The Queen's Tiger

by Peter Watt

  Scott was reassured by this news but shocked by the extent of the rapidly spreading massacre of the European civilians in Meerut. He strained to hear the sound of rescuers arriving, but there was no sound except the roar of fires and the blood-curdling shouts of the rampaging mobs.

  ‘That poor woman,’ Alice said. In such a small space it had been impossible not to overhear the sepoy’s report. ‘Murdered with her baby still inside her.’

  ‘We are still alive,’ Peter said. ‘And help is sure to come.’

  ‘There is something I was going to tell you this evening, but matters changed all that,’ Alice whispered, looking up into Peter’s face. ‘I think I am with child.’

  Peter’s first thought was that in the midst of death came life. He was both overjoyed and deeply fearful of their fate.

  Eleven

  He was a portly middle-aged man with watery eyes, clean-shaven save for a neat moustache. Charles Forbes sat in the modest office in London and wondered if this man, the subject of a short essay by Charles Dickens titled, On Duty with Inspector Field, was as good as many said. The retired head of detectives from the Metropolitan Police was now a private investigator and, it was said, not much liked by his former employer.

  ‘Inspector, I have a case for you,’ Charles said, and the man on the other side of the desk lifted his corpulent forefinger.

  ‘Mr Forbes, I am no longer an inspector. You can call me Mr Field,’ Charles Field replied in a gravelly voice.

  ‘Mr Field, I am prepared to pay generously for your services in tracking down a man who goes by the name of Ian Steele,’ Charles said.

  ‘Does this man owe you money, Mr Forbes?’ asked the famed former police detective.

  ‘No, but I think he is involved in some kind of fraud against my family. I am not sure of the details, but I feel that if you are able to locate him, all will be revealed. As far as I can ascertain, this Mr Steele was staying at a private gentlemen’s club on Pall Mall and has since disappeared. My informant told me he was in company with another man of his age who has an American accent. The two seem to be travelling together.’

  ‘Do you have a description of this Mr Steele?’ Field asked.

  Charles reached into his pocket and produced a photograph of Samuel and Herbert standing side by side in their best dress regimental uniforms, hands resting on sword hilts. It had been taken in a studio at Alice’s insistence. Charles had taken the photograph of the two grim-faced men from its frame and now he handed it to the private investigator.

  ‘Which one is Mr Steele?’ Field asked, staring at the photo.

  ‘This is the queer bit,’ Charles said. ‘The man on the right is supposed to be my brother, Captain Samuel Forbes, but he is identical to the man purporting to be Mr Steele.’

  Field looked sharply at Charles as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you think this man in the photo may be an imposter?’

  ‘Mr Field, I cannot be certain, but there is a strong possibility. If so, it has grave implications for the Forbes name. I trust that my generous fee for your services will also buy complete confidentiality.’

  ‘I am aware of your family’s social position, Mr Forbes. This is a delicate matter, not least because your father has a seat in the House of Lords. Who is the younger man in the photograph?’

  ‘He was my youngest brother, Herbert, who was tragically killed in the battle for Sebastopol.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Mr Forbes. He looks like a fine young gentleman.’

  Charles nodded and pretended to look sorrowful for his brother’s death.

  ‘How will you track down this Ian Steele?’ Charles asked.

  ‘I have an assistant, Mr Ignatius Pollacky, known to most in the business as Paddington Pollacky. Between us we will find this Mr Steele. I will require a gesture of good faith from you before we commence our investigation, Mr Forbes.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Charles said, and placed a small pile of paper currency on the private investigator’s desk.

  ‘Very generous,’ Field said, counting the notes. ‘I can assure you your money has been wisely invested.’

  *

  Charles Field had once aspired to be an actor on the stage, and as such used acting skills and disguises to pursue his role as a private inspector. The doorman at the gentlemen’s club nominated by Charles Forbes did not question the portly well-dressed man with the expensive top hat and cane.

  ‘I am seeking the whereabouts of a dear friend, a Mr Steele, who informed me that he was staying here,’ Field said.

  ‘I am afraid Mr Steele and his American friend booked out of the club some days ago,’ the doorman replied.

  ‘Damn!’ Field said. ‘I was to pass on an amount of cash for him for his stay in London.’ Field reached into his pocket, producing a pound note. ‘It is important that I locate Mr Steele as he may find himself short on funds.’ Field passed the pound note to the doorman, whose face lit up with surprise and greed. He took the note and quickly pocketed it.

  ‘I am afraid that Mr Steele did not leave a forwarding address, but I do know that he will return to pick up his mail very soon.’

  ‘How soon?’ Field asked.

  ‘I am unable to say,’ the doorman said. ‘Could I contact you once he returns?’

  Field frowned. He knew that he could stake out the club, but that would require him and Pollacky doing long shifts. ‘Are you able to send someone to inform me the moment Mr Steele arrives and possibly find an excuse to keep him here?’ Field asked, peeling off another pound note.

  ‘I can do that, sir,’ the doorman said.

  Field presented him with a card inscribed with his office address. He was not mistaken in the look of avarice in the doorman’s eyes and he knew the man would comply with his request. Mr Steele was as good as found.

  *

  It was just after midnight and a relief force had still not arrived. Scott consulted with Lieutenant Craigie and it was decided that they would have to get the women out of this dire situation. A mob of mutineers and their civilian supporters were gathering outside the shrine. Being besieged was not an option for the Canadian officer of the East India Company, and already a handful of the supposed faithful troopers had deserted.

  Earlier, Scott had noticed a carriage nearby that was still intact, its horse in harness. That was their best hope.

  ‘We need to get as far from here as possible and head north towards our outlying picquet lines,’ Scott said. ‘Peter will go in the carriage with you two ladies, and he will be armed. Mr Craigie and I will ride escort beside the carriage.’

  None disagreed with the desperate plan as they all realised that if they did not escape under the cover of darkness, they would likely not escape at all.

  When the carriage was secured Alice and Mrs Craigie stepped into it, Alice carrying one loaded shotgun whilst Peter held another. They could smell the acrid smoke and hear the crackling of the burning buildings. The few remaining loyal troopers formed a column of ten men behind the carriage and Scott and Lieutenant Craigie took up positions either side of it, their swords drawn.

  They were ready to move when a large group of civilians surged out of the darkness, brandishing clubs and ancient curved swords. They were accompanied by a handful of mutinous cavalrymen. Scott could see the mob hesitate when they saw that the Europeans were defended by a column of troopers.

  ‘Charge!’ Scott yelled, and the native soldier assigned as carriage driver whipped the horse into a fast trot as the loyal troopers screamed war cries. The mob scattered as the carriage came on at full speed, and the cavalrymen slashing with their sabres swept through those members of the mob who had been slow to retreat.

  Scott led his party out of the gates of the European compound until they came to an open plain, which to their relief was deserted. The carriage slowed, as did the horsemen accompanying it.

  ‘A
port fire!’ Mr Craigie said when a faint light was seen in the distance. Both officers recognised it as the signal light used by the British army to indicate a small bridge over a gully.

  ‘We will need to be very careful,’ Scott said. ‘If it is our men, they will be suspicious of our approach. You and I will go first.’

  The two men kicked their mounts into a gallop and screamed at the top of their voices, ‘Friend! Friend!’

  They came to a stop before the bridge and could see an artillery cannon covering the route they had come from. Beside the artillery piece was a subaltern who recognised the two riders.

  ‘Thank God you identified yourselves,’ he said as Scott dismounted. ‘I was on the verge of giving the order to fire at your party.’

  ‘I am glad you kept your head, then,’ Scott said. ‘I will have my party join you. We have women and a few sepoys who have remained loyal.’ He looked around and even in the dark could see the faces of British troops. Scott knew that for the moment they would be safe in the British lines north of Meerut. The sun was yet to rise and what lay ahead was an unknown.

  Peter helped Alice and Mrs Craigie from the carriage and they were ushered to a small hut not far from the bridge where the women could sleep overnight.

  ‘I have not had the opportunity to say how happy I am at your news,’ Peter said, holding Alice’s hand. ‘Now I have two people to protect.’ He would have loved to hold his wife in his arms, but public demonstrations of affection were not the done thing. Instead, he gave her a peck on the cheek before she entered the hut.

  Peter left Alice and joined his brother in animated conversation with an officer of Scott’s own rank.

  ‘Why the devil did we not pursue the mutineers on their way to Delhi?’ Scott was demanding. ‘We have the men and guns to teach them a lesson before they get themselves organised.’

  ‘I am of the same opinion,’ the other officer said. ‘But the general’s orders are to remain here and gather our forces.’

  Peter could see that Scott was fuming. His once clean uniform was covered in black soot and partly torn at the shoulder. Scott shook his head and the other major walked away.

  ‘Not good news,’ Peter said.

  ‘Not good news,’ Scott sighed. ‘We have also learned that many from our compound fled before the mutineers marching to Delhi. In my opinion it is our duty to mount a rescue of any British survivors. If I am able to get permission, I would value your service with us, although it will mean leaving Alice.’

  ‘Of course, brother, I would gladly be of service,’ Peter said. ‘I am sure that Alice will be safe here, and I will explain the situation in the morning.’

  ‘Please be careful,’ Alice pleaded with him the next day, touching his unshaven face with her hand. ‘Remember, you have two of us to return to.’

  When Peter looked at his wife he was almost overwhelmed with love for her. He understood now that she and the baby growing inside her were the centre of his universe. Yet he knew that he had a duty to others with his skills as a healer.

  Peter swung himself onto the mount that had been prepared for him. A rudimentary medical kit had been put together from scrounged instruments, whilst his shotgun had been slipped into a carbine case attached to the saddle. Scott’s force numbered around fifty mixed British and Indian troopers and included Lieutenant Craigie. They prepared to ride south towards Delhi in a possible rescue mission.

  Alice waved to Peter as he rode away and he wondered with a heavy heart whether this would be the last time he saw the angelic face of his beloved wife.

  On the first day they passed through several villages, and each time they received a sullen reception from the locals. At the second village one of the less hostile inhabitants quietly sidled up to Scott, informing him that a large party of Europeans had fled south through their village. There were both men and women who had escaped the massacre at the compound. There were also some men in military uniform who had acted as protection to the party of escapees.

  On the eve of the second day the rescue party reached a mud-walled town with a big wooden gate barred to them. Scott knew he and his men were wearing the same grey uniforms as the mutineers, and he suspected the villagers feared they were the deserting East India troops wishing to enter in order to loot, rape and kill.

  Scott, Peter and Lieutenant Craigie rode up to the gate. When the faces observing them from a parapet registered that they were European, their expressions changed from fear to relief. The gate was swung open and the trio were led to a mud-brick house that was the home of the town headman.

  An old bearded man sat in a chair out the front of the house, an ancient firelock musket across his lap. Lieutenant Craigie addressed him in the dialect of the region, and he responded.

  ‘What did he say?’ Scott asked.

  ‘He bids us welcome and says that amongst his people, he has hidden those who escaped from Meerut. He has sent someone to fetch them and reassure them that help has come.’

  In minutes bedraggled men and women appeared from the various houses, cheering at the sight of the three rescuers. Amongst them were the wives of officers, some of whom had been killed during the initial stages of the mutiny. Scott also recognised a couple of fellow officers, and even a colonel.

  Oxcarts were organised for transport of the civilians back to the British lines north of Meerut, and Scott ensured that the town’s headman was paid for supplying the carts and oxen, as well as food for the travellers and grain for the oxen. Just after dark, they moved out of the town, the cavalrymen riding on the flanks and in front to prevent any attack. By the next evening they arrived and were directed back to Meerut, which had been recaptured, and temporary accommodation erected to house the survivors.

  Peter flung himself off his horse, searching for Alice to tell her that he had returned, safe and well. He was directed to a semi-burned house in the compound where an Indian servant girl with a worried face greeted him. She spoke some English and as Peter was about to step inside, she stopped him.

  ‘I sorry, Doctor,’ she said with tears welling in her eyes. ‘The mistress sick. She lose baby.’

  With a feeling of dread Peter stepped inside to find Alice lying on a small bed, deathly pale, her skin clammy.

  ‘Oh, Peter, I am so sorry,’ she said, breaking into a sob. ‘Our darling baby is gone.’

  Peter fell to his knees beside the bed, gripping his wife’s hand. He looked closely at Alice’s face and his grief for their loss was worsened when he saw something else in her face. As a medical practitioner he had seen it many times before.

  Alice was in the deadly grip of cholera.

  Twelve

  It was the last month of springtime in London and the weather was warming. Ian spent most of his time at the regimental barracks overseeing the training of his company, although he knew the tradition of allowing the senior non-commissioned officers to look to the routine of managing the troops. His company, however, had come to learn he was an officer who took seriously his role as their leader, and although his training was rigorous, they also knew he cared for them. That endeared the Colonial to them.

  It was the end of the day at the barracks and Ian prepared himself to return to his club for the evening. He was in his dress uniform when he took the salute at the gates of the regiment and walked onto the busy street outside.

  Ian had hardly taken a step beyond the gates when he felt his heart skip a beat.

  Ella!

  The beautiful young woman stood smiling uncertainly at him as she held a parasol above her head. Behind her was an expensive covered coach drawn by two fine horses, a well-dressed driver on the seat.

  ‘Hello, Samuel,’ she said.

  ‘I was told by your father that you were in America,’ Ian said, hardly believing his eyes or trusting his feelings. ‘How is it that you are here?’

  ‘I was rejected by the medical s
chools in New York,’ Ella replied, ‘so I have returned home to London.’

  ‘It is good to see you, but you have my sympathy for your failure to obtain a place in medicine. I know how much it meant to you. I am truly sorry,’ Ian said. ‘How did you know to meet me here?’

  ‘It was not hard,’ Ella said with a laugh, and Ian thought he was hearing the sound of an angel. ‘People have said that you are an officer who spends his time with his men. So I am here, Captain Forbes . . . Samuel.’

  ‘I am at a loss for words,’ Ian said gently, fighting off an almost overwhelming desire to take her in his arms.

  ‘I thought we might take tea at that little shop where we used to meet,’ Ella said. ‘My carriage can take us there.’

  ‘You can tell me all about your adventures in New York,’ Ian said, taking her arm.

  He assisted her into the carriage and took a seat beside her. The simple fact that he could smell her perfume and knew that mere cloth separated their bodies caused him rich and complex feelings. He felt like a young man again, full of hope and possibility.

  Both remained silent during the short trip to the fashionable street of coffee shops and milliners. It was as if they were happy simply to be in each other’s company.

  The tea shop was almost empty. Ian ordered tea for two and sat down opposite Ella. She reached across the linen-covered table and took his hands in her own. Ian knew that this was the time to explain that as delighted as he was to see her, there could be no future for them. But her large eyes were gazing into his own and he suddenly forgot all logical reasons for restraining his feelings for her. He knew he could easily fall in love with this woman almost a decade younger than he.

  ‘I could never forget you, Samuel,’ Ella said. ‘Even in New York I would think about you day and night. I would dream that I was in your arms and that we were planning a life together.’