of regular HM troops. They were not easy with anything that approached strict discipline, having been away from it for so long. It was better to stay out of the eye of high-ranking officers, their keen senior NCOs, and the general hard-drinking privates with their coarse ways. Not that Jack’s little band were angels, but they did not indulge in the mindless swilling and swaggering that marked some soldiers.

‘What are you thinking, sir?’ asked Sergeant King, eyeing his commanding officer with a puzzled frown. ‘It’s as if you’ve been to chapel – you’ve got a look of fearful enlightenment on your face.’

Jack had actually been thinking about the recent duel and a belated wave of relief had passed through him, but he said to King, ‘I was thinking about comradeship. I was recalling the Crimean campaign and those I knew there. Some are dead, of course, but a few are actually here in India. It makes for a warm feeling to have old comrades-in-arms about me . . .’

At that moment Jack caught sight of a private soldier sauntering towards him with an Enfield slung casually over his shoulder. There was something about the jaunty step of this figure that sent a shiver down the lieutenant’s spine. Here was a cocky individual, to be sure, for insolence and insubordination was written in every approaching step. Jack had been in the army long enough to read the signs. Then he recognized the facings on the uniform. The man was 88th Connaught Rangers. Jack’s heart sank and he let out an audible groan which brought a frown to King’s features.

The approaching soldier finally arrived, a great wide smirk spread across his face. He was lean, unshaven, and had the narrow face and louring eyes of a petty criminal borne out of an unhappy childhood. He unslung his rifle, then hitched off his haversack and let it fall to the ground in a cloud of dust. Then he stretched out his left hand as if intending to shake that of the lieutenant’s, only appearing to notice at the last moment that Jack had no left hand himself. A shrug and a grin and a little wave followed.

‘Pleased to see me, eh, Sergeant? Sorry, lieutenant now, ain’t it?’

‘Private Harry Wynter,’ said Jack sighing. ‘Don’t tell me you’re with the 88th in India now.’

‘Nope.’ Wynter continued to smirk. ‘I’m with you – sir.’

Jack’s heart sank even more and he grimaced. ‘With me – with us?’