by Peter Watt
‘I think it just needs a few stitches and then I will be able to join the lads again,’ Scott suggested, but Peter knew better. He could see fragments of bone mixed with the pulverised wrist joint, all barely held together by a few strips of raw flesh. It was obvious that the wound was beyond repair and the hand required amputation.
‘I need you to get on the table,’ Peter said. ‘The only way I can save your life is to remove your hand at the wrist.’
Scott looked with despair into his brother’s eyes. ‘Are you sure you cannot sew my hand back together?’ he asked, and Peter shook his head.
‘I promise it will be quick, and with further treatment you should recover well.’
Scott lay down on the table smeared with blood and Peter nodded to his two attendants who stepped forward and put their hands firmly on the cavalry officer’s shoulder and arm. Peter fetched an extremely sharp knife, silently thanking God that from what he could observe he would not have to use a surgical saw to cut through bone.
Before Scott could react, Peter gripped the useless hand and, with a deft movement, sliced through the flesh that retained hand to arm. The hand came off and Scott let out a strangled cry of pain. Peter quickly passed the amputated flesh to one of the orderlies who discreetly placed it in a new pile of limbs collecting in the corner of the tent, awaiting disposal outside.
Peter quickly and expertly went about cleansing the open wound with a mix of water and carbolic acid. His brother attempted to sit up.
‘Take it easy, old boy,’ Peter said gently, tears in his eyes. He had always thought he was immune to the terrible suffering of his patients, but this was different. This was his own brother who had always lived life to the fullest. Now he had lost his hand and his life would change forever.
Alice appeared in the tent.
‘Alice will help you back to your quarters,’ Peter said after bandaging the wrist. ‘She will care for you until you have recovered.’
Alice helped Scott from the surgical tent to his own, and there made sure he lay down on his cot.
‘I need some medicine,’ Scott groaned. ‘You will find it in my chest.’
Alice opened the lid to the big chest and saw a bottle of whisky on top of his kit. Alice removed the stopper and poured an amount into a tin mug, handing it to Scott.
‘You should be drinking water and trying to sleep,’ she chided gently.
He grinned weakly and took a long gulp of the alcohol. ‘Leave the bottle by my bed,’ he said, using his right hand to place the mug beside him and pouring another shot from the bottle.
‘I will return whenever my duties allow,’ Alice said. ‘Your bandages will need to be changed daily.’
‘You are an angel in my life,’ Scott said. ‘The best thing my brother ever did was marry you, and if he had not, I would have married you myself.’
‘I am sure that one day you will meet a good woman,’ Alice replied. ‘You are still a dashing figure, and I am sure we will be able to fit you with a wooden hand when your wound heals.’
‘Ah, a one-handed cavalry officer,’ Scott sighed.
‘You will be up and leading your men in no time,’ Alice said, wiping Scott’s brow with a wet cloth.
Scott gripped Alice’s arm. ‘Do you really believe that?’ he asked.
Alice nodded. ‘Now get some sleep and I pray that the pain will recede with rest,’ she said.
Scott lay back and stared at the ceiling of the tent. They both knew that infection could still easily take his life in this Indian climate. Alice pulled down the mosquito net to keep off the clouds of flies gathering to the smell of blood. She said a quiet prayer that her brother-in-law would live.
She hurried back to the wounded men lying on stretchers outside the surgery tent and calmly went about her work of assessing who would be next on her husband’s operating table, and comforting those she knew would die.
*
Private Owen Williams sat on a wooden crate in the bivouac on the road to Lucknow, cleaning his rifle. Around him, soldiers smoked pipes, played cards and exchanged gossip about the battle ahead. They ignored Owen, whose morose manner did not encourage company. He stewed in his thoughts about the betrayal of the two men he had once thought were his friends. He was sure they were keeping his share of the loot. Captain Samuel Forbes was an imposter, and both he and Conan Curry were colonials from New South Wales, so neither of them could be trusted. Owen promised the voices inside his head that he would get even with them – one way or another.
‘Hey, Taffy,’ called one of the soldiers sitting in a small circle a few feet away. ‘Want to join us in a hand or two of cards? Winner gets a bottle of gin.’
Owen put down his rifle and accepted the offer. Despite once being their sergeant, the men had accepted him back into their ranks, and a bottle of gin was worth gambling for. Even as the cards were dealt Owen fumed about the betrayal of trust by the fancypants Captain Steele. When Colonel Jenkins returned to the regiment Owen would parade before him and expose the upstart colonial officer for who he really was. Owen did not trust the current acting regimental commander because he seemed to respect Ian Steele as a very competent officer. But Owen knew from their campaign in the Crimea that Colonel Jenkins would listen to him.
*
Colonel Jenkins was pleased to be on leave from the staff college. He found military matters boring and the invitation to Lady Rebecca Montegue’s manor was a breath of fresh air. He arrived in his personal coach in the mid-afternoon and knew that he would not be returning before breakfast. India had kept him away from what was most important in life: his future marriage to Rebecca, whose wealth, coupled with her influential political contacts, would help him achieve the highest office in the land.
The occasion was an afternoon tea held in the manicured gardens of the country estate while the last flowers of the English summer still bloomed. Jenkins was greeted by a butler who ushered him into a garden of colourful pavilions erected on the sprawling lawns of Rebecca’s grand mansion. Jenkins could see that there were many civilian and military guests. Amongst the civilians he recognised prominent members of parliament, wealthy bankers and captains of industry.
Rebecca radiated beauty and charm when she walked over to greet Jenkins.
‘A rather lavish afternoon party,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Clive,’ Rebecca replied. ‘I thought this would be a good opportunity to show you off to some very important people.’
‘Ah,’ Jenkins said, bowing and kissing Rebecca’s hand. ‘You are the one who should be teaching strategy and tactics.’
‘Come,’ Rebecca said, and Jenkins followed her towards a small group of high-ranking army and naval officers in their dress uniforms, adorned with the medals of their service. Jenkins was dressed in a civilian suit with top hat.
‘Ah, Lady Montegue,’ said one of the naval officers when she and Jenkins approached. He gave a small bow of respect, and then focused on Clive Jenkins. ‘I have heard that you are currently attending the new staff college, Colonel Jenkins. Not sure if all that book work and theory is really necessary to be a good soldier. We sailors learn about warfare from experience rather than books.’
‘Times are changing, Sir Rodney,’ Jenkins replied politely. ‘New weapons are changing the way we manoeuvre on the battlefield.’
‘I am surprised that you made leave from your regiment when it is engaged on a campaign in India, old boy,’ a whiskered general commented, and Jenkins identified him as a close friend of General Havelock. ‘I would have suspected that to choose a place at staff college under such circumstances would have been a second priority to that of leading your men in the field.’
Jenkins felt uncomfortable. It was almost as if he was being accused of desertion, or worse, cowardice. He glanced at Rebecca and he could see her frowning.
‘If you really wish to know why Colonel Jenkins ret
urned to England it was because he missed my company, gentlemen,’ Rebecca said, slipping her arm through Jenkins’. ‘I must apologise and take the colonel to meet my other guests. I will bid you gentlemen a good afternoon. I am sure you will agree that the French champagne is of excellent quality.’
The small group of military officers raised their glasses as a salute to Rebecca as she led Jenkins away to meet with a couple of members of the House of Lords. All Jenkins received from the two older politicians was praise for his esteemed military service. Jenkins felt much more comfortable in their company, chatting about the demise of morals in this modern world of too many liberal ideas.
The afternoon drew towards evening and the coaches arrived to return the guests to their respective homes in London, leaving Rebecca and Clive Jenkins to their own company.
‘It has been a grand day, thank you,’ Jenkins said, sipping the last of his champagne.
‘I planned the function as soon as I learned that you were returning to England,’ Rebecca said. ‘You were not born to be a soldier, rather a man destined to lead this country into the future.’
‘I could be insulted by your observation,’ Jenkins said, ‘but I know that a union between us is destined for greatness. I often wonder, though, if you love me or simply see that you can mould me into the man of your dreams.’
‘Love is irrelevant,’ Rebecca said. ‘But I am fond of you, and that is a good basis for a partnership.’
‘So, you will marry me after all,’ Jenkins said, and felt quite content that he would possess this rare beauty with great ambition.
‘When you are no longer playing soldiers, I will,’ Rebecca said, turning to walk to her manor as the servants scurried about clearing up after the visitors. ‘But I will expect you to do me one great favour before we wed. I want you to destroy Sir Archibald Forbes’ son, Charles, who I know is a friend of yours.’
Jenkins was stunned by Rebecca’s request. ‘Charles!’ he exclaimed in shock. ‘Why do you wish me to destroy the man?’
‘Because I have asked you to,’ Rebecca replied. ‘If you have any real feelings for me, you will ensure that you use all in your power to destroy Charles Forbes.’
‘I do not understand,’ Jenkins said, shaking his head in his confusion.
‘I want him killed,’ Rebecca said without flinching. ‘He has done me a great wrong that I do not wish to disclose at the moment, but I trust that in your love for me you will carry out my wishes.’
*
That night Jenkins lay beside Rebecca in the huge double bed, staring at the dark ceiling. He could not sleep. What kind of woman was he marrying? Behind her beauty lay a woman as ruthless as any enemy he had ever encountered on the battlefield. What had Charles Forbes done to her that would warrant his destruction, even his death?
Jenkins was a weak man and he knew it. He was not about to question Rebecca as to her motives. He thought about the conspiracy that he and Charles had entered into to have Samuel killed, and wondered how this orderly society he belonged to could be crawling with vipers – both male and female.
Rebecca stirred beside him, rolling over to face him. In the trickle of moonlight through the panes of the bedroom window he swore he could see a smile of satisfaction on her face. For once Jenkins wished he was back in India facing the dangers of an enemy he understood, but he knew he was a slave to this beautiful woman beside him. After all, he knew she had the potential to make him prime minister.
Twenty-nine
Torrential rain fell the night after the battle, and the British survivors huddled in misery in the open, waiting for the sun to rise. Colour Sergeant Leslie moved amongst the cold and wet troops, offering a word of encouragement and a joke where possible. When he came across Private Owen Williams sitting alone, the man was mumbling incoherently and stabbing at the muddy earth with a long bayonet. Colour Sergeant Paddy Leslie had seen this behaviour many times in his long years with the British army. It was something the horror of war did to many soldiers’ minds, and he could see that Private Owen Williams had reached that point where the mind no longer controlled the body. The army’s cure for such a state was harsh corporal punishment, but Paddy Leslie had never seen that cure any soldier of the malaise induced by combat.
‘Taffy, get control of yourself,’ Leslie snapped as the rain beat down on them.
For a moment Owen paused to stare at the ground. ‘Got to go home, Colour Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Sarn’t Major Curry is out to get me – and so is Captain Forbes.’
Leslie crouched down beside Owen. ‘You have to snap out of this, Private Williams, or you will find yourself tied to the triangle for a lashing.’
‘I don’t care anymore,’ Owen said, tears streaming down his face. ‘I just want to go home. I don’t want to die here.’
Leslie stood, shaking his head. He realised that the soldier was beyond reasoning with and only hoped that when the sun rose he might be thinking more clearly. The word spreading through the regiment was that in the morning they expected to see action near the fortified village of Unao. Leslie knew that he should report Private Williams’ condition, but he had a soft spot for the man he had recruited for the war against the Russians in the Crimea. Owen Williams had been a brave and excellent soldier then, but time had clearly taken a toll on his mind. With cholera and heatstroke impacting so highly on the small force, every man who could hold a rifle was needed to fight under General Havelock on his advance towards Lucknow, a mere thirty-six miles away. Colour Sergeant Leslie walked away in the rain, leaving the afflicted soldier to continue stabbing the muddy earth with his bayonet.
*
The sun rose on the following morning to beat down on the heads of the assembled British force. Captain Ian Steele called for the roll to be read and was satisfied to see that all his company was on parade, albeit wet and weary. On either flank of the regiment other British units were assembling, and laid out before them across a swamp were the walled houses outside Unao. A raised road ran through the swamp to the fortified town, and using his telescope Ian could see that the houses had firing loopholes in the walls.
‘What is happening today?’ Conan asked.
‘General Havelock is sending in the Scots along the causeway,’ Ian replied, lowering his telescope. Already fire pouring from the defences was ripping into the Scottish ranks and men were falling. Ian could see the terrible price the Highlanders were paying for the assault, but he closed his mind to their casualties as he knew that before the day ended it would be his regiment’s turn to face the defences. Havelock’s staff had calculated that there were around fifteen thousand mutineers up against their small force of around fifteen hundred.
The enemy artillery opened fire, adding grape and round shot into the advancing Scots soldiers, who were roaring the ancient slogans of the Highlands as they advanced into the wall of lead and iron.
‘Poor bastards,’ Conan said softly. ‘Straight into a frontal assault against an entrenched enemy.’
‘Rather them than us,’ Ian replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat was becoming oppressive and Ian wondered how many of his men would succumb to the invisible enemy that dogged them alongside the cholera. ‘We are being held in reserve but as the enemy outnumber us I know we will see our share of action. I will brief the junior officers and senior NCOs in five minutes.’
Conan acknowledged the unspoken order to spread the word about the briefing, and afterward the officers and NCOs marched smartly back to their sections to continue with preparations. Only Colour Sergeant Leslie lingered.
‘What is it, Colour Sergeant?’ Ian asked.
‘Sir, it is a matter about Private Williams,’ he replied. ‘Is there a chance he could be kept back with the regimental HQ when we commence the advance?’
‘Why does Private Williams need to be kept out of the advance?’ Ian frowned.
‘I think
he needs a rest from being in the ranks,’ Leslie said. ‘His mind has been touched and I don’t think he will live if he advances as a skirmisher. I have seen this before when a soldier loses his mind.’
Ian thought for a moment, accepting the senior NCO’s many years of soldiering. ‘I will get the CSM to pass on to Private Williams that he is to be assigned to regimental HQ as a runner for the company.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Leslie said, then saluted and returned to his young lieutenant, who would be carrying the colours into battle.
Even as Ian’s company went about their duties, the Scots Highlanders were progressing along the causeway towards the fortified town with their two artillery guns supporting them. The town had deep ditches and new earthworks to overcome in the assault. The battle had well and truly begun and in the next few hours they would either win against the seemingly impossible odds, or forever remain in Indian soil if they lost.
Soon enough the remnants of the courageous Scottish brigade were on the first line of the defenders, pushing through with bayonets and entering the town of Unao. The British forces were aided by the fact that the nearby flooded plains prevented the numerically larger Indian cavalry threatening their flanks.
A runner was sent from Havelock’s HQ to the regiment, and the order was passed down to the company commanders.
Ian turned to his men.
‘Fix bayonets!’ A rattle of long knives being attached to the end of rifled muskets sounded, and Ian roared the next order. ‘Company will advance. Advance!’
Leading the way, he stepped onto the causeway to follow the unflinching Scots into the town. The company acted as the vanguard for the regiment and soon Ian’s men were in the narrow streets, fighting a desperate battle of musket fire and hand-to-hand bayonet combat, as the mutineers quickly deserted their positions. Smoke filled the hot, humid air but Ian noted his men were going about their work well, ever alert to snipers in houses and on rooftops. After many hours clearing Unao they were past the houses and marketplaces and facing their next obstacle: a village called Busserut Gunge which was also heavily fortified.