Rogue Officer (6 page)

A dark hand flashed out and chopped Wynter across the throat. The private reined in his mount, choking on his own air for a moment. Jack and Raktambar drew up too, waiting for the coughing fit to pass. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak, Wynter gave voice to a series of complaints, all directed at his lieutenant.

‘What’re you goin’ to do about
that
, sir?’

‘Do? Nothing. You’re lucky that was the edge of Raktambar’s hand and not his sabre. I wish it had been his tulwar. It would save me a lot of trouble to leave you here with your throat cut. Just behave yourself. Show some respect to your betters.’

Wynter spluttered, ‘I always show respect to officers.’

‘I’m talking about Raktambar.’

‘
Him
? Why he’s a – well – he an’t nothing but a . . .’ Providence intervened to save Harry Wynter from digging his own grave. He pointed over Jack’s shoulder. ‘Look, there’s some dust up ahead.’

There was indeed a dust cloud, which indicated horsemen.

‘Into that clump of trees,’ said Jack. ‘Quickly.’

T
he dust cloud out on the plain was being created not by horsemen but by runners. A band of around two dozen Indians appeared out of the shimmering heatwaves like phantoms from another world. They ran past the copse in which Crossman, Wynter and Raktambar were sitting quietly on their steeds. Some of the Indians wore pieces of Company Army uniform, which indicated they had probably been sepoys at one time. Others wore civilian clothes. They were all armed, though many only with bladed weapons. At least one carried an Enfield, which was puzzling since these were the rifles over which the army had mutinied. The sepoys had wanted nothing to do with weapons which needed cartridges greased with animal fat.

As the Indians were trotting by, one of them happened to look into the trees and Jack knew he and his men had been seen. However, though the observer stared for a good few moments, he said nothing to his comrades, and eventually turned away again. Jack was relieved.

‘We were seen,’ he told the other two, ‘but not recognized.’

The reason they were not identified as British soldiers was because they looked nothing like army men. All three wore loose Indian cotton clothing and turbans. Both Jack and Wynter had been weathered and burned by the sun. (Wynter was darker than Raktambar, who had lived and worked in a palace most of his life, though the irony of that fact would be lost on him.) A close scrutiny of Jack and Wynter might reveal the European under the skin, but in the mottled shade of the trees, from a distance of fifty yards, it was impossible to tell.

‘Lucky,’ murmured Raktambar. ‘Very lucky, sahib.’

They rode out of the trees and continued their journey. As they travelled across the Ganges plain, which lay astonishingly flat and mysterious before them, Jack voiced his earlier observation.

‘Wynter, how is that your skin is so dark? You’Ve only been in India for a short while, haven’t you?’

The disgruntled soldier flashed a look at the back of his own hand to confirm the fact, then argued, ‘I an’t black.’

‘No, I really am curious. Answer my question.’

‘We marched here from the Crimea.’

Jack pulled on the reins of his mount, quite astonished. ‘You
marched
? What, all of you?’

‘Some of us come by ship, some by foot. I was one of them what come by foot.’

Jack knew that British troops had been hastily sent to India from all the nearest countries – Burma, Ceylon, Mauritius, Persia – even soldiers on their way to China had turned back to assist in the quelling of the mutiny. But to march from the Crimea to central India, why that was some feat. It was over 3000 miles, through harsh arid mountain regions, across deserts, swamps, over raging rivers and deep gorges, not to mention jungles.

Jack looked at Wynter with new eyes until the soldier cried, ‘What?’

‘You’re telling me the truth?’

‘Why would I tell a lie – you’d find out, eh?’

‘What happened on that march?’

Wynter’s sly eyes narrowed. He was thinking back to it.

‘Not many of us got here. Lots of men died on the way – died of different things – some from fatigue, some was sick and just fell over an’ never got up again. Some was killed by tribesmen and such-like. We was attacked a good few times, I can tell you. Some went through hunger, some through thirst. There weren’t much water in a lot of places. Some was drowned though,’ he added, after reflection, ‘in fast rivers, which sounds kind of odd, don’t it, after I say we was dead thirsty most of the time? One man, Lance Corporal McGarvey, he shot himself on purpose, not bein’ able to go on. A few went mad when their brains boiled in the sun. We never left an able-bodied man behind though. Captain wouldn’t let us. We carried ’em until they died, then we buried ’em, pleased they’d gone at last. I hefted Jackson, a pal o’ mine, when he got sick, and I weren’t unhappy when he passed on. He was bleedin’ heavy, that bastard. I cursed him for a friend.’

‘I can’t imagine the ordeal you’ve been through, Wynter. Are you listening to this, Raktambar? A terrible trial.’

Raktambar nodded slowly, still smarting it seemed from the insult he had been given, and was not willing to give Wynter credit for anything.

Jack was amazed Wynter had not told him of all this before. He knew the soldier was survivor. Any man who had gone through the Crimean campaign and lived to tell the tale was a survivor. But to live through such a hard march and remain tight-lipped about it showed real character. What a perplexing creature was man, he thought. Harry Wynter was a sewer rat. He was lazy, dirty, foul-mouthed, self-serving and belligerent. He was insolent and untrustworthy. You could look for loyalty in him for ever and not find it. Yet such a man had been among the few – and there could only have been a few – to survive a death march across a continent. That showed grit and determination beyond the norm. That was an enormous achievement. Only men of great fortitude made marches like that.

‘Did your captain make it?’

‘None o’ them officers did. Sarn Major did. He was the ranking officer, when we got ’ere. None of them commissioned ones. One lieutenant went down in quickmud. Never left a ripple on top. Another one fell off a mountain. We could see ’im, all twisted up below, but couldn’t get to ’im. He might ’ave still been breathin’ for all we knew. Ensign got the cholera or yeller fever or somethin’. He went off with just a sigh. Young lad, not much more’n seventeen years, I would guess. They was all too soft, way I saw it, beggin’ your pardon, sir. Not like us at all.’

‘Well, hard men die in extremes too.’

‘Maybe. Anyways, here I am, back in the fold.’

Despite his loathing for Wynter, Jack was impressed. It was hard not to be. One day he would find out about that march, the full truth of it, and satisfy his own curiosity on the vagaries of life and death. For the moment they were approaching a small village, a gathering of dung-built huts baked hard by the sun. There was one sorry-looking camel standing under a single thorn tree. One or two children were running around, but most were lying in the shade. Jack’s eyes scanned the dwellings and saw no untoward signs. They needed to water the horses and there was a well visible in the centre of the village.

‘Wynter,’ he said, ‘say nothing to anyone. Let Raktambar do the talking.’

‘Suits me,’ said Wynter. ‘I can’t do that nonsense talk.’

They went directly to the well and dismounted. It was a mere mud hole in the ground with no brickwork, but a greasy rope attached to a leather bowl lay by the opening. Wynter took this item and lowered the bowl into the darkness of the hole. At first he could not get the bowl to take water, then Raktambar, with some impatience, told the soldier to put a weighty stone in the bowl so that it would submerge. Once Wynter did this, he was able to raise enough water for the horses to drink their fill. No one from the village came to ask them who they were or what they were doing. An old woman eyed them from a doorway and two small children stood off from them, watching their every motion. No elders came out. Only a dog came to squeeze between two of the horses and lap the water they spilt.

‘Bloody dead-an’-alive place, an’t it?’ said Wynter. ‘Who’d live in a dump like this?’

A few seconds after this a shot came from one of the dwellings, narrowly missing his head. All three men dropped to the ground. One of the horses shied and bolted. Jack reached inside his cottons with his good hand, seeking his revolver. He drew it and waited.

Raktambar yelled, ‘
Aapka shubh naarn kya hai?
’ asking for the shooter’s name.

‘You are not fooling me,’ cried a voice from a hut. ‘I am hearing you speak English.’

‘
Meri samajh men nahin aaya!
’ retorted Raktambar.

‘Yes, you do understand me. I am hearing English from you.’ Another shot and a bullet slapped into the mud near Jack’s head. ‘We are many here. You will make a surrender or die.’

Remaining with Hindi, Raktamber cried, ‘Yes, you heard English, from our prisoner. This scum of a British soldier is our captive. I am a Rajput – can you not hear? Are you an idiot or what? I shall make the prisoner stand up. You can shoot him if you wish. But hear this, we other two are Rajputs on our way to Bareilly to join with the great Khan.’

Jack saw no alternative now but to make Wynter get to his feet. He stuck his revolver in Wynter’s face. ‘Get up. Stand,’ he whispered. ‘Quick.’

‘I an’t standin’ up,’ cried Wynter. ‘You’ve got another bloody think comin’, sir. Not for nothin’ I an’t.’

Jack kicked him sideways in the thigh.

‘Up, up, or I shoot you myself.’

Raktambar took matters in his own hands. He got to his feet slowly, gripped Wynter by the hair and yanked the soldier to his feet. Holding him there, he invited the shooter to leave his hut and inspect the captive.

‘Come on out,’ cried Raktambar, still talking in Hindi. ‘Come and see this squirming rat for yourself.’

There was silence for a while, then the voice said, ‘I am coming out, but my comrades will be covering for me. If there is any trickery they will shoot you all down dead.’

After another few moments a small figure in a turban and dhoti came out of one of the huts, a rifle in his hands. When he was halfway across the baked-mud square of the village, Raktambar suddenly dropped the whinging Wynter and drew a pistol from his cummerbund. The approaching man’s eyes widened and he raised his rifle, but Raktambar was quicker. He shot the man full in the chest. Jack was on his knees, ready to return fire at any others who opened up at them from the dwellings. No shots came.

‘He was alone,’ confirmed Raktambar, ‘just as I thought.’

Jack got to his feet. There was no one in sight now. The old lady had vanished along with the two children. Even the dog had gone. It was as if the whole village was deserted. Jack went to the dead man and turned him over. He was quite young, perhaps not more than twenty, with handsome features and a lithe body. Yet in height he was no more than four feet eight inches. Not a child though, a grown man. Jack felt some relief at knowing this. For a few minutes he had suspected it was a child.

They went to the hut from which the rebel had emerged and there they found a dead British soldier. His clothes were torn and stained with berry juice and there were scratches – thorn bushes? – covering his face and hands. It would seem he had become detached from his unit, his comrades, whatever, and had struck out on his own trying to find a way back to his camp or column. There were many like him. Civilians too. Wandering around, some half-mad with fear and hunger, many of them naked having been robbed of their clothes. Others, having been taken in by villagers and hidden from their pursuers, had been treated with utmost kindness. This one had found neither hospitality nor robbers but the enemy.

‘Well, we know where that Enfield came from now,’ said Jack. ‘Some dacoit has got himself a good weapon and isn’t fussy about the grease used on the cartridge. Well, there’s nothing we can do for this fellow now. Wynter, go through his pockets and see if you can find any identification on him.’ The lieutenant looked around him. ‘Ah, there’s some lamp oil over there. Once you’ve checked his pockets, pour some on the body.’

They left a few minutes later, unsuccessful in their attempts to find out the dead soldier’s name. Raktambar set fire to the hut which served as a pyre for the corpse. The walls were fashioned from crisp palm leaves and the roof thatched with reeds. Both were as dry as kitchen-stove kindling. They went up in a great flaring blaze. The trio had to get out quickly and be on their way. The flames and smoke would be seen for miles.

Jack was aware that now they would probably never find out who the soldier had been, but what was he to do? They could not carry the cadaver with them and to leave it without burial did not seem right. Cremation seemed the only sensible option.

When they were safely outside the village again, Jack said to Raktambar, ‘How did you know that rebel was alone?’

‘I thought it, though I did not know it. If there were more, they would have given voice along with this one. The rebels are very excited at this time, being free from the British. They like to give voice in their liberty. They are very proud and feel they have their honour back. If he had been with others, we would have heard from them too, not just this one.’

At that moment shots began humming around the three riders. Wynter let out a loud yowl and clutched at his right ear. ‘I’ve been clipped,’ he yelled.

Jack, looking behind them, saw that the runners had returned. Without doubt they had come from the same village where Raktambar had shot the man. Perhaps they had left just one of their number behind and now they had arrived back to discover his hut ablaze. On they came now, at a very fast pace, firing their weapons but not pausing to reload.

‘Up, up,’ cried Jack. ‘Leather your horses.’

The three men spurred their mounts and shot forward, out into the dusty plain. Wynter had blood streaming from his ear, but for the moment he was not complaining about it. There was a look of serious intent on his features: the same sort of intent that had got him through that long march from the Crimean peninsula. Raktambar, on the best horse, surged in front. Jack did his best to keep up with his Indian bodyguard, praying that none of their steeds hit an animal hole or stumbled over their own hooves.