‘I look forward to making up my own mind on that count.’
Proudfoot looked up sharply. He opened his mouth as if about to disagree before thinking better of it, contenting himself with a gentle shake of his head at his new subordinate’s belligerence.
‘Major Dutton commands our contingent from the 12th. He has fashioned them into a fine body of men. Although I expect you’ll wish to make your own mind up about that too.’ Proudfoot sneered, enjoying his own barbed rebuke.
Jack smiled, unconcerned by the comment. ‘Indeed. I look forward to being able to inspect them.’
Proudfoot puffed his cheeks out. ‘That is not quite what I meant. Look here, Danbury. I am very aware that many Queen’s officers look down on those commissioned by the Company, but I will not tolerate such arrogance here. We are united in our purpose and I will not allow any prejudice to divert us.’
‘You are quite right, sir. I merely meant that I am keenly anticipating having the opportunity to see the 12th in the flesh.’ Jack’s reply was polite, but there was little indication of apology in his expression.
‘Well, I suspect you’ll get that opportunity shortly. I am sure we will all be very gratified to have the opinion of an experienced soldier.’ Proudfoot’s voice was icy. ‘Did you see any action in the Crimea?’
‘A little.’ A shiver ran down Jack’s spine as he involuntarily recalled the storming of the great redoubt on the slopes overlooking the Alma River. The Russian gunners had mercilessly shredded the redcoats’ ranks, in a desperate bid to turn back the tide of men that marched so steadily towards them. The redcoats had ignored their fearsome casualties, advancing though the dreadful fire to take the redoubt. Jack had been in the front rank of the assault.
‘Good fellow.’ Proudfoot nodded his approval. ‘We need men of action here. Men who are not frightened of taking the opportunities presented to them. Men like us, Danbury. Men like us.’
He had leant forward as he had spoken, his passion obvious. Now he eased back in his chair as if the discussion had been exhausting.
‘Well, I am very pleased to find we are to have an experienced soldier with us. I sincerely hope we will not have need of your particular skills, but I shall not shrink from a fight if one is forced upon me. Now we must look to get you settled in. I think it will help you if you share a bungalow with Fenris at the start. He has more than enough space. You can form a chummery until you get settled.’
Proudfoot plucked a small silver bell from the corner of his desk, ringing it with a single casual flick of the wrist. The door to the office was whipped open before the gentle sound had quite finished, the official’s khansama marching smartly into the room and snapping to attention.
‘Show Captain Danbury to Lieutenant Fenris’ bungalow.’
The two officers got to their feet and Proudfoot walked quickly around the desk to shake Danbury by the hand, signalling the close of their meeting.
‘I shall send my steward to collect you for dinner.’ Proudfoot smiled, once more showing real warmth. ‘It is good you are here, Danbury. I have a feeling you will fit in nicely. We have need of men of good breeding and experience.’
Jack returned the smile, the irony of Proudfoot’s words amusing. He might have had as much right to be there as a maharajah’s bastard had to claim a throne, but he was determined to make good his ambition and once again secure the life he craved. He had to, no matter what difficulties he faced. He had nothing else.
Jack sat alone in the darkened room his eyes closed as he savoured the peace of solitude, his body enjoying the cool air that filtered through the wetted grass screens that covered the windows. His heavy scarlet uniform coat lay discarded on the simple iron bedstead that took up most of the space in the bungalow’s single guest room to which he had been shown. He had arrived after the hour for tiffin, and so, much to his relief, the bungalow’s other occupant, Lieutenant Fenris, was with his men, carrying out his afternoon duties now that luncheon, and the worst of the day’s heat, was out of the way. With the cantonment’s other officers and civilian officials working until late in the afternoon, Jack would be spared the strain of the necessary introductions until later. Proudfoot’s dinner loomed large on the immediate horizon, yet for the moment, at least, he could shed the outer shell of the Queen’s officer, revealing the man who dwelt beneath its protective folds.
It was only at moments such as this that he allowed his thoughts to venture into the recesses of his mind that he kept closed off and secured when in company. He had been not lying when he told Major Proudfoot that it had been a long journey to Bhundapur, but the official could not begin to imagine just how far he had come. His journey had begun in a hospital in Scutari. It was a hellish place, a disgrace that the British people were only just now becoming aware of, thanks to the candid eyewitness accounts arriving from William Russell of The Times. The newspapers Jack had been able to buy in Calcutta were full of Russell’s reports, shocking tales of the suffering being endured by the wounded and sick soldiers left to rot in the fetid and squalid conditions found in the allied hospital.
In such an appalling environment soldiers were dying at a terrifying rate, and there in a quiet back room, James Danbury became one of them, his dreams of a future in India and a new life in the Queen’s most striking colony dying with him. His only legacy had been an identity for a man becoming accustomed to a life of loneliness and guilt. For former orderly Jack Lark, Danbury’s death had opened a path to a new future, a life as a captain in the 24th Regiment of Foot, an escape from a bitter past.
Jack flapped his hand ineffectually at a fly that was buzzing around his face, and poked into the murkiest corners of his mind, picking at the memories that festered in the darkness. Remembering the past.
He had once been rebuked for his lack of gumption, for failing to seize the opportunities life presented. He had loved the young woman who had delivered the reprimand, but she had died, and he had been left alone and without direction. In the awful hours following her death, Jack had been forced to leave the regiment that had been his home since he had joined the redcoats, as he journeyed to war at the side of his master, Captain Arthur Sloames.
But fate would not let him escape so easily. Sloames sickened and died, leaving Jack alone once more. Abandoned and bereft of any ties, he had embarked on his first charade, becoming the officer he had always dreamt of being; assuming the name and station of Captain Arthur Sloames, the commander of the Light Company in the King’s Royal Fusiliers. He had been determined to prove that the product of London’s poorest rookeries could be the equal of those born with the money and influence to purchase their rank, their place in society guaranteed by a respectable family and backed by three per cent government stock. He had done it to prove to the girl who had loved him that she not been wrong to choose him.
As Sloames, Jack had led his men into the terrifying cauldron of battle, the vicious fight at the Alma River a proving ground for his ability as an officer. The harsh reality had made a mockery of his naïve aspirations, the carnage of the battle washing away in a cascade of blood and horror any ambition he had once nurtured.
Now, as he sat alone in the bungalow, Jack contemplated his future, seeking a way forward that would allow him to shrug off the shackles of his former life and carry the burden of guilt that had crushed his soul since the Alma.
The setting sun lit the darkening sky with a fabulous display of red and ochre, the day’s final, vibrant celebration before the onrushing darkness laid claim to the baked land. The silent streets awoke as the burning heat faded, the inhabitants of the cantonment emerging from their sanctuaries. The town sprang back into life, the bustle and commotion of the early evening breathing life back into the sun-bleached streets.
The British cantonment was separated from the city of Bhundapur by a wide maidan, a broad sweep of ground that kept the adminitrators and enforcers of Her Majest
y’s will wholly apart from the town over which they held jurisdiction, the cultural divide manifest in half a mile of dusty scrub and parched soil.
Facing the maidan was the row of officers’ bungalows. Broadly spaced and immaculate in a coat of bright whitewash, the homes of the leaders of the British forces and the highest-ranked civil appointees enjoyed a breathtaking view over the city. Neatly trimmed hedges and pristine rose gardens provided natural partitions between the houses, the complex web of irrigation channels that fed their gardens snaking backwards like umbilical cords linking the elegant greenery to the series of wells and bullock-powered pumps that drew the precious water from deep underground.
Large dusty parade grounds provided plenty of space to drill the four companies of infantry under Proudfoot’s command. A firing ground on the side of the cantonment furthest from the town allowed the red-coated infantry to train away from the prying eyes of the ever-watchful sentries standing guard on the high stone wall that had protected Bhundapur from attack for centuries.
Behind the row of officers’ bungalows were the barracks for the British redcoats. Wide, airy rooms with high ceilings and tall windows, surrounded by a broad veranda, allowed the Queen’s soldiers to live in comfort, even in the blistering heat. The smaller, darker barracks of the native troops were pushed well to the western edge of the cantonment, the sepoys kept apart even from the lowliest of British redcoats.
The cantonment was an ordered, very English haven for the men stationed in this distant corner of the British Empire. It allowed them to live a life apart from the population they governed, immune to the precarious nature of their situation. For they were surrounded and alone, outnumbered by thousands to their every one, yet they carried on with their lives as if they were in the peaceful English countryside and not close to the wild frontier of the Empire; self-satisfied and complacent even as the storm clouds gathered on the horizon.
Jack tugged hard at the hem of his scarlet jacket, straightening the creases that had formed as he walked the short distance to Major Proudfoot’s bungalow. Even in the cooler evening air he was sweating, the cotton handkerchief he had brought with him already sodden from constant wiping across his face. The thick uniform was wholly unsuited to the Indian climate, yet the army made no allowances, so the Queen’s officers sweated their way through their duties, their cotton shirts needing to be changed many times a day lest the stench offend the noses of any who ventured near.
Gentle laughter reached Jack’s ears, the clink of the cut crystal clearly audible over the constant clicking and calling of the vast multitude of insects that prowled and fluttered through the darkness. He closed his eyes as he tried to summon the willpower to face the company that had assembled to greet the newly arrived officer.
The polite cough of the khansama forced him to open his eyes. Jack smiled as he saw the discreet servant looking back at him. As much as he would wish it differently, it was time to play the part he had chosen. So, like an actor striding from the wings, he nodded to the patient servant and walked towards the gathering with as much determination as he could muster.
‘Danbury! Welcome.’ Proudfoot stood at the top of the steps that led up to the porch at the front of his large bungalow. As cordial as his words were, Jack detected a trace of annoyance in his commander’s voice, as if he had been waiting with growing impatience for his new captain to belatedly appear.
‘Do come in. I have a number of people anxious to meet you.’
The major held out an arm, ushering Jack inside the brightly lit bungalow. Proudfoot had once again eschewed military attire, favouring a close-fitting dinner jacket of the deepest red with an intricate web of gold thread swirling over the breast. A thick white cravat was wrapped tightly around his neck, forcing his chin upwards so that he peered down his nose as Jack strode quickly up the steps and into the light.
‘Welcome, Danbury, welcome,’ repeated Proudfoot, shaking Jack warmly by the hand, his grip dry and cool despite the heat. He held the handshake and leant forward to speak softly into Jack’s ear. ‘The regimentals are all well and good in Calcutta, Danbury old man, but out here you really must look to adapt. I’ll set you up with my tailor. He’s a fine chap, for a local. We’ll have you kitted out properly in a jiffy. Now,’ he pulled back and smiled, all trace of his former irritation gone, ‘let’s get on with it, shall we?’
The sea of faces turned in unison as Jack was led into the bungalow’s generously proportioned drawing room. With its high ceiling, the room felt airy and cool, an effect enhanced by the tint of green added to the whitewash that had been meticulously applied to the walls. The windows had been covered by the sort of thin wire-mesh screens more usually seen in a butcher’s shop back in England, a defence against the multitude of insects drawn by the room’s bright lights. Jack was surprised to see no grass tatties at the windows, yet the room felt surprisingly cool, although the air was ripe with the pungent perfume of the few ladies present, the heady aromas vying for dominance with all the vigour of a Russian skirmish line.
A pair of strange contraptions had been built around two of the drawing room’s windows; Jack supposed these were a pair of the new-fangled thermantidotes that were all the rage for cooling the air in the more fashionable homes in Calcutta. The clever combination of air funnels, fans and water-soaked screens did not come cheap. Proudfoot was clearly a man of means.
Jack did his best to hide his nerves as he looked around the small congregation, bobbing his head in acknowledgement of the attention directed towards him. Disappointingly, the strangers were just as he had expected. The flushed and rounded faces of the officials, their chins bulging over starched collars that constricted their wide necks and forced their spare chins into thick ribbons of flesh under their jaws. The confident appraisal of the junior officers as they sized up the new arrival and wondered what competition they faced. The guarded eyes of the women as they surreptitiously inspected his lean body, any desire hidden behind a dignified facade of insouciant respectability.
He let himself be led into the throng, his heart beating faster. He knew that the challenge of maintaining his deception would be at its greatest with people born into the world into which he had intruded. He had declined the invitations he had received whilst waiting for his transport to be arranged for precisely that reason, unwilling to test his ability to carry off his assumed identity, even in the transient society of Calcutta. Now that he was in Bhundapur, such situations could not be avoided, and he did his best to look composed even as his bowels twisted with apprehension. He might be able to convince officers on campaign, or passengers on a Peninsular and Oriental steamer, that he knew what he was about, but this was the first time he had encountered such a social gathering. He would rather face a column of Russian infantry than converse with a middle-aged spinster, who would seize upon any lack of social grace with relish. A drawing room of ageing Englishmen and women was as much of a threat to his continued survival as a battlefield, and twice as complicated.
He pushed the fears away and fixed his expression into what he hoped was a friendly smile, doing his best to acknowledge the greetings directed towards him. The faces passed in a blur, the nods and smiles merging into one. Among the surging throng he caught a glimpse of a younger face, belonging to a blonde girl who stood out like an eagle in a pigeon coop. A pair of green eyes matched his appraisal with a confident, mocking stare before she was hidden from view by the meaty shoulders of the matronly figure being ushered towards him on the arm of a portly, grey-bearded gentleman dressed in full regimentals.
‘Danbury, let me introduce you to Major Dutton.’ Proudfoot took Jack by the elbow, propelling him towards the commander of the contingent from the 12th Bengal Native Infantry.
‘Dutton.’ The major’s handshake was as curt and abrupt as his introduction of his wife. ‘Hilary.’
‘Danbury. I am pleased to meet you both.’ Jack hoped his words conveyed an e
nthusiasm he did not feel. The major’s wife had an ample bosom, artlessly displayed by a shoulderless dress of vivid scarlet that clung precariously to her many folds and creases. Jack had enough time to notice Proudfoot slipping away as the introductions were made before he was forced to cock an ear in what he hoped was a sign of encouragement as Mrs Dutton started to speak.
‘How was your journey, Captain Danbury? It is such a long way from Calcutta.’ Dutton’s wife smiled as she spoke, but there was no hiding the salacious appraisal she gave or the sparkle in her eyes as she savoured what she saw.
‘Enough of your mothering, my dear.’ Dutton interrupted his wife, saving Jack from a meaningless reply about heat, bullock carts and interminable delays. He took an immediate liking to the blunt officer. ‘The man will have had his fill of damned travelling, is that not so, Danbury?’
‘Indeed,’ Jack replied politely, doing his best to smile reassuringly at Mrs Dutton as she shrank away from the conversation, her husband’s authority clear.
‘Ready for some real soldiering, I expect.’ Dutton smiled wolfishly at the notion, revealing an array of discoloured teeth. ‘All this shilly-shallying around takes its toll on a man, what?’
‘Quite true.’
Dutton leant forward to speak in a confiding whisper. ‘I could see you were a man of action as soon as I clapped eyes on you. How was the Crimea? Did you see much action?’
The Maharajah's General Page 3