The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  Yet none could stand in the face of the lancers.

  Dutton roared as he fought. He stamped his right foot forward, driving his sword into the guts of one of the wild hill men who had broken through the line. He twisted the blade, stepping backwards before backhanding it and beating aside the spear that had been thrust at his side. He punched the sword forward once more, snatching away the throat of the man who had tried to kill him, the whisper of blood flung wide by the blow.

  The press of men around him eased, the nearest enemy soldiers backing away before turning to run.

  ‘Thank God.’ Dutton felt the surge of relief course through him. They had held. They had done the impossible.

  ‘Back to the barricade! Well done, men! Well done …’ The major’s voice died away. His men were running. The enemy were clearing to the flanks, their faces twisted in fear as they fled.

  Dutton didn’t understand. He looked at the remains of the wall he had ordered made. There was little of it left, the mealie bags and crates pushed aside or lying crushed and splintered where the enemy had broken through. Along its length was a carpet of bodies, the bright red of the sepoys’ jackets spread thickly amidst the corpses of the enemy.

  The ground vibrated under his feet, a deep, resonant thunder that reverberated through his exhausted body. Dutton looked up, and for the first time he saw the blue line that surged towards him.

  The lancers charged the barricade. The horses leapt over the remains of the obstacle, their riders swaying in the saddle as they adjusted their weight to absorb the landing. They swept on without a pause, their lances twitching as they calmly picked their first targets.

  They hit the running men with an audible slap. The screams of the dying were shut off as their bodies fell under the galloping horses, the heavy hooves crushing away any last vestige of life. The lancers’ line broke as they charged into the fleeing sepoys, the riders yanking at the reins as they sought more targets for their blood-splattered lances. The sepoys were slaughtered as they ran, the merciless lancers spurring hard to ride down any that survived.

  ‘Front rank. Fire!’ Jack roared the order as soon as he saw the left flank of the lancers’ line break through the thin screen of scattered sepoys. ‘Reload!’

  He watched in grim satisfaction as the nearest lancers fell to the first volley, the musket balls slamming cruelly into the flesh of horse and rider, the fire indiscriminate.

  ‘Rear rank, present!’

  He counted the seconds in his head. He knew it would take his men around twenty seconds to reload, and he had to hold back the rear rank’s volley to make sure the redcoats kept up a regular fire on the swarming lancers. He waited, his icy calm reassuring his command, who watched in horror as the enemy lancers butchered the remains of Dutton’s fortress.

  The seconds crawled by. The front rank rushed to reload their muskets, but to Jack it seemed as if time had frozen. He saw an unseated lancer scramble to his feet, his hands reaching for the sabre belted around his waist. He stared at the man, recognising him from the long hours spent drilling with the lancers. He saw sadness on the man’s face as he watched his mount drumming its hooves into the ground in agony, its body swathed in a sheet of red blood from the dreadful wound in its chest. The lancer turned, his face twisted in hatred, his sword lifting as he charged towards the 24th, determined to carry on the fight, to take his sabre against the men who had killed the horse he had loved.

  ‘Fire!’

  The second rank’s volley crashed out. Jack gripped and re-gripped the handle of his sword as he began the long, slow count for a second time. The unseated lancer was gone, his remains lying no more than ten paces from the thrashing body of his mount, his rage and desire for revenge obliterated by the musket ball that had torn his body apart.

  ‘Dutton!’ Through the powder smoke Jack saw the major staggering backwards. His hat was gone and a river of blood ran from a dreadful wound to his scalp. Jack was close enough to see the blood that stained the sabre in Dutton’s hand. The major turned, his face twisted into a grimace of horror.

  Jack held his stare. He could see the pain in the older officer’s face, the dreadful shock at the lancers’ charge clear in his wide, vacant eyes.

  A lancer rode Dutton down. The long lance was driven through the major’s back with such force that the tip emerged from his chest in a gory fountain of blood. Dutton fell instantly, his body thrown like a rag doll to lie face down in the dirt.

  ‘Front rank! Fire!’ Jack ordered the next volley despite the shudder that ran through him as he watched his fellow officer die. He was acting like an automaton, the commands coming unbidden to his lips as he handled the power of the 24th’s brutal volleys with familiarity, a craftsman using his tools.

  The lancer who had struck Dutton down turned as the volley thundered out. He didn’t flinch as the bullets whispered past, but pulled hard at his horse’s reins, his free right hand reaching for the jewel-encrusted sabre at his waist now that his lance was stuck fast in Dutton’s body, the need to fight driving him, the urge to kill all-consuming. Jack recognised the rider. The Maharajah of Sawadh had not shirked the fight.

  Jack stared as the Maharajah rammed his spurs hard into his mount’s side, the enemy leader’s mouth wide open as he summoned his riders to greater efforts. Jack tore his eyes away. There was no time for regret. He stalked along his thin line, walking from flank to flank, prowling behind his men, counting off the seconds until the next volley, the steady rate of fire the only thing that could save them from the same bloody fate as Dutton and his men.

  The lancers ploughed across the parade square. The open area that had seemed such a boon to the defenders was now transformed into a killing ground.

  A handful of sepoys still ran for their lives, the terrified fugitives scattering to the wind as they tried to escape the dreadful lances. None made it more than fifty yards. Red-coated bodies lay dotted in every direction. A few still lived, twisting and writhing on the ground in agony, the wounds inflicted by the razor-sharp lance tips horrific. Most lay still, in the unnatural, twisted poses of death, victims of the dreadful skill of the disciplined lancers.

  Jack heard the trumpet blare. The Maharajah’s voice roared as he ordered his men to re-form, reasserting control over the lancers who had ridden to such bloody success. For the battle was not yet finished.

  The Maharajah reined in, coming to a halt directly opposite the 24th’s thin line. The lancers began to assemble around him, the ordered lines rebuilding after the careering gallop in pursuit of the fleeing sepoys.

  Jack pushed through his men. ‘Reload.’ He gave the order quietly as he walked to stand in front of the line, directly in the Maharajah’s path. As he did so, he watched the Maharajah. He saw the rueful smile on the man’s face, the slow shake of the head as the ruler realised that the Englishman he had allowed to live was standing in his way. Yet there was coldness in the brown eyes now, a despair that Jack had not seen before.

  He withdrew his revolver, taking it in his left hand, his talwar ready in his right. As he watched, the smile left the Maharajah’s face. It was replaced by the dispassionate expression of a killer.

  Behind him, the outnumbered redcoats stood in silence. In front of them, the lancers aligned their ranks so that their charge would bear down on their red-coated opponents who waited so patiently to meet them. The defiant British soldiers were the final obstacle between the Maharajah and success. It would take one last charge, one last bloodletting, and he would claim the victory that could save his kingdom.

  The trumpet blared. The three notes were clear, the even call echoing in the silence that had fallen over the blood-soaked battlefield.

  It was the call to charge, the challenge to the cavalry to rake back their spurs and commit to the final madness.

  And it came from the British.

  The 1st Bengal Irregular Cav
alry responded to the call to charge, the tide of bright yellow jackets flowing quickly into the wide expanse of open ground. With teeth bared, the dark faces beneath the golden headgear opened their mouths to scream their challenge aloud, the thrill of combat driving them forward.

  A red-coated officer led the charge. Even from a distance, Jack could recognise the man who had become his enemy. Fenris held his sabre raised above his head as he thundered towards the Maharajah’s cavalry.

  The British tore into the flank of the stationary lancers. They scythed through the ordered ranks, cutting the blue-coated men down before they could react. The right-hand side of the Maharajah’s formation was gutted in moments, the British irregular cavalrymen ripping it to shreds.

  The lancers broke. The easy victory was snatched away, the final charge against the stubborn redcoats forgotten as they pulled at their reins and urged their tired mounts to turn and make a dash for safety.

  The Bengal Cavalry went after them, cutting down any too slow to escape their brutal assault. Some lancers broke free from the vicious melee; Jack saw the Maharajah bent low over his saddle, surrounded by a group of his men who were thrusting their lances at the yellow-coated cavalrymen, selling their own lives in a desperate bid to give their ruler the chance to escape.

  ‘Stay here!’ He shouted the order as he ran, leaving his astonished command to watch as he dashed towards the heart of the melee. It was time to find a horse.

  The animal pulled away from Jack’s approach. Its nostrils flared wide in distress, but it had been trained well and it only shied away before again standing still close to the torn body of its fallen master.

  Jack murmured as he approached, using the words he had learnt under Prince Abhishek’s tutelage, holding out his hand to the nervous animal. He trod carefully around the ruined body of the lancer. The poor man had been hit full in the face by a musket ball, and there was nothing but a nauseating, pulsating mass where his head had once been.

  The animal whinnied, something in Jack’s manner reassuring, the soft words soothing its fear. It shivered as the unfamiliar touch ran over its flanks, but it stayed still long enough for Jack to launch himself into the saddle.

  He slipped his feet into the stirrups, the familiar feeling of being astride a horse rushing through him. He pulled gently on the reins, turning the animal’s head around before kicking it into motion.

  He rode after the Maharajah.

  Prince Abhishek cursed. He stayed at his father’s side, urging his tired horse to keep pace with the Maharajah’s escort even as the British cavalry tore through the men behind him. He dropped his bloodied lance and tugged his talwar from its scabbard, knowing the long reach of the lance would count against him in the vicious melee of hand-to-hand fighting.

  The small group broke free and rode for the sharply sided valley that still bore the churned-up, bloodstained soil of the previous day’s fighting. They rode for their lives, staying close to one another as they raced away. Yet their horses were already tired, the long ride from the citadel followed by the charge against Dutton’s sepoys draining much of their strength. There would be no easy escape.

  Abhishek glanced over his shoulder and saw the throng of horsemen riding after them. They were led by one of the red-coated devils who had plagued his father’s land for decades. Abhishek knew then what he had to do. His father had to escape. He was the only man capable of binding the kingdom’s wounds and finding a way to secure some sort of future under the oppressive authority of the foreign queen.

  He reined in hard, slowing his mount and yanking its head round so that he faced his pursuers. The Maharajah and his remaining lancers did not notice his sudden manoeuvre and raced on, their horses labouring to keep them from the relentless pursuit.

  Abhishek threw his head back, calling to his gods, daring them to bear witness to his death. He thrust his spurs into his mount’s sides, making it rear on its haunches before it gathered its last strength and once again strained its aching sinews as it accelerated. Prince Abhishek, heir to the kingdom of Sawadh, was riding to meet his death.

  He screamed as he charged, roaring his challenge to the gods he had summoned. He closed on the pursuing riders, urging his tired mount into the gallop, feeling the joy of the charge for the second time that day.

  But this time he knew he would die.

  He roared as he slashed his blade at the first figure that rushed past him, his arm jarring as the sharp edge caught the man’s ribcage. The blow knocked the rider from the saddle, his chest sliced open by the single strike, the red stain of blood bright against the gaudy yellow of his jacket.

  Abhishek was turning even before the man had hit the ground. He backhanded his weapon, using the sharpened rear to strike at a second rider, slicing across the man’s face to leave a nauseating flap of skin hanging as he scored a deep wound through his features.

  The pursuers were turning now, wheeling round to counter the madman who had charged into their midst.

  ‘He’s mine!’

  Abhishek heard the red-coated officer bellow at his men, but he was in no mood to listen. He rose high in the stirrups, urging his horse to leap forward, timing the movement perfectly, punching the tip of his talwar into the spine of the nearest enemy rider. He twisted the blade as soon as he felt it catch the man’s backbone, releasing the weapon from the clutches of his flesh. He had enough time to recover the blade before the red-coated officer came at him.

  Their blades met, the vicious contact jarring both men’s arms. Neither flinched. They hacked at each other, using their knees to control their mounts as they twisted round. Their swords slashed and parried, yet neither could penetrate the other man’s defences. They bellowed as they fought, grunting with the force of the blows, howling in frustration as they failed to land the telling attack. Parry followed parry, the strikes coming in quick succession, both men fighting with desperate skill as they battled to cut the other down.

  Jack heard the sound of fighting before he could see what has happening. He had urged his mount on, feeling the tremors in the horse’s body as he drove it past the point of exhaustion, cruel in his mastery. He saw Prince Abhishek engaging Lieutenant Fenris, unable to do anything but spur the flagging animal onwards as the two men fought their desperate duel.

  He was still a hundred yards away when he heard Fenris shriek in victory.

  The British officer deflected the prince’s sword wide, finally beating aside the man’s defences. He rammed his sabre forward, punching the tip into the prince’s body, and bellowed in victory as he felt the sword slide into the younger man’s guts, the resistance of the flesh giving way against the vicious blow.

  Fenris leant forward, pushing all his weight behind his sword, twisting the blade so that it churned in his opponent’s stomach, the blood pumping from the dreadful wound to run hot and sticky over his hand. He saw the shock on the prince’s face, the searing agony reaching the young man’s eyes.

  ‘Die, you bastard.’ Fenris eased his weight forward so his face was inches from the dying prince’s. Vicious in his victory, he spat out the words, his spittle flung to fleck his enemy’s face. ‘I won.’ Abhishek’s eyes glazed over, the prince’s face betraying his youth as he approached death. ‘You lost.’ Fenris gave his blade a final twist before he pulled the sword out, swaying backwards to avoid the body that toppled from the saddle.

  The boy hit the ground face first. The Maharajah’s son and heir, the rajkumar, was dead.

  ‘Ride them down!’ Fenris snarled the order.

  The men from the 1st Bengal Cavalry had watched in horror as the British officer cursed the Maharajah’s son. Now they gathered their reins, exchanging looks with their fellows, disgust mirrored on every face.

  ‘Ride, damn you!’ Fenris turned his horse in a tight circle, sneering into the faces of the men who surrounded him. ‘Ride!’

 
The habit of obedience ran deep. The rissaldar who led the riders barked his own orders, throwing his reins forward and spurring his horse away. His men followed, happy to be away from the vicious officer who fought with such disdain.

  ‘Fenris!’

  Lieutenant Fenris started at hearing his name. He had thought to take the body of the young prince back to Proudfoot, claiming the reward he knew would be his for removing the only male heir to the throne of Sawadh. He saw a rider hurtling towards him and he felt the hatred flare deep in his veins. It appeared he was being given the chance to bring back two bodies. He smiled as he recognised the opportunity that was being presented to him.

  He would add the body of the charlatan to that of the foreign prince.

  ‘Hello, Arthur,’ Jack called out in greeting before slipping from the saddle as his horse came to a halt.

  Fenris turned, a twisted smile on his face. ‘Good timing. You can help me with this corpse.’

  Jack looked down at the body of the prince. He thought of the times he had cursed the Maharajah’s son, damning the prince for the long, hard hours he had endured as he learnt to ride. He recalled too, the jealousy he had felt when he understood the young man’s desire for Isabel. Now, he studied the bloodstained corpse lying face down in the dust and tried to feel nothing, to deny the emotion that surged through him.

  ‘Put the dirty beggar back on his horse, would you, old chap?’ Fenris stood still as he gave the order, using his sabre to point to the pathetic remains of the Rajkumar of Sawadh.

  Jack saw the calculating look on Fenris’ face. He noticed the sword still held low in his right hand, dripping with Abhishek’s blood. He looked into Fenris’ eyes and saw death.

  ‘You killed him. You do it.’ He turned his back on the lieutenant, making as if to walk back to his own horse.

  He heard the scrabble of feet on the dusty soil and turned just as Fenris launched himself forward, his sword flung in a wide arc, the blow aimed at Jack’s head. At the last moment, Fenris twisted his wrist, angling the sword down so that it was aimed at the joint of neck and shoulder, the sudden change in direction almost quicker than the eye could detect.