by Peter Watt
As night was approaching, Havelock gave the order to bivouac and consolidate the positions they had taken. The small British force had suffered many casualties in the initial assault, and the British general well knew he would take many more on the morrow.
After a rollcall of the butcher’s bill, Ian ensured his company had time to take a meal and to check one another for signs of cholera and heatstroke, and for his officers and senior NCOs to be briefed on the next day’s fighting. Exhausted as all were, they listened, and very few questions were asked as to their duties. It would be another night of little sleep as men contemplated what lay ahead of them.
When the sun rose, Ian was summoned to a regimental briefing and the orders were issued. They were to participate in a second battle for the village of Busserut Gunge. It, too, had the obstacle of a swamp, and a narrow causeway and bridge leading to it. The mutineers had also reinforced the village with earthworks, protecting their artillery and infantry.
Ian’s company was to attack from the left flank.
Weary men looked to their kit and rifled muskets as sergeants and corporals checked the men for their fitness to fight. Cholera continued to stalk the soldiers as surely as the enemy.
Conan joined Ian who was standing alone, deep in his thoughts.
‘Reporting that the company is ready to advance, sir,’ he said smartly, and Ian lifted his telescope to survey the narrow causeway and village ahead.
‘Very good, Sarn’t Major,’ Ian replied, staring gloomily at their target. Around him the other companies of the regiment deployed into their formations and Owen joined them.
‘Order to move out, sir,’ Owen said to Ian.
‘How are you finding your tasks as the messenger at HQ, Owen?’ Conan asked.
‘Can’t complain,’ Owen answered, but his tone was cold, and Conan was hurt by the sullen reply.
‘Very good, Private Williams,’ Ian said. ‘Inform the general staff that we are advancing now.’
Owen saluted, turned and marched back to General Havelock’s HQ behind the ranks of infantry.
‘He does not appear to be very happy,’ Conan remarked.
‘I had no pleasure in reducing him to the ranks,’ Ian said. ‘I am hoping he will redeem himself and get his rank back. But right now we have a fight on our hands. Sarn’t Major, fall in with the colour party.’
Conan saluted and fell back with the regimental standard.
For just a moment, Ian hesitated. Behind him he could feel the tension of the men waiting. ‘Company will fix bayonets!’ he roared. The click of bayonets fitted to the ends of the rifled musket barrels was ominous as it meant the terrible struggle of man on man in a fight to the death. ‘Company will advance! Advance!’
Ian stepped off. He did not hold his sword but a rifle instead, despite the orders issued that all officers would lead with swords drawn. In a holster was his six-shot cap and ball Beaumont Adams revolver, and tucked in his belt was Samuel’s pistol. His sheathed sword was strapped to his belt.
The company of infantry moved in their orderly ranks towards the causeway, and the Indian rebels commenced firing at them with muskets and artillery.
Ian gave his next order before his voice could be drowned out by the rising noise of battle.
‘Company, at the double, charge!’
And so the men following Ian passed through the doorway into a place called death.
*
Colonel Clive Jenkins was in London and pondering the task Rebecca had assigned him. He sat in a deep leather chair in the lounge of his club, sipping a gin and tonic. Around him other exclusive members quietly read The Times, following the mutiny in India before turning to the financial section to observe its impact on their stocks and shares.
‘Sir, your guest, Mr Charles Forbes, is here,’ said one of the club’s uniformed employees.
‘Fetch him to me,’ Jenkins said. ‘And bring me another G and T. Also a whisky straight for Mr Forbes.’
When Charles arrived, he sat down in one of the big leather armchairs opposite Jenkins.
‘Good to see you, old chap,’ Jenkins said. ‘If I remember correctly, whisky is your poison, so I have taken the liberty of ordering one for you.’
‘A little early for me, but I thank you for your courtesy,’ Charles replied. ‘Your invitation to meet this early in the morning is rather unusual, Colonel Jenkins.’
‘I know you are a busy man, Mr Forbes, but this matter is important,’ Jenkins replied. ‘How well do you know Lady Rebecca Montegue?’
Charles accepted the tumbler of whisky brought to him on a silver platter by the waiter. He was startled by the question, so directly asked. ‘I have only been in the company of Lady Montegue at social occasions – I barely know her – although she has a striking resemblance to a village girl I once knew.’
This revelation caused the hair on the back of Jenkins’ neck to rise. He did not know why, but there was something in the statement that made him suspect he’d found the seed for Rebecca’s intense dislike of this man.
‘You say that the woman you knew has a remarkable resemblance to Lady Montegue,’ Jenkins said as casually as he could. ‘Where is she now?’
‘I was last informed that she had run away from the village near our country manor,’ Charles replied with a frown. ‘No one has had any news of her whereabouts since; she might be dead for all I know. As a matter of interest, the woman was reputedly pregnant to my brother . . . or should I say, to the man pretending to be my brother, the man you command as Captain Samuel Forbes.’
Jenkins raised his eyebrows at this snippet of gossip. ‘What is the name of this woman?’
‘Her name was Jane Wilberforce,’ Charles said, taking another sip of the whisky.
‘You say she was with child to Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins said. ‘How did you know that?’
Charles paused. ‘Your questions seem a little strange, Colonel,’ he frowned. ‘Why are you so interested?’
Jenkins could see that he had hit a raw nerve with Charles and decided it was best to discontinue his line of questioning.
‘Because of Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Know your enemy, as they say.’
His response seemed to settle Charles, and their conversation turned to matters financial. Two more drinks and Charles excused himself to attend a luncheon with members of a bank board.
Jenkins watched him leave and ordered another gin and tonic. There were clearly intricate threads that would need to be tied together before he could understand why Lady Rebecca Montegue wanted to see Charles Forbes dead.
Thirty
Thirst, fear and adrenaline surged through Ian’s body as he led the charge on the earthworks. Grapeshot from a cannon blasted past him and two soldiers screamed in agony as the big metal balls ripped through them. A third soldier took the full impact of five balls and was ripped into bloody scraps of flesh and cloth. But Ian kept going; he could see the raised earth just a few yards ahead. His rifle was levelled and the bayonet readied to find a soft target of stomach, throat or chest.
He scrambled to the clinging clay of the sloped front wall and caught a glimpse of one of the mutineers. Before he could lunge with his bayonet the target was gone, and Ian rolled onto his side to unholster his revolver. Rifle in one hand and revolver in the other, he flung himself over the wall onto a startled Indian soldier. Once on his feet, Ian levelled the pistol, firing point blank into the man’s face, causing the rebel to fall backwards.
Around him Ian could see the rest of his surviving company tumble down amongst the Indians who had not had time to flee the artillery guns they had manned. Maddened by the terrible wounds the guns had inflicted on their comrades, the British soldiers bayoneted and shot any enemy they encountered, asking no quarter and giving none either.
Ian glanced around and saw that the regimental colours were fluttering from the
staff and was pleased to see Colour Sergeant Leslie standing alongside the colour ensign with Conan. The firing tapered off except for an odd shot from his men at the backs of the retreating mutineers.
‘We’ve done it, sir,’ Colour Sergeant Leslie said. ‘We’ve put the beggars to flight.’
Ian’s ears were ringing as he clambered to the top of the earthworks and looked back down the causeway where he could see the trail of smashed and broken red-coated soldiers. The victory, like so many others on the road to Lucknow, had come at significant cost.
From here Ian could see Private Owen Williams running towards him.
‘Sir, General Havelock requires your attendance at his HQ,’ Owen said breathlessly. Ian acknowledged the instruction and passed temporary command to one of his senior lieutenants to organise the consolidation of the positions they had taken.
Ian arrived at the headquarters under an open tent where senior officers stood around a table jabbing with their fingers at points on a map. Ian waited patiently, noticing his fellow senior officers of the various units of Havelock’s force. Like Ian, they stood back, faces blackened by the gunpowder of battle, their eyes weary and their expressions grim. Eventually Havelock ceased conversing with his brigade staff officers and turned to the assembled officers.
‘Gentlemen, my order of the day is that all regiments withdraw from their current positions and fall back on Unao for the night. I have decided that due to our casualties we do not have sufficient force to continue our advance on Lucknow. From Unao we will march to Cawnpore, as I have received a message from the garrison there that they have come under a fresh threat from hostile forces gathering in strength in the countryside. But we can remember that we have fought seven battles and been victorious in each one against greater odds. In the last two days we have captured nineteen cannons, but I have been informed that it is estimated that we have only twelve hundred able-bodied men left. It is my intention to gather reinforcements before we advance. For now, we need to get our sick and wounded to a place where they may be treated. God be with you all, gentlemen.’
Ian listened and agreed with General Havelock’s summation of the situation. He was also aware how important it was to advance on the Indian city of Cawnpore once again where a force of British soldiers was holding out in a compound within the walls. Not only were there British and loyal Indian forces facing starvation within the city, but also many civilian men, women and children.
*
Colonel Clive Jenkins wore his dress uniform to the dinner held in honour of the British prime minister at Rebecca’s London residence. Rebecca was resplendent in her finest clothes and jewels.
As they waited to welcome the distinguished guests, Jenkins mulled over the conversation he had had with Charles Forbes and broke the silence by saying, ‘I met with Mr Forbes this day and he informed me that his brother, Captain Forbes, knew a village girl, a Miss Jane Wilberforce, whom he supposedly got with child. Did you know this Jane Wilberforce?’ He could see Rebecca tense at his question.
‘Why do you ask?’ Rebecca countered.
‘It is just that Charles mentioned how much this village girl resembled you – as if you could pass for sisters – and I feel this may account for your interest in Charles Forbes,’ Jenkins replied.
‘I did not ask you to meet with Charles Forbes,’ Rebecca said stiffly. ‘I asked you to ensure he was either disgraced or made to disappear forever.’
‘You are asking me to risk everything for this foolish notion and yet you do not do me the service of telling me why,’ Jenkins said. ‘You have me bewitched, and you know I will do anything for you, but this is asking something that could see my neck stretched.’
‘Jane was my twin sister,’ Rebecca said quietly. ‘We were separated at birth, and it was only in the last few months before her mysterious disappearance that I was told of her existence, although I always had a strange and inexplicable feeling that I was not alone. I found Jane living in the village, and she reluctantly told me that she was Charles Forbes’ mistress but that she had found love with Charles’ brother, Samuel. Jane’s last contact with Samuel was when he was in the Crimea and she wrote that she was expecting his child. After that, my sister simply vanished from the face of the earth. Both Samuel and I strongly suspect that Charles was behind her disappearance, which I can only imagine means that he killed her. If you truly love me you will act as my avenging angel and bring justice for my sister.’
Stunned, Jenkins listened to the hatred for Charles Forbes that was clear in Rebecca’s voice. ‘Do you have proof that Charles killed your sister?’ he asked.
Rebecca turned towards him with a cold stare. ‘I do not need to have legal proof. I know he is responsible for my sister’s death. Call it intuition.’
Jenkins did not attempt to argue with her zeal. All he knew was that if he did not agree to help her get vengeance then she would sever her ties with him. Jenkins accepted that he must find a way of either ruining Charles Forbes or killing him. Neither would be easy, and there remained the matter of the pact he and Charles had made to have Captain Samuel Forbes eliminated. The latter task of seeing off Samuel Forbes – or whoever he may be – was personal to Jenkins, as the infernal man had witnessed Jenkins’ cowardice on the battlefields of the Crimea.
Just then the carriage of the prime minister was announced. As soon as the formal greetings were over, Rebecca manoeuvred Jenkins into the prime minister’s company and Jenkins, a hero of the Crimea and recently in India with his regiment, was quizzed on his views on the current campaign to quell the mutiny.
Jenkins was quick to ingratiate himself with the highest level of political power, all the while knowing that it was Rebecca pulling the strings. He knew he needed her, and this reinforced his thoughts of plotting the demise of Charles Forbes. Had Charles not displayed his murderous aspirations when he’d asked Jenkins’ help get rid of his so-called brother for his own convenience? Surely such a man had the capacity to kill in his own right? It was a small consolation to Jenkins that he would not be killing an innocent man. But a voice echoed in his thoughts, telling him that he was a coward and that killing Charles Forbes was beyond him.
*
Nana Sahib had mustered forces at the town of Bithoor, sending his cavalry into the outer suburbs of Cawnpore. Ian’s company fired on them from the cover of the city’s buildings, causing them to retreat under the British riflemen’s deadly accuracy. The same story was repeated in other sections of Cawnpore with the result that the enemy commander fell back with his army, but the audacious display against the city captured by the British proved that the mutineers were far from a defeated force.
As usual the heat beat down on the defenders, and Ian found a small scrap of shade beside one of the mudbrick buildings in the city. He flopped down, reaching for his water canteen, and was joined by his company sergeant major.
‘No casualties to report amongst our lads in that skirmish, but a few of the mutineers never made it out of the city,’ Conan said wearily.
‘Good show, Sarn’t Major.’ Ian sighed as the warm water took away his immediate thirst. His head throbbed, and he forced himself not to allow the listless state he was experiencing to detract from his duties as company commander. Along the low mudbrick wall they had used as a defence he could see his men taking out pipes and lighting them as they chattered amongst themselves, boasting of their marksmanship in the recent melee.
‘Oh, the mail arrived and I picked up a letter for you from regimental HQ,’ Conan said, reaching inside his jacket to retrieve the precious envelope. ‘Somebody back in England must love you.’ He grinned, passing the letter to Ian. ‘I don’t know how any woman could, though.’
‘Have you heard from Molly?’ Ian asked, holding the precious correspondence and recognising Ella’s handwriting.
‘I have. She asks after your health. She has written that the two shops are doing a grand trade. It
seems she is the bright one in the Williams family. I will leave you to your letter.’ Conan rose to walk down the ranks of men sitting with their backs to the wall and enquired gruffly as to their welfare.
Ian carefully opened the envelope, extracting the delicate sheet of paper. He began to read with a serene smile on his face, but halfway through the one-page letter his smile turned to a stricken expression and his hands began to tremble. Ella had written that she was sorry to have to tell him in such an impersonal way that she had met another man who had her father’s approval. He was a Russian aristocrat of the Jewish faith by the name of Nikolai Kasatkin who had recently escaped the Russian Tsar via India. Surely Ian remembered him because she believed he had rescued Nikolai during a dangerous mission. He was now a partner in certain enterprises with her father, and the love had grown slowly between them. She wished Ian well and prayed that he would be safe.
For a fleeting moment Ian remembered how he and Nikolai had met during a truce in the Crimean War; he could never have imagined then that the same man would take the heart of the woman he had come to love beyond his own life. He sat staring into the blinding heat rising as a shimmering wave in the street. He tried to convince himself it would never have worked between them when their lives were divided by his soldiering career and their religions. But he had not really believed that this would have been an insurmountable barrier to their love.
Tears trickled down Ian’s face, smearing the gunpowder residue and leaving furrows in the black soot stains. He could not remember the last time he had cried. For so long in his life he had been told by his father that tears were the realm of women and not men. Men had to remain stoic in the face of sorrow. But the tears came and Ian wondered if they were all for the loss of Ella – or for something deeper: that of a life of peace beyond war.