by Peter Watt
The bell on the steamer tolled the time, as was the naval tradition.
‘Funny how you think about those you love just before a battle,’ Conan reflected as he puffed on his pipe. ‘I suppose it is somewhat selfish to do what we do. If we fall, we leave the living to continue without us.’
‘From what I have heard of Molly’s business she will not be destitute,’ Ian consoled. ‘But we aren’t going to fall in battle tomorrow. It will be the other bugger.’ He sighed. ‘Right, it’s probably time to get some sleep.’
Both men tapped their pipes on the boat’s railing, watching the sparks of dying tobacco fall into the dark waters of the river.
Neither slept well that night on the deck under the Persian stars. Ian could hear the worried, whispered conversations of his company around him, and he understood their fears. Eventually, sleep came, but with it the endless nightmares of the Crimea as men were blown into scraps of bloody meat by the Russian artillery and bodies shattered by the hail of musket balls.
*
It was early dawn and the British flotilla steamed to within three thousand yards of the Persian defences, partly screened by a low range of sandhills. Three enemy artillery guns were seen positioned near a small mosque. Persian cavalry galloped along the bank, observing the flotilla.
Some Arabs hailed the war steamers from the bank and they were taken aboard. It was well known that the Arabs had no love for their Persian occupiers. They informed the British high command that the force opposing them only consisted of around five hundred infantry and thirty cavalry, tasked with the protection of Persian army stores. It came as a pleasant surprise to the British force but also a caution that the enemy’s main strength was somewhere ahead of the advance. It was decided that the town on the opposite bank should be taken as soon as possible as this would ensure the landing force was out of range of the deadly Persian artillery. As such, one of the gunboats was tasked to engage the enemy guns.
Again, Ian gave the order to fix bayonets, and his company was landed midmorning. The order came down that his best men were to be deployed as skirmishers, leading the files of Scottish Highlanders into the town. The order to the troops was to destroy any enemy supplies they encountered. In the distance Ian could hear the explosions of the artillery duel between gunboat and on-shore Persian artillery.
Ian, with the bulk of his company, followed his skirmishers, ever alert to any possible resistance from enemy snipers. They did not see any civilians on the streets and alleyways, which were bordered by miserable stone and mud hovels, and Ian guessed they had wisely remained indoors. But it appeared after some time that the town was undefended.
‘Sir! Sir!’ A young officer from Brigadier Havelock’s brigade staff hurried towards Ian, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Compliments of the brigadier. He wishes all his officers to know that the Persian commander has surrendered.’
‘Why in bloody hell would they cede to us when they have the advantage of numbers and arms?’ Ian frowned. ‘Is it some kind of trick?’
‘From what I have heard, the sheik has bad memories of our bombardment back at Mohammerah, and is under the impression that our expeditionary force is merely the vanguard of a much larger force,’ the young officer replied with a smile. ‘It appears that his army has chosen to retreat another hundred miles to Shuster. The brigadier has also issued an order that none of the private homes in the town are to be looted.’
Ian passed on the order to his company and retired to the riverbank as the Scots continued guarding the town and searching for supplies. He and his men watched the vast Persian army marching away. They had no provisions and had chosen starvation over confronting the numerically smaller Anglo-Indian force.
The Persian cavalrymen numbered around two thousand and wore the distinctive black lamb-skin cap. They wore long blue robes, lighter coloured trousers and a white belt. Each cavalryman carried a sabre, with a matchlock musket slung across his back. They appeared to Ian to be a formidable enemy and he shook his head in disbelief at their retreat.
Suddenly a musket shot broke the silence and Ian saw that one of the cavalrymen had concealed himself as his unit retreated. The shot was wild and fired towards the town before he leapt on his mount and galloped away to join his squadron.
‘At least one of the buggers made a stand,’ Conan chuckled. ‘I think the boys are pleased that they did not bloody their bayonets.’
‘So am I,’ Ian said. ‘The best kind of war is one where no one gets killed – except for the foe. But you can bet we will get back on the boats and steam after them. Sooner or later it will have to come down to a bloody confrontation.’
However, orders were issued to regain law and order in the town as the Arab occupants fought each other for the Persian stores that had not been destroyed by the British troops. Conan grumbled that they were not acting as fighting troops but as policemen.
Ian and his company of men camped outside the town, awaiting further orders. From here they could see the snow-topped Bakhtiari Mountains a hundred miles away rising above the arid desert lands.
A day later Ian and his company boarded the warships and steamed back downstream to Mohammerah, where a fully functioning city of army tents awaited them a mile from the town on the vast plain. The returning men were also provided with the welcome news that a peace treaty had been signed in Paris, bringing to an end the small but decisive war with the Persian empire. Ian’s company was to re-join the regiment and return to England.
A translated copy of the Tehran Gazette provided some amusement to the soldiers before they departed. The version published for the local population proclaimed that the British army had suffered terrible casualties in their encounters with the Persian forces along the river; in fact the British had been soundly defeated.
Conan found a copy of the newspaper, tore it up and wandered off in search of privacy to put the paper to good use.
*
In the sumptuous villa of Major Scott Campbell, the tension grew between Alice and Peter. Very few words passed between them but their schism continued in relative privacy as Scott was often away dealing with the ongoing unrest amongst the sepoy troops.
Peter spent the days tending to the local people. He had set up a clinic to treat the many exotic diseases and injuries presented by the people who waited for him in long lines. His reputation as a healer spread, and he received the gratitude of the poverty-stricken populace.
One evening in April Scott returned home to inform Alice and Peter that he was being posted west to a Bengali regiment at a place called Meerut near the city of Delhi.
‘I think you should both travel with my squadron,’ Scott said, pouring himself a large whisky from a crystal decanter. ‘After all, you have seen so little of the country.’
Alice frowned. She would prefer to depart India and return to England. She could sense the hostile glares of the people on the streets whenever she travelled to and from Scott’s residence to the houses of other Europeans. She felt that she was living on the slopes of a dormant volcano rumbling its warning of an imminent eruption.
‘Alice and I intend to return to the coast and take a steamer back to England,’ Peter said, and Alice glanced at her husband, pleased to hear him express her wishes.
‘I have an ulterior motive, old chap,’ Scott said. ‘We could do with a battle-experienced surgeon to accompany us to Meerut. I feel there may be some unrest amongst the natives and I know that you will be safer with me rather than risking a journey to the coast by yourselves. It will only be until we settle this matter with our sepoys, then things will get back to normal and it will be safe to travel again.’
‘Is it that bad?’ Alice asked quietly.
Scott turned to her. ‘I do not wish to alarm you, but we need time to get the situation under control. In the past a few rabble-rousers have attempted to stir up trouble and the East India Company has quelled it.
’
Peter turned to his wife. ‘What do you think?’ he asked gently, and Alice felt a surge of love for the man who had in recent weeks avoided her.
‘I will let you decide, Peter,’ she replied.
For a long moment Peter pondered his decision. ‘I accept the opportunity Scott has offered us to see more of India. It is not worth the risk of returning to the coast until the Company has ended the unrest.’
Scott swallowed the last of the whisky and held out his hand to Peter. ‘Good show, old chap. I promise our journey will reveal to you both the real India, the one so many in England only read about. It will be an adventure, and you will always be safe around my men and I.’
Alice gave a wan smile, and Peter reached for the decanter of whisky to pour himself a stiff drink.
‘I have to return to the barracks but will inform the commander and have extra provisions made for you both. I must apologise that we will not be able to take a carriage but we will provide good horses for your journey. We leave within forty-eight hours.’
When Scott had departed, Alice went to Peter. ‘You were gracious enough to ask my opinion on whether to leave now or later,’ she said. ‘You must know that I am your wife and love you more than any other man in the world. No matter your decision I would have happily agreed.’
Peter did not reply but took a long sip of the fiery liquid as Alice walked to their bedroom, which she had not shared with her husband for some time.
He watched her leave and pondered her words and actions. He placed the stopper back in the decanter, leaving his almost full glass, and followed her. It was time to swallow his self-righteous pride and ask forgiveness for his unfounded jealousy.
Seven
Back in Bushehr Ian delivered his report of the river campaign to regimental HQ where it was read by his commanding officer, Colonel Jenkins.
Ian stood at attention while Jenkins finished reading the report.
‘So, you brought no glory to the regiment,’ Jenkins scowled.
‘We gained a lot of experience for the regiment,’ Ian replied. ‘Of more importance is that we did not lose any men to enemy action.’
‘We have been ordered to return to England,’ Jenkins said. ‘According to regimental records you are due a month’s leave, and tomorrow you are to report to General Outram’s HQ before we depart. God knows why when you have done nothing of any significance with Havelock’s brigade.’
Ian guessed that the general was simply going to thank him for his command of the rifle company on the river expedition. When he looked into the face of his commanding officer he saw the bitterness of being left out. After all, unlike the earlier clashes of the Anglo-Indian forces who first arrived in this war and saw bloody action, this expedition had proved relatively safe, and Ian knew from past experience that this would have suited Jenkins well. A chance for glory without the danger.
‘You may go, Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins growled, and Ian stepped back, saluted and left the regimental commander stewing in his anger and resentment.
The next day Ian reported to General Outram’s HQ, one of the better buildings in Bushehr.
‘Captain Forbes, please be at ease and take a seat,’ the general said kindly. ‘I wanted you to know that your service with my expeditionary force and the way you led your company were exemplary. I must admit that I am bitterly disappointed the Persians did not stand and fight. I would have liked to have shown them the truth worth of British arms.’
‘By simply being on the battlefield we succeeded in winning the war, sir. And that, I believe, is the prime reason for our existence,’ Ian said.
The general smiled. ‘You sound more like a damned politician than a soldier, Captain Forbes. But I have another reason for summoning you here. This correspondence has been sent to me from London concerning one of your men, a Sergeant Curry.’ Ian took the sheet of paper with the royal coat of arms embossed on it and read the few words written there. Ian’s eyes widened and he let out a small gasp.
‘Do you concur with the elements of the letter, Captain Forbes?’ the general asked.
‘I most certainly do, sir,’ Ian replied, passing back the sheet of paper.
‘Then as Sergeant Curry is currently still under my command, it is done, and I think I do not have to tell you that the contents of the letter remain a secret between us until the appropriate time.’
A faint smile passed across Ian’s face. ‘Sir, I completely agree, and thank you.’
‘Sergeant Curry should be thanking you, Captain Forbes, as it was you who submitted the original report.’
‘Sergeant Curry is a fine soldier and deserves what he has won,’ Ian said.
‘Before you return to your regiment I want you to know that my offer of a place on my staff will always stand. I am returning to India after this rather unsatisfactory campaign and expect to see some real soldiering there.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Ian said respectfully. ‘I am honoured that you would want me on your staff.’
‘You are free to leave now,’ General Outram said, and Ian stepped back, snapped the best salute he could muster, and marched out of the office with the words of the report swirling in his head. He knew that what was to occur in England would change Conan Curry’s life forever.
*
It had taken just over two weeks to journey across the Atlantic Ocean by steamship from New York in the United States of America to Liverpool on the west coast of England. The real Samuel Forbes and his friend, James Thorpe, had travelled in style as befitted their wealth – or rather, James’ wealth. After disembarkation they travelled by coach and steam train to London, where Samuel travelled under the assumed guise of Ian Steele, English traveller and man of means.
At the end of their long trip a coach brought them to a respectable gentlemen’s club on London’s Pall Mall.
‘I feel that you have made a bad choice in returning to London,’ James said fretfully as a porter unloaded their luggage. ‘What if you are recognised?’
‘Do not worry, my dear James, it has been so long since I was last in England that I cannot think of anyone who would recognise the callow youth who left these shores so long ago. I doubt anyone would ever remember me from my time in England.’
‘According to your friend Jonathan, Captain Forbes is campaigning in Persia,’ James said as they followed the porter into the expensive club. James had telegraphed ahead from New York to make reservations, and when they entered he was impressed by the elegance of the interior. ‘But from what is printed in The Times it appears he will be returning soon as a treaty has been signed over the issue of Persian territorial claims in Afghanistan. I still think it is extremely risky for you two to meet in person.’
‘I doubt that we look very much alike now, dear boy,’ Samuel said. ‘The risk is minimal.’
James was not reassured and had an uneasy feeling as they were ushered to separate rooms, elegantly laid out for visiting men of substance. They met later in the dining room where they were surrounded by many of London’s most notable and wealthy merchants vying for a way into the ranks of the English aristocracy. James was further impressed by the decor and the dining room. They were shown to a table laid out with a white linen cloth and fine cutlery.
James perused the menu carefully. ‘The meals here seem to reflect a certain amount of good taste,’ he said, looking around. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing over Samuel’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know if you are aware but a gentleman at the other end of the room seems to be watching us with more than the usual amount of interest. As a matter of fact, he is leaving his table to approach us.’
Samuel blanched. Who could ever recognise him after all this time? He’d been so sure he would go unnoticed.
‘Mr Forbes, it has been a long time since we both served in New Zealand with the regiment,’ said the tall man in his early forties, extending his han
d.
Samuel recognised the man immediately. Captain Brooke was one of the commanders he had served under when his regiment had been garrisoned in New South Wales, before its deployment to New Zealand to face the fierce Maori warriors.
‘I must have a rather unusually similar appearance to this Mr Forbes you mention,’ Samuel said, standing and accepting the handshake. ‘But, alas, I fear you have the wrong man. My name is Mr Ian Steele, of New York, sir.’
The tall man frowned. ‘I must say that you bear an uncanny resemblance to an officer I once served with,’ he said. ‘I would dare to say you could pass as his twin. You even sound like him. I apologise for my interruption and will recommend the lamb cutlets if you are new to the club. The lamb comes from Wales.’
The man returned to his table shaking his head, and as Samuel sat down he realised that his hands were trembling.
‘That was damned close,’ James hissed, leaning across the table. ‘I warned you that returning to London was a grave mistake.’
‘I am sure that I was able to convince Captain Brooke I am not the man he thought I was,’ Samuel replied, but James was not convinced. Already he could see another man joining Captain Brooke at his table and Brooke speaking and looking across at them. It was obvious what the subject of their talk was. Samuel had suddenly lost his appetite but knew he could not leave the dining room without first eating as that might raise further suspicion.
The lamb cutlets arrived and they were as good as Captain Brooke had promised. Both Samuel and James ate in relative silence and when the waiter arrived at their table they waved off any further courses. The journey had started on a sour note and Samuel was beginning to think that maybe he should have taken James’ advice and stayed in New York.
*
A military band on the wharf met the troopship as it sailed in from Persia. Rain sleeted down from the grey spring skies of London. The regiment disembarked and the only people waiting to greet the returning soldiers were a few women and children – families of the soldiers. Unlike the farewell for the Crimea, the action in Persia had not attracted the attention of the English public who were used to troopships returning from the minor wars that glued the Empire together.