The Queen's Tiger

by Peter Watt

  ‘My brother will feel safe and secure so far away,’ Charles said. ‘He will not in his wildest imagination think that I can reach across the ocean to him.’

  Field stared at his client and could see the obsession blazing in his eyes. What else was this man capable of? He did not want to reflect on that any further; as a detective inspector he had once hunted murderers. He did not now wish to be employed by one.

  Twenty-seven

  The sound of artillery guns hardly disturbed Alice’s sleep as they fired relentlessly day and night. Her baby had been conceived to the sound of their thunder, although now the gunfire was growing more intensive. Alice came awake under her mosquito net in the early hours of the morning and realised Peter was not beside her. This immediately made her think that something of great importance was occurring. She slipped quickly from the bed and dressed.

  Bugles sounded and Alice could hear that the camp was coming awake with the jangle of saddlery and the neighing and snorting of cavalry horses. Men were shouting orders and outside the tent she could see the flaring lights of burning tapers.

  Scott had informed her weeks earlier that the gunners had been directing a heavy bombardment on the enemy bastions outside the city walls in an effort to neutralise them before the inevitable assault on the city. The guns would also breach the walls, and then it would be up to the engineers, infantry and cavalry to finish the job.

  Last night Alice had watched the columns of East India Company and British troops with their loyal Indian regiments moving out in grim silence. Scott had waved to her and shouted, ‘Cheerio, old girl. Tell my brother I hope I don’t meet him on his operating table.’

  Alice had waved back, his ominous words echoing in her mind. It seemed that, one way or another, the fate of Delhi was in the balance on this day. A cold tremor ran through her and she hurried to the operating tent where she found Peter cleaning his surgical tools in boiling water.

  ‘You should be resting,’ Peter said when he saw her.

  ‘I am not sick, Peter, I am pregnant, and I think you will need me when the sun rises on this day,’ Alice replied firmly, looking to the pile of rags that would become bandages.

  ‘I think you are right,’ Peter said, wiping his wet hands on the apron he wore to absorb the blood. ‘Scott told me that five columns have been organised to attack the city. He said not to worry about him as he was in the third column, acting as a liaison officer for the fifth column, for when the breaches had been made. He assured me that he would be safe. He said that they will be attacking from the north.’

  Alice had grown very fond of her dashing brother-in-law, so different from her quiet husband, and if he was killed she knew she would mourn deeply for his loss.

  ‘I will roll bandages and have tea and chapattis brought to us for breakfast,’ Alice said, and then they fell silent as they prepared for the stream of wounded that would inevitably come once the attack commenced.

  *

  Major Scott Campbell sat astride his mount, frustrated by the delay. The assault had been scheduled for dawn, but the enemy had replaced some of the breaches with sandbags, and the British artillery was once again required to smash the hastily repaired fortifications.

  He watched the first glimmers of the sun’s rays creep above the flat horizon as his column waited behind a former residence of the old Moghul kings a quarter of a mile from the city walls to their south. Scott was not with his squadron, which had remained with the fifth column in reserve. The plan was that once the engineers and infantry had entered the city the cavalry would sweep in behind to help clear the narrow streets and alleyways of any resistance.

  ‘It will be a damned hot day,’ commented an infantry major sitting on his horse beside Scott. ‘And I don’t just mean the weather.’

  The crash of artillery shells slamming into the city appeared to taper away and both men knew what that meant. The sun was now above the horizon and they had a clear view of the walls. Heavy smoke from the guns drifted on a light breeze.

  ‘Well, old chap, this is it for me,’ the British major sighed, dismounting from his horse and handing the reins to an Indian servant.

  Scott also dismounted, disobeying his orders to act in a liaison capacity as he knew there were junior officers who could take this role. He cast about to see a lieutenant, pale faced and trembling.

  ‘Mr Giles, you are now the liaison officer for the fifth column.’

  ‘Sir,’ the startled young officer replied. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You remain in place close to the colonel, and he will direct you to carry orders to the fifth when required,’ Scott said, and could see the expression of relief on the young man’s clean-shaven face. The young officer would not have to go forward in what appeared to be a suicidal attack on the city.

  The infantry major drew both his pistol and sword. Scott, who was not about to be left out of this chance for glory, did so too, although something inside told him that he was a fool.

  ‘Welcome to the infantry, Campbell,’ the infantry major grinned. ‘Not as fancy as being astride a horse, galloping through the enemy ranks.’

  Scott watched as the engineers moved forward to blow the Kashmiri gate open on the city’s north wall. It was an extremely hazardous mission as the British engineer officers and Indian sappers would be under constant fire from the defenders on the wall when they carried the explosives forward. Under a withering fire, the British and Indian engineers were to place four gunpowder charges, reinforced by sandbags, concentrating the blast at the gate. The engineers advanced, and many were wounded or killed in the process of lighting the fuses, but their bravery was rewarded when the explosion demolished the gate.

  Scott waited beside the infantry major, and a bugle sounded for the charge through the gap created by the courageous engineers. He surged forward, yelling at the top of his voice, brandishing his sabre and gripping his revolver. Men were falling before they reached the wall but Scott ignored the casualties mounting around him. The red haze of battle was on him as he panted and sweated under the heat of the early morning sun. Something whipped through his sleeve but Scott hardly registered the musket ball coming so close.

  He stumbled over the rubble mixed with the smashed bodies of the engineers and found himself in the city, where the British force was met with further heavy fire from nearby houses. Scott realised that he was in the lead and had become separated from the infantry major. He cast around to see if any threats showed themselves and noticed the blood-soaked body of the major sprawled only a few paces away. The soldiers around their fallen officer hesitated, but Scott roared at them to continue the attack on the enemy, who were shooting at them from loopholes in the walls of the surrounding buildings. The men responded to his leadership, and Scott continued at a trot towards an alley which he suddenly realised was manned by four enemy infantrymen.

  He whipped up his pistol arm and emptied his six shots into the four men. Two fell but the remaining two charged forward with bayonets fixed. Scott balanced on his feet and met the first bayonet lunged at him, deftly deflecting the sharp point from entering his belly. With practised skill he brought the razor-sharp sabre around to slice through the Indian’s neck, severing his head from his body. A burst of blood spurted like a fountain from the headless man, soaking Scott. The second enemy soldier hesitated at the terrible sight. Scott did not pause and in a blurred movement sliced his sabre down on the sepoy’s head, splitting it asunder. Four dead mutineers lay at his feet, but when he looked up he felt his stomach knot. From the other end of the alley he could see around twenty mutineers running towards him with bayonets fixed. He knew he could not fight his way out of this situation in the narrow confines of the alleyway. He was seconds from certain death when he felt himself brushed aside. A dozen red-coated soldiers pushed past him, levelling their rifled muskets at the advancing enemy. Well disciplined, they fired a volley, each bullet finding a target, and in
some cases passing through one body to hit another. The attack was halted, and before the enemy could consolidate, the redcoats charged with fixed bayonets any mutineers still standing. The clash was bloody but brief. Men screamed, grunted, swore, and some even cried in the hand-to-hand fight to the death.

  Scott quickly reloaded his revolver with powder and ball in a whirl of noise, heat, confusion and death. Smoke poured from burning buildings and muskets crashed all around. Chips of stinging stone spattered his face as stray musket balls hit nearby walls, but Scott hardly felt them. The red-coated soldiers retreated back to Scott, their faces and hands covered in blood. In all he counted eleven soldiers with two suffering wounds requiring a surgeon’s knife.

  ‘What now, sah?’ a corporal asked, and Scott had to think. As a cavalryman, it would be simple: keep moving forward until they were through the enemy ranks.

  ‘Get those two wounded men back to the surgeon. One man can assist them while we continue forward to capture the palace.’

  ‘Very good, sah,’ the corporal answered. He was an older man and Scott could see in his expression the years of service.

  ‘What is your name, Corporal?’ Scott asked.

  ‘Corporal Welsh, sah,’ the man answered.

  ‘Well, Corporal Welsh, let us do some mischief to these mutineers.’

  The corporal grinned under his face blackened by gunpowder. ‘C’mon lads,’ he said, turning to the private soldiers gripping their muskets and Enfield rifles. ‘You ’eard the officer.’

  Scott advanced down the alley with his loaded pistol and sabre. The soldiers followed, ready for the next encounter. As they advanced towards the royal palace, the other British columns entered the city, and also encountered fierce resistance. Many officers were killed, and some disorder ensued from a lack of leadership. At least Scott was able to provide leadership in his little sector of the battle, but he was starting to regret that he had not entered the city on his horse with his squadron. At least a horse provided him the mobility to escape the enemy, who were mostly on foot.

  They broke out of the alley into a plaza where Scott could hear the crackle of musketry. When he scanned the open ground he saw the ranks of mutineers on the far side readying themselves to fire a volley at the British soldiers who had taken up a position in the open a hundred yards away. The mutineers were in the process of loading their cumbersome muskets but they had been previously trained by the British occupiers and knew their drills well.

  Scott quickly appraised the situation, realising that his small force had not been noticed.

  ‘Form a single rank!’ he roared, and the well-disciplined redcoats fell quickly into a line slightly to the front and flank of the mutineers.

  ‘Present! Fire!’

  The soldiers stood, firing a volley into the mutineer infantrymen on the other side of the plaza. Their musket balls, and a few Minié balls from the Enfields, tore through the two ranks of the enemy. The volley caused confusion in the enemy ranks, and they discharged their muskets without properly levelling them.

  ‘Ready bayonets! Charge!’

  Immediately, Scott’s small detail of redcoats charged across the open plaza. Yelling and cursing, they caused panic in the demoralised enemy ranks and the flashing bayonets of the British tore into exposed bellies, chests and throats as men cursed, cried and grunted their last breaths.

  Scott brought his pistol up to a big, bearded Indian who was waving a large sword in the air. He thrust the muzzle into the man’s face, firing as he did so. The heavy lead ball shattered bone, and flesh and blood splashed back into Scott’s face as the man fell. Scott was almost felled by the body of an enemy soldier falling against him from a bayonet thrust in his chest. He stumbled but quickly regained his feet, glancing around for any immediate threat. He was pleased to see that the charge across the open plaza had succeeded, and only panting, shocked red-coated troops remained standing amongst the dead and dying Indian rebels.

  ‘Sir, I must extend my gratitude to you for your timely intervention,’ said a young lieutenant with a blackened face and blood-soaked uniform. Desultory fire was still coming from isolated enemy marksmen in the surrounding buildings. ‘Lieutenant Johnson of the Foot Regiment, at your service.’

  ‘Major Campbell, Bengali cavalry,’ Scott replied, and suddenly registered his raging thirst. He reached for his water canteen on his belt and a searing pain shot through his left wrist.

  Scott spun around in shock, noticing at the same time that Lieutenant Johnson had already issued orders for his men to take cover. Scott felt Corporal Welsh grip his jacket and yank him to the cover of a stone wall at the edge of the plaza, shielding him against other marksmen in the surrounding houses.

  Scott stared down at his hand and saw his mangled wrist. Blood was flowing from the wound and pain coursed through his body.

  ‘Here, sah,’ said the British NCO. ‘I will wrap your wrist.’ He produced a clean linen cloth and commenced wrapping the wound, although blood quickly soaked the cloth. The pain was numbing Scott’s mind as he fought off the desire to scream.

  ‘Corporal, you take our men to join Mr Johnson’s unit. Leave me and I will make my own way back for medical treatment,’ Scott ordered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Sah, I can help you back to our lines,’ the corporal protested. ‘The lads will be all right with Mr Johnson.’

  ‘Thank you, Corporal Welsh, but I can see your lads will need you, and I can walk,’ Scott grimaced.

  ‘Very good, sah,’ the NCO answered. ‘Good luck, sah.’

  Corporal Welsh fell in with the main contingent of the advancing force preparing to clear the enemy from the houses around them. Their muskets were primed and their bayonets fixed for the inevitable hand-to-hand fighting.

  Scott gripped his loaded pistol in his right hand and looked back to the mouth of the alley he had cleared minutes earlier. He knew that he would have to retrace his steps lest he become confused in the winding streets of the city. Around him he could hear the firing of small arms and artillery, and the shouts in English and Indian dialects of men using their last words in defiance of death. He was still experiencing a terrible thirst and slipped his revolver into the leather holster as he again attempted to retrieve his canteen. The water partly revived his body and when he had finished slaking his thirst, he carried on.

  Scott stepped over the bodies of the mutineers he and his small squad had killed only minutes earlier, although it felt like a lifetime ago. When he reached the area before the breach in the wall he saw a red-coated soldier lying on his back, groaning as he held in his own intestines. Scott looked around and could see that the army had advanced, leaving the critically wounded soldier to his fate. Scott knelt beside the man and saw how young he was. He guessed he must have been around sixteen years old.

  ‘I will get you to the surgeon, Private,’ Scott said, ignoring the intense pain of his own wound.

  ‘Too late for me,’ the soldier said, staring up at the blue skies. ‘Could you tell me ma that I died like a soldier?’ He gasped and closed his eyes. Scott could see that his stomach wound was beyond medical care, and he would die in agony under the blazing sun alone.

  ‘I will tell your family you died heroically storming the walls of Delhi,’ Scott said, and while the young soldier’s eyes were closed, he shot him in the head, ending his agony.

  Scott rose and stumbled towards the smashed gate to leave the city.

  *

  By midmorning a steady stream of wounded was arriving at Peter’s tent for surgery. The big, lead balls of the enemy’s muskets caused horrific wounds, smashing bone as they entered the body. There were others with bayonet wounds and sword cuts, and Peter worked feverishly to amputate limbs that were beyond repair. Alice went amongst those waiting on stretchers outside in the blazing sun, carrying canteens of boiled water to quench their thirsts, and examined the extent of wounds, prioritis
ing those she knew her husband might save.

  Alice bent over one older soldier who had sustained a musket shot to the chest. She knew there was no sense in attempting to extract the ball, as bloody froth formed around his mouth and his skin had paled under his tanned, bearded face.

  She felt the grip of his hand in her own as he stared at the vultures swirling in clouds over the camp. ‘I’m slain,’ he whispered, closing his eyes. Alice could see that he was dead, and slowly rose to attend the next man.

  ‘I said I would be back.’

  Alice turned to see Scott standing a few paces away, holding his arm. She could see the blood-soaked bandage around his left wrist.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said, stepping towards him. ‘How bad is your wound?’

  ‘I am hoping that Peter can tell me,’ Scott replied through gritted teeth, and slowly sank to his knees.

  Twenty-eight

  The two medical orderlies assisting Peter were older soldiers unfit for combative operations, and they carried the amputated arms and legs of soldiers out of the large surgical tent and discarded them in a pile outside. While Scott waited for his turn, he glanced at the tangle of limbs, wondering if his left hand would soon be added to the already stinking and decomposing flesh now covered with myriad crawling flies.

  Scott stepped inside the tent, dread written in his agonised expression. Peter looked up from a patient whose life he could not save, and the orderlies removed the body from the table.

  ‘I hope you have time to look to my rather minor wound,’ Scott said, attempting a smile that turned into a grimace.

  Peter could see the blood-soaked bandage and the blood dripping from it.

  ‘Good God, old man!’ Peter said, wiping his bloody hands on his apron. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  Scott stepped forward, raising his arm so that Peter could examine the shattered wrist. Peter gently unwrapped the bandage to reveal the extent of the wound.