by Peter Watt
Whether it was instinct or luck, Alice felt the butt of the pistol in her hand and she brought it up, almost touching the nose of the tiger. She pulled both triggers, and the tiger disappeared behind a cloud of gun smoke. The recoil of the pistol almost flung Alice from the basket. There was no time to pray, so she closed her eyes, awaiting the inevitable gory death the claws and teeth of the great cat would bring to her. There was not even time to think of Peter as she fell back in the basket, hitting her head.
Then all she remembered was a babble of voices in English and Bengali. The terrified elephant was standing still, trembling, as she lay on her back in the howdah.
‘My dear Alice, have you been hurt?’ Scott’s worried voice drifted down to her as she opened her eyes to see his face above hers.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied, shaking her head to ensure she had not been dreaming the nightmare of seconds or minutes before. ‘The tiger?’ she asked.
‘You bagged it,’ Scott replied. ‘We have never known a woman do that. What a story you will be able to tell my brother.’
Alice pulled herself into a sitting position in the howdah. Scott helped her climb down a ladder and she could see the bloody claw marks on the hindquarters of the elephant’s thick hide. She could also see a few feet away the body of the tiger she had killed. Men were gathered around it, and when she stood unsteadily beside the elephant, a cheer rose up from all those present, from the loinclothed elephant handlers to the richly dressed Indian aristocrats. Alice could see admiration for her feat in their expressions. The turbaned and bejewelled figure Alice had noticed talking with Scott earlier that day stepped forward with a smile. She could see that he was in his mid-twenties and had a handsome, dark face. He sported a neatly clipped short beard and his brown eyes were full of sparkle.
‘I think we should call you the daughter of Kali,’ he said, taking Alice’s hand and kissing it. She was surprised to hear him speak in fluent English, although she did not know who Kali was.
‘Thank you,’ she politely replied, her heart still beating hard in her breast. ‘But I shot the tiger because I was terrified.’
‘No matter why you did it, you faced the fearsome beast and triumphed.’
‘Khan,’ Scott said, addressing the aristocratic Indian, ‘may I introduce you to my brother’s bride, Mrs Alice Campbell.’
Alice thought that she detected a note of annoyance in Scott’s introduction but dismissed her suspicion as she gazed into the face of the handsome young man.
‘I must present you with a gift to celebrate your great victory today over the demon tiger,’ the Khan said, taking a huge blue sapphire pendant on a gold chain from around his neck and pressing it into Alice’s hand. Alice gasped at the beautiful piece of jewellery and began to protest the generosity, but the young Indian prince shook his head.
‘I was educated in England and I know that it is your custom to present soldiers with medals for bravery. This is my medal of bravery for you.’
Alice was at a loss for words. When she gazed into the dead eyes of the tiger at her feet, she felt conflicted about what she had done. She had seen the beauty in those eyes before she killed the magnificent creature, but at the same time she realised that had she not killed the tiger, it would have killed her.
‘I must return to my servants,’ the Khan said with a polite nod of his head and he turned away, leaving Scott and Alice alone.
‘Who is Kali?’ Alice asked, and Scott frowned.
‘These damned savages have so many gods, but Kali is of particular importance to them. She is their goddess of death, time and doomsday. But she is also associated with the mother earth figure and, dare I say it, sexuality and violence. The Khan is one of those jumped-up rulers we have to pander to in these parts. It seems that we will be ending our hunt and returning to the city. You have the honour of bagging the only tiger today.’
Alice held the precious pendant in her hand, her thoughts still reeling from the deadly encounter and the mystifying events that had followed. It was a day she knew she would always remember.
That night she returned to her brother-in-law’s villa and went to her room to sleep. As she passed into the dark world of dreams she remembered a verse from a poem she had once read when she was young. William Blake’s poem echoed in her dreams.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy beautiful symmetry?
Even as Alice tossed in her sleep, at the Barrackpore barracks, only miles from the scene of the hunt, a mutiny had just occurred and two British officers had been wounded. Already the opening events of the Indian mutiny were beginning to ripple out, and those ripples would become a tidal wave of death and destruction.
Three
Captain Ian Steele spread the coins on a wooden table in his seconded quarters in Bushehr where he and his regiment awaited the order to move out against the Persian army. Corporal Owen Williams had divided the prize he’d discovered hidden in the tent of a Persian commander into three equal parts and handed Ian his share in a small leather bag. Under the flickering candlelight Ian could see that it was a tidy sum to add to the considerable fortune in jewels his company had taken from a Russian baggage train as the Muscovites fled from the battlefields of the Crimea. The fortune he’d always dreamed of as a soldier of the Queen was coming true.
Ian scooped the coins back into the leather pouch and secreted the pouch within his bundle of uniform kit. He leaned back in the rickety chair to stare at the mudbrick wall of his tiny room. His quarters were in what had once been the residence of a Persian businessman who had fled the city when the British army came.
‘Sir,’ a familiar voice called from the other side of the wooden door to Ian’s room. ‘The commanding officer wishes to speak with you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sinclair,’ Ian replied. ‘Inform the colonel I am coming immediately.’
Ian threw on his jacket and straightened his uniform. No doubt he was in trouble again. He walked through the evening shadows to the HQ building where he was met by the regiment’s second-in-command, Major Dawkins.
‘The colonel will see you now, Captain Forbes,’ the major said in a tone that did not bode well.
Ian stepped inside the room being used as the office of the regiment. It contained little other than a map on the wall, a table and three chairs. Jenkins sat behind the table, which was strewn with papers. Ian saluted but Jenkins did not return the salute.
Jenkins rose and walked to the wall map, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘General Outram has ordered that the regiment remain in this godforsaken place while he continues his advance against the Persian army upriver,’ he said in an irritated voice. ‘However, he has requested that I allow your company of rifles to join his expedition with Brigadier Havelock’s brigade.’
Ian was thrilled at the opportunity for his men to join the mission to confront the enemy. Living in Bushehr was miserable, with the desert winds blowing dust so fine that it was able to penetrate into every crevice of the township. The regiment had been stood down but Ian still took every opportunity to take his company beyond the town’s walls to conduct light manoeuvres and target practice. A few of the new recruits grumbled at the duties but the old hands explained it had always been the habit of the officer nicknamed ‘the Colonial’ for his long time in the British colony of New South Wales. There he appeared to have taken on some of the colonial’s philosophy of equality amongst men, regardless of class. The old hands also knew of the company commander’s courage, wise leadership and daring, and admired him for that. They were similarly aware of their colonel’s poor record during the Crimean War, but they kept that to themselves as good soldiers should.
‘Sir, I will lead my company with the knowledge that I must uphold the regiment’s sterling reputation,’ Ian replied tactfully. From the
dark expression on Jenkins’ face, he suspected that his commanding officer was angrier about this potential opportunity for Ian to bolster his already glorious reputation than he was about being left out of the coming battle – about which Jenkins, in his cowardice, was probably quite relieved.
‘I cannot understand why General Outram would specifically request your services when we both know that you are not a true representative of the gentlemen officers I have in my command, Captain Forbes. I was sorely tempted to inform the general of your poor performance as a company commander.’
‘Sir, it does not fall to humble soldiers to question a general’s orders,’ Ian said, and received a glare from the man he knew was using his self-purchased commission to further his prospects of a political career in England. It had been ever thus since the days of the Roman armies, Ian thought.
‘You are dismissed, Captain Forbes. You are to join with General Outram’s expedition within forty-eight hours.’
Ian came to attention and saluted Jenkins who, once again, did not return the salute. But Ian felt that nothing else mattered except to join the continuing war in this ancient biblical land.
His first stop was the quarters of his four junior officers to inform them of their new mission. They in turn summoned their sergeants and with them came acting company sergeant major, Sergeant Conan Curry.
‘It’s on,’ Ian said, and a broad smile spread across Conan’s face.
‘Sir, is the regiment going with General Outram?’ Conan asked.
‘No, just our company,’ Ian replied. ‘The regiment remains at Bushehr.’
Conan grinned again. ‘It pays to save the odd general from time to time.’
‘Paddy, it certainly does,’ Ian replied, using Conan’s company nickname. ‘I want you to assemble the company on our parade ground within the hour and I will announce the good news.’
‘Sah!’ Conan replied with a smart salute. ‘The men will be happy to hear they will be earning the Queen’s shilling.’
Conan hurried away, bawling to the men in their quarters to fall out with arms, whilst Ian glowed with a feeling of deep satisfaction. It was rumoured that the small war was near an end, and he wanted to see the last battle before they returned to their barracks in London. This was the life he had chosen. But as Ian packed his kit for the expedition, the same old fear nagged at him: would he prove to be the leader his men expected?
*
Dr Peter Campbell stared at the beautiful sapphire pendant his wife held in her hands.
‘You must return it,’ he said with a frown.
‘It was a gift from the Khan in recognition of my killing the tiger,’ Alice protested. ‘It is not the monetary value of the gift that I care about but what it symbolises.’
Peter had barely returned to the gates of Murshidabad before he had been regaled by stories of how Alice had single-handedly shot a large tiger. Even now the tiger’s magnificent pelt was being prepared by the Indian prince’s staff to be presented to her.
The couple stood in the garden of Scott’s villa. Beside them a fountain trickled water into a pond covered with colourful lilies.
‘I trusted Scott to keep you safe whilst I was away,’ Peter said bitterly, ‘and what did he do? He took you into the jungle to hunt tigers and you were almost killed.’
‘It was not Scott’s fault,’ Alice countered. ‘I was missing you, and it was boring being left alone here. What occurred on the hunt is the most exciting thing that has ever happened in my life! For a moment when the tiger attacked I felt both desperate fear and absolute exhilaration. I think that I now know how you must have felt during those battles in the Crimea.’
‘I never experienced exhilaration,’ Peter said. ‘Just fear – and helplessness when I could not save all the soldiers who came across my operating table. There is something unnatural in what you are saying.’
Alice strode away to slump on a divan. ‘I have only ever known the mundane life of an Englishwoman and suddenly I find myself in a world of strange sights, sounds and smells. It is exciting and even wondrous to me. I am truly happy we came because when we return to London I will once again have to assume the stuffy and boring life of an English matron.’
Peter stood staring at his wife and felt a surge of love for her. She looked so vulnerable and yet had proved her steely courage under the direst of circumstances. He walked over to her, knelt down and took her hands in his own.
‘I will tell our children when they are playing on your tiger-skin rug how their mother shot a ferocious man-eater in the wild jungles of India.’ Peter kissed his wife’s hands. In spite of his misgivings about the tiger hunt he was starting to realise that this woman was a diamond with many facets.
‘Ah, how romantic,’ Scott said, entering the garden in his uniform of red coat, tight white trousers and knee-length boots. A sword dangled from the belt around his waist.
Peter rose to greet his brother. ‘You put my wife’s life in danger,’ he growled. ‘I ought to give you a thrashing.’
Scott came to a stop paces away, a tight smile on his face. ‘If I remember correctly, when we were younger I gave you the thrashing of your life. I would take you up on the offer, except I have been recalled to duty and do not have the time. Two of my colleagues at the Barrackpore barracks have been wounded by the sepoys there. This mess about the cartridges is getting out of hand, and it appears we will have to disband the native infantry unit until they execute the ringleaders of the mutiny.’
‘Will you be in danger if you go?’ Alice asked, rising from the divan.
Scott turned to her. ‘My dear Alice, it is touching that a beautiful woman would be concerned for my welfare, but I can assure you that this is not the first time I have had to face down rebellious natives.’
Peter’s anger was spent when he considered Alice’s concern for his brother’s safety. There had always been a fierce competition between the two brothers, but there was also a deep love. He would not wish his brother to be harmed in any way.
‘Go safely,’ Peter said gruffly and Scott grinned.
‘I go knowing that Alice is safe in your care, little brother,’ Scott said, and turned to walk away into the house. Peter suspected something facetious in his brother’s departing remark and glanced at Alice, whose face reflected nothing but genuine concern for her brother-in-law.
‘Do you find my brother attractive?’ Peter blurted, startling Alice.
‘Goodness, Peter, he is your brother,’ she replied. ‘It is you I find attractive, and he is almost your opposite. You are a good man, a healer of the sick and poor. I think your brother is what might be described as a cad. It is you who I love.’
‘I am sorry, that was a stupid question,’ Peter mumbled, and Alice placed her hand gently on his cheek.
‘Do I sense a little jealousy?’ she asked. ‘If I do, then I can tell you that your thoughts are misguided. I am the proud and loving wife of Dr Peter Campbell.’
Even so, Peter could not shake off his distrust of his brother. He tried to banish from his mind the dark thought of an affair between the two people he most loved in the world.
*
Ian gazed at the riverbanks covered in thick groves of dates, beyond which was a desolate land of arid desert. The warship conveying them upriver flew colourful signal flags and the blue-coated Indian sailors worked quietly and efficiently. On the deck of the steamer stood Ian’s company of around eighty men watching the shore drift by.
Now and then herds of cattle were seen on the shoreline, along with native herdsmen. The river was only about three hundred yards wide and Ian wondered nervously why the Persians had not chosen to set up ambushes on this narrow strip of water. A fusillade of fire could sweep the deck clean of his infantrymen.
Orders were issued before nightfall and Ian understood what he must do when they encountered the Persian river defences upstream. He
tried to repress the bloody memories of hand-to-hand fighting in the Crimea, praying that the Enfield rifled muskets would do the job of defeating the enemy from a distance as they stormed ashore.
It was just on nightfall that the expedition observed the Persians throwing up earthen berms to provide cover for two artillery field guns. But an accompanying British ship commenced firing its guns at the Persian artillery, and the explosions indicated the devastating effect of the ship’s fire. When the smoke cleared, the men could see the shattered bodies of the Persian gunners and others fleeing to safety.
Night fell without any further disturbance and a party of engineer officers used the dark to make a reconnaissance of the Persian defences. They were accompanied by a raft towed into the channel on the far side of a low, swampy island. On the rafts were two eight-inch mortars and two five-inch mortars.
Ian spent the early evening smoking his pipe and sharing his small stock of brandy with his junior officers. Sergeant Curry moved amongst the soldiers, sharing a quick nip of rum, joking and generally reassuring the men that the following day it would be Persians – and not Englishmen – who would die. The eve of a battle was a time for reflection on the meaning of what could be a short life with a violent end.
When his officers made their way back to their respective men, Ian lay down on the deck to stare at the star-filled night sky. The difference in the constellations of the northern hemisphere was something he was growing used to, but he missed the reassuring set of stars so well known in New South Wales as the Southern Cross. He dozed off with his rifled musket by his side and his two pistols. Through the darkness came the whispers of soldiers unable to sleep, and the sound of a mouth organ playing a mournful tune. Ian slipped into a deep sleep, although it was racked by nightmares of exploding Russian artillery shells and the screams of the dying.