The Gallant (45 page)

William motioned for him to keep his voice down.

“In a bullock cart,” he said. “With a load of rotting melons. But I’ve no idea how we got here or where we’re being taken. There are two men driving us-natives, I presume-but I haven’t spoken to them. To tell you the truth, Harry, I’m as much in the dark as you are. I don’t remember anything after we saw the boats go and were in the gatehouse, trying to hold off pursuit by our sowars. They came into the garden on their horses and .

. . yes, I can remember thinking that at all costs we had to stop them from going after the boats.”

“We stopped them all right,” Cook stated grimly. “But then some of the Sixteenth brought up one of those infernal nine-pounders and opened up on us. I remember thinking it was all

up, that they’d blow us sky-high at that range.

And they did, I suppose, because I have a vague recollection of being buried under showers of rubble.”

He was feeling his legs and body, attempting to assess how badly he was wounded. “I fancy I’ve been lucky, sir. Plenty of bruises, but I don’t think any bones are broken-though it’s hard to tell, cooped up under this straw and .

. . what did you say they were? Melons?”

“Rotting melons, I’m afraid, Harry.”

“But at least we’re alive, Colonel. And the boats got away, all three of them, praise be! They should be well on their way to Cawnpore by now-though the river’s pretty low. I hope they were able to keep clear of sandbanks and did not meet with any opposition on the way.”

William echoed his hope, thinking of Jenny. But the promised reinforcements must surely have reached Cawnpore by this time. The Madras Fusiliers, Sir Henry Lawrence’s latest message had stated, were making forced marches from Allahabad, determined to effect the garrison’s relief. He glanced at his companion. Cook was unmarried, so at least he was spared some anxiety on that account-although he had a younger brother, serving in a native infantry regiment in Benares. Or was it Allahabad?

Cook said, attempting to sound cheerful, “They’ll get through, Colonel-I’m confident they will. They have that very useful brass gun and the Enfields we were able to salvage from the magazine. And talking of the magazine-I don’t think I ever felt more satisfaction than when I listened to the explosions and saw the whole damned place go up in flames! Devil take them, I thought, the bastards won’t be able to make a present of our guns to their blasted old king in Delhi! Or take them to the Nana either, will they, sir?”

“No.” William sighed. “No, they won’t.”

But the destruction of the magazine had cost poor young Arnold Gillespie’s life and — His single hand clenched into a fist at his side. What of the rear guard? were he and Harry Cook the sole survivors? were all the others dead?

“Sir!” Cook’s voice was tense. “I

believe we’re approaching a village. I can see lights and-shall I ask our drivers where we are?”

William Stuart Long

The rain had slackened to a steady drizzle, and William saw that there were, indeed, lights flickering through a screen of trees, some distance ahead. Instinctively he felt for his pistol, but the holster was empty, and his saber, too, was gone.

“Yes, ask them, Harry,” he agreed. Like most of his other officers, Cook was a qualified interpreter, able to converse freely in both Hindustani and Punjabi. But although he voiced his questions with fluent clarity, the only response he elicited was a nervous plea for silence from one of the bullock drivers and, from the other, the advice to keep themselves hidden.

“Better do as they say, sir,” Cook said, when he had translated the men’s request. “God knows where they’re taking us!”

The wagon creaked on, through a small cluster of primitive mud houses bordering the road, occasioning no interest on the part of the inhabitants-few of whom appeared, in any case, to be stirring, although there were lamps in some of the glassless windows. Beyond the last house, the bullock cart turned to the left, to jolt along a rutted track and then climb a low hill, at the summit of which was a second village-more typical of most villages in Oudh, for it was surrounded by a loopholed wall, . with a deep ditch in front of it.

The cart passed unchallenged through a wooden gateway, to come eventually to a halt outside an extensive, well-built house, on whose veranda three men were standing, clad in the colorful robes of irregular cavalry sowars, each with a rifle slung from his shoulder and a curved saber in his belt. Together the three approached the bullock cart and, thrusting aside the straw and melons, assisted its occupants to their feet.

“Welcome, Colonel sahib-and to you also, Cook sahib.” The bearded face of

Rissaldar

Major Akbar Khan was instantly recognizable, despite his change of uniform and the lack of medals on his chest. He spoke in English and then, apologetically, lapsed into his own tongue.

Harry Cook translated.

“The

rissaldar

major says, sir, that when the moment came for decision, he could not betray his allegiance. This is his village, and we were brought here by two of his sons.” Cook was smiling his relief and pleasure.

“The two men with him are both

daffadars

of the regiment, who share his feelings-Mohammed Bux and Ghulam Rasul.” The two sergeants saluted, drawing

themselves to attention, their smiles echoing his, and Cook’s voice faltered, as if suddenly emotion had overcome him. “Colonel, they came to the gatehouse, after the Sixteenth destroyed it, and we-we were the only ones left alive.”

So they had all died, William thought with infinite sadness-the brave men who had volunteered to form the rear guard and cover the boats’ departure from the Residency wharf. He saw their faces-the begrimed, unshaven white faces of the officers and the brown faces of the Rifles’ Eurasian band sergeant and two of his drummers, who had held the magazine against repeated attack. Young Millbank had been one of them, a boy, fresh from Addiscombe and not yet nineteen; and Lieutenant Campbell of the Sixteenth, as well as the quartermaster sergeant of the same regiment, whose name was-had been-Mackay. And an Irish ensign, Rory O’Reilly, who had joined the Rifles less than six months ago.

“Colonel-was Cook broke into his thoughts, and William turned to face him.

“Yes, Harry?”

“The

rissaldar

major invites us to enter his house, where food will be prepared for us and attention given to our wounds. Your head, sir, has bled a good deal.”

“Has it?” William echoed, conscious of no pain. But when he started to climb the veranda steps, he stumbled and would have fallen, had not Daffadar

Ghulam Rasul put out a hand to steady him.

Ghulam Rasul had been his orderly room clerk, he recalled-a quiet, self-effacing man and, like the

rissaldar

major, a veteran of the Sikh wars. Such men did not easily betray their allegiance; there was a strong bond always between those who had fought and faced death in battle together.

Inside Akbar Khan’s commodious living room, two veiled women were waiting. Neither spoke as, with skilled and gentle hands, they cleansed and covered his head wound with a fresh bandage. William realized, when they discarded the cloth that had previously been wound about his head, that Harry Cook was right-he had indeed bled copiously, from what he supposed was a saber cut, which had laid open his scalp and the upper part of his right cheekbone.

The promised meal was appetizing-a strongly flavored

William Stuart Long

goat’s-meat curry, with fresh, unleavened chapattis

and rice-and both men ate hungrily, to the obvious satisfaction of their host, who watched them from his seat at the head of the table but did not himself partake of the meal. When they had finished, he spoke at some length to Cook, who was frowning when, at last, the discourse came to an end.

“Akbar Khan wants us to rest, Colonel,”

Cook explained. “He says they will take us on tomorrow evening, after dark.” He managed a wry smile. “He has assured me that although, for our safety, he wants us to travel again by bullock gharry,

they will remove the melons-which will be a relief!”

“Are they to take us to Cawnpore, then, Harry?”

William asked. His heart sank when he saw Cook’s headshake. “For God’s sake, why not?”

“He says that the Nana has patrols on all the approaches to Cawnpore, sir. We would never get through. He’s proposing to take us across country to a place called Arrahpore-that’s south of Futtehpore, on the Grand Trunk

Road-where he says an advance party of Colonel Neill’s Fusiliers is encamped. They’re heading for Cawnpore, and-was

“But what of Cawnpore itself?” William interrupted. “Has there been any word from there?”

“Just rumors, sir-but ugly ones.”

“What the devil do you mean, Harry? Wheeler hasn’t surrendered, has he?”

Akbar Khan, who had been following their conversation with a grave expression on his dark, bearded face, answered before Cook could do so. He said, in English, “Colonel sahib, it is very bad, if true. All

lal-kotes,

all soldiers, dead. Nana Sahib give order kill them.” Once again he lapsed into his own language, speaking with an edge to his deep voice, and Cook sounded shocked when he translated.

“It is still only a rumor, sir. But it seems they accepted terms of surrender and the Nana betrayed them. If-if it’s true, there’s been a massacre.”

“And we sent our boats there!” Sick with dismay, William looked from one to the other of them, his stomach churning. “We sent our women and children, our wounded there for safety!” He had sent Jenny, he thought, God forgive him-he

had sent his beloved wife to Cawnpore, in the hope that her life would be preserved, believing that General Wheeler’s garrison was still holding out. He swallowed the bile that welled up into his throat.

“They may not have got there, sir,” Harry Cook suggested, but without conviction. “They may have been warned and-was He broke off, tightlipped, as Akbar Khan spoke again. “The

rissaldar

major says that he understands our-our distress. Even so, we cannot go to Cawnpore, for it would be suicide.

In his considered opinion, sir, the best course for us is the one he has planned … to make for Arrahpore and join the Fusiliers’ relief force.

We would be risking his life and the daffadars’,

as well as our own, if we attempted to reach Cawnpore. And he’s right, sir-we would.”

It was the truth, William was forced to concede, however unpalatable. He tried to erase the thought of Jenny from his mind, instead attempting to concentrate on remembered details of the map that had hung on the wall of his orderly room in Ranpur.

Where the devil was Arrahpore? South of Futtehpore, on the Grand Trunk Road, Cook had said; about forty or fifty miles from Cawnpore and approximately the same distance from Allahabad … no, Cook had not said that, but he himself remembered it from the map, although his estimate of the distances might well be inaccurate. They were probably greater, and … where were they now? Where had Akbar Khan’s sons driven them, in the foul-smelling bullock cart?

Harry Cook, after another exchange with the three native cavalrymen, answered his unvoiced question.

“They took us across country, Colonel, west of the river. We circled round Cawnpore during the night-last night, that is. Believe this or not, sir, we were in that cart for over thirty-six hours!

Akbar Khan says they gave us opiates, to make sure we stayed quiet. He and the other two came here direct-they rode here. This is a village called Kalabad-the

rissaldar

major’s father was made landowner here for his gallantry at the Battle of Delhi and the capture of Deig, when he was serving in the Bengal Light Cavalry. He says, sir, that it is also for this reason that he could not bring himself to desert from the Company’s service.”

William Stuart Long

“We are in your debt,

Rissaldar

sahib,” William said. “And it shall not be forgotten.”

The old Indian officer bowed his turbaned head in grave acknowledgment and then, rising, gestured to the two beds on the far side of the room.

“Sleep, Colonel sahib,” he invited. “At nightfall we will go on. We take you and Cook sahib to

lal-kote

camp, then return here to till the land.”

William had not expected that he would sleep, but to his own surprise he slept deeply and dreamlessly, until

Dajfadar

Ghulam Rasul roused him by shaking his shoulder. They ate hurriedly and left the village as darkness fell, he and Cook traveling, as before, in the back of the bullock cart; but instead of the rissaldar

major’s two sons, the two

daffadars

acted as drivers, with Akbar Khan, in peasant robes, riding ahead of them, his mount a thin, jaded animal unlikely to attract unwelcome attention from the Nana’s patrols.

The journey, over cultivated land and on rough tracks, seemed endless to both William and his companion. They were concealed beneath tightly strung canvas, buried in bales of straw, and although this had the advantage of keeping them dry, it was appallingly hot; and when they ran into a heavy rainstorm, the pools of water trapped on top of the canvas covering pressed down on them and added to their discomfort.

To their considerable relief, at sunrise the cart halted, and under the shelter of a thick belt of trees, they were able to alight from their airless prison and stretch their cramped limbs. Akbar Khan rode off alone to a nearby village, while the two

daffadars

prepared a frugal meal of

chapattis

and dried fish and fed and watered the weary bullocks.

Below them, distant by perhaps two or three miles, the dusty white ribbon that was the Grand Trunk Road could be seen, with a camel train and numerous bullock-drawn carts proceeding along it in both directions at their usual unhurried pace. It looked peaceful enough, until Akbar Khan rejoined them and pointed to a swiftly moving dust cloud, which resolved itself into a band of horsemen, spurring southward along the road, the rays of the rising sun glinting on their lance tips. In their wake, but proceeding at a snail’s pace, came two heavy guns,