by Peter Watt
Then the order came that General Havelock was to resume his advance towards Lucknow, and the contents of the letter seemed irrelevant as Ian once again faced his possible death.
*
Private Williams could not get the voices out of his head. Captain Forbes and Sergeant Major Curry were plotting to have him killed so that they did not have to share any of the spoils of war. He knew he must do something to protect himself. A stray musket ball would do the trick, and satisfy the nagging of the voices in his head. It was so easy to make a death look like a genuine battle wound. And Owen was one of the best marksmen in the regiment. He would be able to carry out the killings when the time was right.
Thirty-one
After a ferocious struggle, the Indian city of Delhi had been taken by the British forces.
Dr Peter Campbell had immediately sought out one of the better residences that had not been completely vandalised and had it converted to a surgery. The house had accommodation in the upstairs portion for him and his wife and their Indian housemaid who had loyally followed them from Meerut.
Amongst Peter’s first patients was Scott, for treatment to the stump at the end of his left wrist. The wound had miraculously avoided infection and, under the clean bandages, was healing. Peter was able to remove the stitches, but the stump still throbbed and the pain was excruciating if Scott bumped it.
‘Well, old chap, it is not the end of the world,’ Peter attempted to reassure his brother as he examined the wound closely. ‘Back in England there are people who design artificial hands.’
‘I’m an officer on active service, and I cannot be away from the men of my squadron,’ Scott moaned. ‘I can’t wait till we return to England.’
Alice entered her husband’s surgery.
‘Did I hear that you need an artificial hand?’ she asked with the hint of a smile. She held out something wrapped in a cloth. ‘I happen to know a Gurkha soldier who is renowned for his wood carving and he kindly made this for me.’ She unwrapped the article from the cloth and passed it to Scott.
‘Good God!’ Peter exclaimed. ‘It looks almost real. Alice, you are a miracle worker.’
Frowning, Scott held the wooden hand with its leather straps in his good hand. ‘It does not replace the function of my real hand,’ he said with a surly tone.
Alice smiled broadly, suddenly producing a second wooden hand, but this one had the fingers curled with a hollow between them. ‘I took the liberty of borrowing your sabre and having the soldier make measurements. I think that you will be able to slide the hilt of your sword into the adapted hand.’
Scott gazed with astonishment at the second wooden hand. ‘It just might work,’ he said, placing the first hand on the table and taking the sword hand from Alice.
Peter picked up the first hand to examine it. ‘I will need to carve out the wrist end and apply padding for the hand to fit the stump,’ he concluded.
‘Make the sword hand your priority, brother,’ Scott said, beaming with renewed pleasure. ‘I can use my right hand to hold my pistol and the left my sword. I cannot thank you enough, Alice.’ He rose to his feet to kiss her on the forehead. ‘There is no time to waste,’ he continued. ‘I wish to show my fellow officers that I will ride again at the head of the squadron.’
Peter went about preparing the sword hand and carefully fitted it to his brother’s wrist, using the leather straps to secure it to his forearm. Scott winced with the pain when the padding came into contact with the bandaged wrist and he broke into a sweat, but he refused to admit to his distress.
‘With time the pain will subside,’ Peter reassured him, and his brother nodded.
Scott did not dally at his brother’s surgery but went immediately to the officers’ mess, a large tent with tables covered in white linen and set with his regiment’s silverware that travelled with the army on campaign in the baggage train. Silver candle holders flickered light in the dissipating heat of the day as the sun slipped below the horizon. Scott showed off his new hand to the admiration of his fellow officers.
Dinner was served by Indian waiters, and afterwards, when the table was cleared, a few officers of Scott’s cavalry regiment retired to smoke cigars and chat with tumblers of a good Madeira port that also travelled with the officers’ mess baggage train.
Scott stood outside the mess in the company of fellow cavalry major and close friend, Major Jason Cambridge, who had a reputation for being a reckless adventurer. Cambridge came from a family that had acquired their wealth through the establishment of textile factories in England, relying heavily on cheap Indian cotton. For a moment both men simply stared at the evening sky filling with stars.
‘I say, old chap,’ Cambridge said, puffing on his thick cigar and watching the blue smoke curl away on the still evening air, ‘I have an idea where you might try out that new hand of yours. I have planned a little foray out to a village about twelve miles from here. I have learned it is occupied by a number of sepoys. Fifty of my men and I leave tonight.’
‘I have heard nothing about such an operation,’ Scott said.
‘Ah, but that is the point,’ Cambridge said quietly. ‘It has not been officially sanctioned by the colonel.’
Scott looked sharply at his friend. ‘You mean that you have not received permission to carry out your plan?’
‘My men are getting restless just sitting around in the city, and I feel that they need a bit of action to keep them sharp.’
‘There has to be a bit more to it than that to warrant this foolish idea of yours,’ Scott said.
‘Between you and me, old boy, my Indian informant has told me there may be buried treasure in the village, and he will be able to guide us tonight so that we are in place as the sun rises for us to fall on any sepoys occupying the town. I doubt they will be in a mood to stand and fight after the thrashing we gave them here. It is up to you whether you accept my invitation to join us. I would not blame you if you declined the offer, what with that bung hand of yours and all.’
Scott shook his head. ‘When do we leave?’
Cambridge flicked the stub of his cigar into the night. ‘Right now.’
*
The guards had been quietly informed that a party of cavalry would be leaving the city walls on a mission. That it was not sanctioned was not revealed. Scott sat astride his mount, his good hand holding the reins as the patrol left in single file, following their Indian guide towards the village.
They rode in silence with just one break to eat the cold roast chicken with chapattis they carried as rations, then resumed the silent advance on the unsuspecting village. Hours later, with the sun just breaking the horizon across the vast plain, they saw the thatched-roofed mudbrick houses of the small Indian village.
Scott sat astride his mount and observed the blue smoke curling from early morning cooking fires.
‘Look!’ Scott said to Cambridge. ‘They have two brass cannon at the edge of the village.’
‘By Jove, they are not even manned,’ Cambridge said, and suddenly three sepoys appeared wandering from the village onto the plain only a short distance away. The three enemy immediately recognised that the mounted force of British and Sikh troops was not friendly and turned to flee back to the huts. Cambridge shouted his order, and already his party of fifty men were dividing into two groups – one tasked to ride in a flanking move around the village, taking up their places to block any withdrawal, whilst the other column charged through the village itself.
Scott knew the deadly effect of brass cannon firing grapeshot at cavalry and took it upon himself to immediately charge the two unmanned artillery pieces as he saw half-a-dozen mutineers scrambling to man the guns. Cambridge ignored the possible deadly threat, leaning over the neck of his horse, sabre in hand, and led the rest of his men onto the main street of the small town.
Foolishly the mutineers had not thrown up earthworks and Cambr
idge’s charge was directed at the panicked sepoys desperately seeking to mount their horses and escape the flashing sabres. The sharp blades came slashing down on the dismounted sepoys, carving away terrible wounds on them.
Scott had been able to retrieve his pistol from the holster and, using his knees, turned his horse towards the men attempting to swing around the two brass cannons. He realised that he was alone in his desperate attempt to foil the Indian gunners but was on the gun position before the enemy could put the cannon into action.
Wild-eyed, they stared up at the British officer, three of them falling as his revolver fired at almost point-blank range. The survivors fled in panic from this mounted bringer of death. Single-handed he had captured the guns, and from the village nearby he could hear the screams of men as they were cut down.
Then it was all over. The cavalrymen herded their prisoners before them back into the village with Cambridge riding ahead, triumphantly waving his bloody sabre over his head. Cambridge had not lost a single man in the attack and they had taken fifty prisoners, two brass cannon and a small herd of Indian horses as their prize.
‘Good show, old chap,’ Cambridge said when he rode over to Scott, the dead gunners sprawled beside the artillery pieces. ‘I see they could have done us some mischief if you had not taken it on yourself to silence them.’
‘It had to be done,’ Scott said with a growl. ‘I am surprised you did not make the capture of the guns a priority in your assault on the village.’
‘Can’t think of everything, old chap,’ Cambridge replied, dismissing the obvious rebuke. ‘But now we have our mission to complete. The men are currently occupied going through the cummerbunds of the dead and captured for coins and other trinkets. The Indian guide is going to take you and I to a house where he says a chest has been buried. Are you in, Major Campbell?’
Scott reluctantly left his two captured brass cannons and followed his colleague to a walled house with what must have once been a pretty garden around it. He dismounted and the guide jabbered excitedly at a portion of the garden where the soil had clearly been disturbed. A shovel was found and Cambridge began to dig. His efforts were rewarded when they heard the distinctive clunk of metal striking something hard and Cambridge continued digging until he had cleared away the loose dirt from around a large wooden chest. The three men stood above the exposed chest, thoughts of great riches swirling through their minds.
Cambridge and the Indian guide hoisted the chest from the soil, placing it on the edge of the hole. It had no lock and Cambridge swung open the lid. The three men strained at once to gaze inside at their booty of war.
‘Good God!’ Cambridge exclaimed. ‘All that effort for nothing.’
Scott stared at the pile of papers and stamps the chest held. Not even a single rupee inside. ‘Oh well,’ Scott sighed in his bitter disappointment. ‘The papers may have some intelligence value to the general’s staff.’
Cambridge wiped his brow which was streaming with sweat. ‘We might have been better off joining the lads and looting the enemy of their coins.’
‘We will have to explain our unauthorised raid on the village when we return,’ Scott cautioned. ‘At least our success might soften their ire.’
‘I will order the men to round up the captured horses, prisoners and have the two cannons towed back with us,’ Cambridge said. ‘Maybe the chest does contain something of military importance.’
Scott left the walled house, riding out to where Cambridge’s men were standing guard over the horses that had been taken in the raid. A fine roan mare caught Scott’s eye, and he decided she would not be handed over to the army back in Delhi for use as badly needed replacements for the cavalry. He dismounted and walked over to the horse. She appeared to have a good temperament and Scott stroked her nose.
‘You may as well take her, old chap,’ Cambridge said from astride his mount. ‘Otherwise the bloody contractors will keep her.’
Scott took her by the bridle and led her away.
The British cavalry returned to Delhi, pushing their prisoners and the captured horses ahead of them, with the captured cannons towed behind.
Scott rode beside Cambridge, leading the roan mare on a short rope.
‘Who is going to explain to the general about our little adventure?’ he asked.
‘I will,’ Cambridge replied. ‘I think his annoyance will be lessened when he sees what we achieved.’
‘It still does not explain why we carried out an unauthorised mission,’ Scott reminded him.
‘Military success trumps disobedience in the army,’ Cambridge replied, spurring his horse in the direction of the general’s HQ. Scott hoped his friend was right. Losing his hand was bad enough; losing his commission to a possible court-martial would be more than he could stand.
Scott broke away from the column and rode with the mare towards his brother’s surgery in the city. He arrived just as the sun had set and he could see the light from lanterns within. Scott secured the two horses and made his way upstairs to find Peter and Alice sitting down to dine.
‘Where have you been these last twenty-four hours?’ Peter asked accusingly, rising from the table. ‘Rumour around the city is that you and Major Cambridge decided to desert with fifty of Cambridge’s cavalry.’
‘Damned rumours. They seem to err on the most salacious side of any mistruth. No, I accompanied Major Cambridge on an impromptu mission to seek out the enemy only a few miles from here, and as a result we had a resounding victory that entailed no injury to ourselves but much to the mutineers. As a matter of fact, I personally captured two of their cannons and we brought back around fifty prisoners. Not bad when one considers they outnumbered us by at least three to one. I hope that you can spare another plate at the table because I am damned hungry.’
‘Of course,’ Alice said and called for their maid. ‘You should not have sallied forth with your wound still healing.’
Scott turned to his sister-in-law. ‘Ah, dear Alice, only concern and not accusation from you.’ He smiled. ‘I have brought back a present for you from our small adventure. So, before we dine I would like to present my gift downstairs.’ He could see the look of both surprise and curiosity in her face.
Peter and Alice followed Scott and in the dim light of the darkening sky Scott took the reins of the roan mare and handed them to Alice. ‘I thought you might enjoy a mount to get around the city,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘She is yours, dear Alice.’
Alice stood frozen, stunned by the wonderful gift. She had always been an excellent horsewoman and had a good eye for a well-bred horse. She could see that the mare was of extremely good quality. She reached up to stroke the animal’s nose.
‘She is magnificent, but such a fine gift is more than I deserve,’ Alice said, tears of joy already welling in her eyes. ‘I cannot accept such a beautiful present.’
‘Both your husband and I would agree that you deserve much more for the grand service you have rendered to the sick and wounded on this campaign. Let us just say she is also a gift from the British army for your sterling efforts.’
Peter stepped forward, extending his hand to his brother. ‘Thank you, brother,’ he said. ‘Alice will accept your gift, as we can both see how much it means to her.’
Scott gripped his brother’s hand, experiencing the love in the gesture.
The mare had seemed to take an instant liking to Alice, nuzzling close to her.
‘You need to give your horse a name,’ Scott said.
‘I will call her Molly,’ Alice said. ‘In honour of a remarkable young lady I once met.’
Cambridge was correct in his assumption that their small victory trumped their disobedience. The matter was quickly forgotten as the general staff pored through the captured documents worth much in enemy intelligence.
Thirty-two
Charles Forbes left his office in London on the Friday morni
ng and took his carriage to the Forbes manor in Kent. Inside the coach Charles leaned back to sip on a brandy flask and smoke a thick Cuban cigar. The coach clattered through the cobblestoned streets until it was out of the city and into the country lanes.
He stopped at a country inn for lunch and an ale or two, and then the journey continued through fields of grain, past copses of trees and the occasional low hill, until in the late afternoon they passed through the village nearest the manor. Charles felt the warmth of knowing that when he arrived home he would make arrangements for one of the maids to come to his bedroom that night.
The coach passed the small hill and its copse of ancient trees. Knowing what was buried in the circle of stones caused Charles a twinge of nervousness.
Suddenly, something smacked into the padding of the leather seat opposite him, and at the same time he swore he heard the report of a gun being fired as the horses reared in their harnesses.
‘Go!’ Charles screamed to the confused coachman, who instantly obeyed, bringing the horses under control. As the coach clattered away as fast as the horses could manage, Charles cowered in the cabin. It was obvious that someone had shot at him from near the ancient place of the Druids. A wave of terror rolled over Charles. It was as if the ghost of Jane Wilberforce had reached out to kill him.
The coach quickly reached the avenue leading to the Forbes manor and came to a stop at the front entrance.
‘Did you see who shot at us?’ Charles screamed at the coachman as he tumbled out.
‘No, sir,’ the coachman replied. ‘But I heard the shot. It weren’t no musket. I heard muskets when I was in the army and it weren’t no musket for sure. Are you hurt?’
‘No, but the projectile passed only inches from my head,’ Charles replied, his body still shaking with shock and fear. He glanced back at the carriage. ‘Coachman, I want you to extract the ball from the leather and bring it to me.’