by Peter Watt
The lancer toppled from his horse, and Scott reached down from his own mount to grip Peter’s outstretched hand.
‘Get on your horse, old boy,’ he yelled above the terrible din of men screaming, horses neighing and the metal clash of swords and sabres.
Despite the pain, Peter dragged himself into the saddle and scooped up the reins. The exhausted British force fell back into a disciplined formation as the remainder of the enemy cavalrymen retreated across the causeway, galloping back to the protection of the great walls of Delhi.
Peter realised how thirsty he was as the dust choked his throat and the adrenaline of battle began to seep away. Even Peter could see there was no sense in pursuing the survivors of the fierce battle. The retreating force still outnumbered them; if they attempted to finish the mission, they would have to file across the causeway, and the enemy might suddenly find the courage to fall into a formation to counter them.
‘How bad is your wound?’ Scott asked, seeing the wet, dark patch on his brother’s left side.
‘I will have to make my examination when we return to our lines,’ Peter grimaced.
Scott gave the order to withdraw, and the weary column fell into a march after reclaiming their own wounded from the battlefield. Within the hour, Peter sat in his tent with his blood-soaked jacket on a chair beside him. Alice was fighting back her tears while chiding her husband at the same time.
‘It is not your role to fight like your brother,’ she said, washing the two-sided jagged wound from which blood still oozed. ‘What insanity persuaded you to go with him?’
‘I could see that our plight was desperate, and Scott needed every man he could muster to ward off the attack on the camp. I knew we must stop them from getting to our lines. It was our only hope.’
‘But you are not a soldier. You are a surgeon,’ Alice countered.
‘I wear the uniform of a British officer, albeit without any commissioned rank. I am both soldier and surgeon,’ Peter replied.
Alice reached for a glass bottle of antiseptic and with it swabbed the open wound. The liquid burned and Peter groaned in pain.
‘What do I do now?’ Alice asked, wiping her bloody hands on an apron around her waist.
‘You will have to sew it up,’ Peter answered through gritted teeth. ‘I know that you used to sew when we were in London, so I will leave the choice of stitch to you.’
‘We have no anaesthetic,’ Alice protested.
‘Never mind. Just sew.’
Alice selected a needle that Peter insisted be placed in boiling water. When it had cooled she threaded the needle and began to sew the wound. Peter broke into a sweat but did not utter a word. When the task was completed Alice stood back to admire her work.
‘You have done well,’ Peter said hoarsely, reaching for his bloody shirt and jacket. ‘I could never have imagined in my wildest thoughts that you and I would be spending our honeymoon under the current dire circumstances.’ He reached across to touch his wife on the cheek. ‘I could never have dreamed how very competent and courageous you are. I do not deserve you.’
A wry smile crossed Alice’s face. ‘I doubt the good ladies in London at their tea parties would be entertained by my adventures in India. Many of them would consider me a traitor to our gender.’
‘True, my dear. Ladies do not shoot man-eating tigers, carry guns or act as assistants in surgical operations – let alone sew up their husbands!’
They both laughed.
‘It is time for you to rest, Dr Campbell,’ Alice said sternly. ‘That is an order from a wife who has still not forgiven you for riding out with your reckless brother.’
Peter slid from the bench and took Alice in his arms. ‘Mrs Campbell, I love you just a bit more every time I wake to see a new day.’
*
The troop transport had reached the southern tip of Africa and anchored at Cape Town for supplies.
Colonel Jenkins sat opposite a staff officer of major rank in the sweeping room adorned with the portraits of former governors and a young Queen Victoria at Government House. He was mystified as to why he had been called to this special meeting before the one scheduled for all officers of the expeditionary force steaming for India.
‘Sir, a telegram has been received from the general staff in India,’ the smartly dressed officer said. ‘We have been requested to supply a rifle company in a rescue mission once the force reaches India. It is your regiment that has the honour of supplying that company.’
‘Who is behind the request, Major?’ Jenkins asked, suspicious about why his regiment had been singled out for what was likely a dangerous mission.
‘General Outram, sir,’ the major replied. ‘It appears he is aware of your regiment from the Persian campaign.’
‘Is the mission considered risky?’ Jenkins asked.
‘I must be honest and say it is,’ the major said. ‘It will be deep in territory overrun by the mutineers in the Bengali region. It was decided to risk only a single company should things go wrong in the rescue attempt.’
‘I have an officer who is suited to this request. A captain already known to the general, one Captain Samuel Forbes. I know that Captain Forbes will jump at the opportunity to lead his men into such a venture.’
Jenkins was delighted. The pact he had made with Charles Forbes during the Crimean campaign still stood. It had been settled that if Jenkins could ever place Captain Samuel Forbes in a situation that got him killed, Jenkins would be richly rewarded. But Clive Jenkins did not even need the substantial bounty, as his hatred for the man was such that he’d send him to his death even if he was not to be rewarded. He vividly remembered the slights he had endured when he had been under Samuel Forbes’ command during the Crimean campaign. He grudgingly accepted that Forbes was an outstanding officer, but he was also a living reminder of Jenkins’ own cowardice. One way or the other the captain must die, and here was the perfect opportunity.
‘If that is all, Major, I will inform Captain Forbes of his mission,’ Jenkins said, rising from his chair.
‘There is just one other thing before I pass on detailed instructions, sir,’ the major said, holding a thick package of sealed papers. ‘This mission is considered to be top secret and not to be communicated to anyone else. When Captain Forbes has taken in the contents of the mission, as outlined in these orders, the papers are to be destroyed.’ He passed the package to Jenkins, who smiled warmly. In his hands he held Captain Samuel Forbes’ death warrant.
Sixteen
Ian stood in the cabin of the expeditionary force’s flagship. He saluted Colonel Jenkins who was sitting behind a small desk.
‘Sit down, Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins said, waving to a chair adjacent to the desk. ‘I have summoned you here to discuss a mission assigned to our regiment by General Outram.’
Ian was pleased to hear the name of the British general he greatly admired. Whatever the mission, he knew it must be important. On the table, Ian could see a bulky brown envelope that had been closed with a seal. Jenkins fingered it for a moment, inspecting the seal, then he pushed back his chair and stood, his head almost touching the wooden ceiling of stout ship’s timbers. Both men could feel the motion of the vessel rolling on the southern seas.
‘I have volunteered your company to rescue a very important man to the Empire. He is the Khan of the Bengali district, and he and his family are currently hiding out in a coastal village – as you will see when you examine the documents the general’s HQ has provided. From what is known, the area is heavily infested with mutineers. It will be your job to get the Khan and his family safely to one of our warships, and from there he will be taken to London. The details are in here,’ Jenkins said, and finally handed the sealed packet to Ian. ‘Needless to say our meeting is strictly confidential. At the appropriate time, and not before, you will brief those included in the mission. When we reach port in India, you
and your company will be transferred to another ship bound for the Bengali coast. You will destroy the contents of that packet when you have perused them.’
Jenkins sat down again and busied himself with the papers on his desk. ‘Good luck, Captain Forbes,’ he said without much conviction. ‘If you have any questions, you know where to find me.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Ian replied, then he stood and saluted.
He returned to the cabin he shared with his company second-in-command, Lieutenant Ross Woods, who was a man in his forties without the financial means to purchase a captaincy. He was an experienced officer, however, and Ian was pleased to have him in his company.
Ian opened the envelope and laid the papers on his bunk to examine them in detail. He was reassured to see that he was to confide the mission to his senior NCO and whoever he appointed as his second-in-command for the actual operation ashore. Ian had already decided that employing a few chosen men of his company would be the best way to track down and extract the Khan from India. He knew that he could trust Woods to assume command whilst he and his selected men went ashore.
When Ian was satisfied that he had taken in all the intelligence the report provided, he carefully folded the papers, securing them in a small locker for which only he had a key. He would dispose of them later. Then he made his way to the deck of the ship where he knew he would find his company sergeant major.
‘Sarn’t Major, a good evening to you,’ Ian said, joining Conan at the railing. The seas were calm and fluorescence followed the wake of the steamship.
‘Evening, sah,’ Conan replied, tapping his pipe on the rail. ‘A grand night it is.’
‘You may not think so after what I am about to tell you,’ Ian said. ‘Our old friend, General Outram, is requesting that a company from the regiment carry out a very secret and rather perilous mission when we get to India. Colonel Jenkins has chosen us to undertake that mission.’
‘I am not surprised,’ Conan grinned. ‘Considering how our illustrious colonel would like to see you dead.’
‘That may be so,’ Ian agreed. ‘But it also puts the lives of my men in harm’s way. That includes you. I may have a way to exclude you from the mission.’
‘Sir, you and I will come to blows if you leave me out,’ Conan said with a pained expression. ‘You will need me, and Owen. It’s in our Celtic blood to fight.’
Ian stared at the calm seas under a rising moon and felt humbled by Conan’s willingness to stand by his side. ‘Maybe there will be a way to minimise the risks to the company. I will need time to figure that out. Mr Sinclair will act as my second-in-command in the mission.’
‘Captain Sinclair’s brother?’ Conan queried. ‘He has not seen any action. Do you think he is a wise choice, considering that we lost his brother at the Redan?’
‘I have a feeling Mr Sinclair will acquit himself well,’ Ian replied. ‘He has to start somewhere, and I know if you keep an eye on him he will be as safe as any soldier can be.’
Conan nodded his understanding.
‘I forgot to mention that there is one other very important reason why Mr Sinclair should accompany us,’ Ian added. ‘He speaks the Indian language. According to his record of service, Mr Sinclair studied the language at university before taking his commission. It seems he also had ideas of joining the honourable East India Company but decided on the army when Miles was killed. He is keen to use his language skills when we get to India.’
‘What about Owen?’ Conan asked.
‘Sergeant Williams will remain with the company and assume the temporary role of CSM in your absence,’ Ian said.
‘We will miss his canny knack of finding things that sparkle and gleam,’ Conan chuckled, plugging his pipe with tobacco.
‘Look at it this way,’ Ian said with a wry grin, ‘if we fail and don’t come back, he will get extra pay for your job as the future CSM.’
‘The bastard,’ Conan said without rancour as both men continued to gaze out at the silver path the rising moon cast on the ocean.
*
James reluctantly accompanied Samuel to the Kentish village not far from the Forbes country manor, taking a hired carriage north-east of Dover Port and booking into lodgings on the outskirts of the little community.
The next day Samuel dressed in his best suit and top hat and informed James that he would go to the village church to visit the memorial to his brother, Herbert, who had been killed in the Crimean War. Ian had said that Sir Archibald had commissioned a stained-glass window in honour of his youngest son’s memory.
James expressed his concern but let his love for Samuel silence his fears.
Samuel left in a hired carriage and journeyed the short distance to the church. It was typical of so many English churches, with its graveyard bearing headstones weathered by the years, and a flower garden carefully tended by the parish priest.
Samuel walked towards the arched entry and was startled when a voice said behind him, ‘Good morning, Captain Forbes.’
Samuel turned to see a man dressed in gardening clothes and guessed he was the parish priest. When he did so he noticed a sudden expression of puzzlement on the man’s face.
‘I am afraid that you have mistaken me, sir,’ Samuel said, his heart beating hard in his chest. ‘I am John Wilford from London.’ Samuel used the name on his forged identity papers.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ the Anglican priest said, wiping his hands on a dirty cloth. ‘It is just that you bear an uncanny resemblance to a Captain Samuel Forbes, but I realise that I must be mistaken as the last I heard of Captain Forbes and his regiment was that they had been sent to India to sort out that terrible mutiny. May I offer you a cup of tea? I am Father Ogilvie.’
Samuel felt his heartbeat slow with relief. ‘I thank you for your kind offer of hospitality, Father, but I am a sightseeing visitor to your parish and do not have long to see all the local attractions.’
‘I would hardly describe my church as a tourist attraction,’ Father Ogilvie smiled, ‘but I do have a loyal parish on Sundays for services. Even Captain Forbes’ father, Sir Archibald, attends on a regular basis since the unfortunate death of his youngest son.’
The mention of Sir Archibald’s name caused Samuel a flood of memories of a young man many years earlier left at the gates of a regiment, armed with a commission he never wanted and began to hate when he faced his first battle in New Zealand against the fierce Maori warriors.
‘I believe there is a memorial to Herbert’s death in the church,’ Samuel said.
‘How is it that you know the name of Sir Archibald’s son?’ the priest asked. ‘I thought you were a visitor to our little village.’
Samuel felt the cold sweat of fear when he realised his slip. ‘Oh, I overheard the local people mention it at the tavern,’ he replied, his hands suddenly clammy. He could see that the priest was staring at him, pondering Samuel’s answer.
‘If you accompany me I can show you Herbert Forbes’ memorial window,’ Ogilvie said, and Samuel followed him inside to a large, colourful stained-glass window through which the sun streamed, illuminating a red-coated soldier being taken to heaven by two winged angels. Underneath the glass was written Herbert’s name and the place and year of his death. Samuel gazed with reverence at the expensive window dedicated to his brother.
‘It is certainly impressive,’ Samuel said.
‘Sir Archibald did not spare any expense in having it crafted,’ Ogilvie said. ‘As a matter of fact, he will be arriving here very soon for a meeting with the church council.’
‘Thank you for showing me the memorial window, Father,’ Samuel said, startled by the news of Sir Archibald’s imminent arrival. He was the last person Samuel wished to encounter; his father would not be so easily fooled as the parish priest. ‘I must leave now.’
Samuel walked quickly out of the church, replacing his top hat and striding towar
ds his carriage. He had hardly gone a few steps when the rattle of a second carriage sounded outside the church gate only a few paces away. As Samuel feared, it was a fine carriage drawn by two thoroughbred horses and driven by a uniformed servant. In the open back in a leather seat was a white-haired man with a face flushed red by the summer sun. Beside Sir Archibald sat his eldest son, Charles. Samuel’s first impression was of how old Sir Archibald had grown since he’d last seen him at the gates of the regiment. Samuel prayed that he would reach his carriage before either man noticed him. He was relieved to see that Sir Archibald was being helped from the carriage by Charles, who handed his father a walking stick, ignoring Samuel altogether.
Samuel kept his face down and climbed into the carriage, giving the driver instructions to return to the village immediately. As the driver prepared to depart, Samuel could just make out the conversation between the three men, and felt his blood run cold when he heard Ogilvie remark that he had just had a visitor who bore a remarkable resemblance to Samuel and knew of Herbert. From the corner of his eye, Samuel could see the outstretched arm of the priest pointing to him and Charles turning to stare right at him.
*
The puff of smoke rising from the walls of Delhi heralded a large mortar being fired at the low rise where Scott and Peter stood, facing the formidable city walls.
‘Time to seek cover,’ Scott said and they both stepped behind a large rock. Seconds later the mortar bomb exploded a short distance from them, spattering the rock with red-hot metal and loose stones.
‘They had the right angle but not the right range,’ Scott said, standing and brushing down his uniform. ‘Well, time to return to camp and see if that grain merchant has arrived,’ he decided, striding towards their horses which were grazing on lower ground.
The British operation could not really be called a siege as the British forces were spread around only one area of the city’s walls, and the mutineers were able to have reinforcements arrive elsewhere on a daily basis to fortify the city. The mutineers had concentrated their army within the city’s great walls in an attempt to confront their enemy, and the commanders of the British forces could only wait and pray that reinforcements would arrive before any serious effort to take the city was made.