Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  In this initial stage of their journey north they met no savage tribes, nor robber bands of dacoits, nor tigers. One evening a lone wolf wandered through their camp but no one was mauled and the beast was permitted to go on his way without being molested. On a clear morning in some foothills Crossman, Gwilliams and King were under a tamarind tree tracking a herd of gazelle. They had breech-loading hunting rifles with them. On sighting the wild creatures Crossman gave King the first shot.

  ‘Get the small mottled one,’ he murmured, as King took aim, ‘the one with the broken horn.’

  King took an inordinate time to aim, which tried the patience of Gwilliams, who finally whispered, ‘Hell man, shoot!’

  King fired. The ball zinged off a rock three yards to the left of the gazelle. The herd stirred, looked about them, but didn’t scent the hunters who were downwind then. The animals continued to graze on the side of the hill. Crossman, thinking that King had been put off his aim by something, quickly handed him his own rifle. King realized he had to shoot again, took aim, fired. This time the shot went even wider of its mark. The herd started to run. Gwilliams quickly took a bead on one of the fleeing herd. He squeezed the trigger. A young gazelle spun into the air, its racing momentum carrying it up into a somersault, and it landed in the dust. The rest of its companions were soon gone, into a line of bushes.

  ‘Damn, Sergeant,’ said Gwilliams, ‘you can’t hit a barn.’

  King handed Crossman’s rifle back to him.

  ‘The sight was out,’ he said. ‘It’s not an accurate weapon.’

  Crossman stared at his sergeant. ‘You missed with both sporting guns. These are excellent hunting weapons. I purchased them myself and they haven’t been out of their chamois-leather holsters until now. There is nothing the matter with either of them. I can’t believe how inept you are.’

  ‘Well – the wind is wrong,’ replied King, desperately. ‘It’s blowing too hard in the wrong direction.’

  ‘The wrong direction, hell,’ spluttered Gwilliams. ‘You just can’t shoot for nothin’, can you? I seen men like you before. When you was aimin’, that damn muzzle was waving around fit to draw circles in the air. Can’t you hold it still, man?’

  ‘It just sort of does that,’ replied King, miserably, giving up on his pretence. ‘I can’t help it. It’s always been the same.’

  Gwilliams nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘I tell you, sir, I heared about this fellah. He was in the 28th Foot and they threw him out.’

  ‘Is that true, Sergeant King?’ asked Crossman. ‘Were you in the infantry?’

  ‘Yes I was, sir.’

  ‘And they let you go?’

  ‘I couldn’t shoot straight. It’s something I can’t do. Never have been able to do.’

  Crossman took off his forage cap and threw it down into the dust to register his disgust.

  ‘Damnation. They give me a cross-eyed sergeant no one wants. Why can’t you shoot?’ he cried. ‘We’re down to two men now, if we get attacked.’ Something occurred to the lieutenant. ‘How can you survey land if you can’t see straight? You have to look through telescopes and things – what do you call it – your theodolite? It doesn’t make sense. What if we were to get you some spectacles?’

  ‘It’s not my vision, sir. I have perfect eyesight. I don’t know why I can’t shoot. I just can’t, that’s all. Something goes wrong between my brain and my hands. The rifle just won’t line up for me at the right time, at the right moment to fire. Not everyone can fire a weapon well.’

  ‘Everybody I know can,’ stated Gwilliams. ‘What’s so hard? You point the thing, you line up the sights with the target and you squeeze on the trigger. There ain’t nothin’ to it.’

  King stiffened and attempted to retrieve some of his dignity.

  ‘Well it doesn’t work in my case.’

  At that moment they were distracted by the sight of a leopard dragging their kill away to its own feasting ground. Already it had got about twenty yards with it, a tell-tale snaking mark in the dust. Crossman yelled ‘Hi!’ and went running up the slope towards the scavenger. The leopard stood its ground, snarled and spat, then crouched ready to leap on the approaching man. Gwilliams took out a revolver and fired at the leopard, the shot hitting the dust near the beast’s forepaws. It growled once more, then slunk away behind some boulders, leaving Crossman standing over the prey with his sword drawn, ready to battle for his breakfast.

  ‘There you are, Corporal, you’ve just missed yourself!’ cried King, triumphantly, pointing at the smoking revolver in Gwilliam’s hand. ‘You failed to hit your target.’

  Gwilliams curled his top lip. ‘I weren’t tryin’ to hit it. If I’d have shot the beast with this peashooter, it would’ve only made it mad and the lieutenant would be peeling leopard off his chest by now.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Back at the camp, the word soon got around the Indians that their ‘sergeant sahib’ who knew all about maps was no good with his matchlock and if they had expected protection from him to expect it no more. Ibhanan was annoyed with his companions. What did it matter that the sergeant sahib could not fire a musket? He was a mapmaker, not a killer of men.

  Crossman calmed down, once back in the camp, and called King to his tent.

  ‘I’m sorry I berated you so hard out there. It was a surprise.’

  ‘They should have told you. I should have told you.’

  ‘Well, we shall manage as best we can. Are you any good with a sword, if we get to close quarters? I need to know.’

  ‘I can use most blades efficiently.’

  ‘It’s not the killing, then?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘I’m not fond of killing, but I will do it if I am called to.’

  ‘Good. Good. What is it that you’re chewing?’ asked Crossman. ‘Is that dried beef?’

  King looked at what was in his hand and then said, ‘Oh, no – it’s something Ibhanan showed me. Tamarind. You chew on the seed case. It’s very sweet. Here, try some.’ He broke Crossman a piece off the hard reddish-brown shell which contained some dry beans.

  ‘You sure you don’t eat the seeds themselves?’ asked Crossman, staring suspiciously at the sliver which looked like a piece of old bark left in the sun too long. ‘It seems strange to eat the shell and not the nuts themselves.’

  ‘No, I am assured by Ibhanan. Didn’t your mam give you the bark of a willow to chew, when you had a headache as a youngster? Mine did. What’s so different about chewing the seed case?’

  Crossman nibbled at the seed case and found it tasted delightfully sweet.

  ‘I haven’t got a headache, for a start.’ Jack did not add that it was his nurse and then his governess who used natural cures on him, not his mother. ‘You’re sure it’s not poisonous?’

  ‘Yes I am – but I wouldn’t eat too much of it. I’m told the Indians eat it once a month to “clean out their insides” whatever that means. I suspect the stuff scours the guts, or something like. I am also informed that it will clean military brasses to parade inspection brilliance.’

  Crossman said, ‘A purgative, eh? That’s the last thing I need at the moment. Something to hold it in would be better received by my intestines. I don’t know about you, King, but everything I eat at the moment seems to turn to liquid once it reaches my belly. I did think it was a return of Crimean dysentery, but it’s not quite as bad as that. Just bad enough to keep me on the hop.’

  King’s square face broke into a grin. ‘Me too, sir.’

  The two men parted on better terms, having shared their problems with bowel movements.

  Gwilliams’ skills as a barber were only matched by his talents as a masseur. The Huron in Canada had taught him ‘bone and muscles manipulation’ which he practised on Jack. The lieutenant was plagued with aching limbs and he found that a session with Gwilliams pulling him this way and that, pummelling his upper arms, thighs, calves and other muscled parts of the body, gave him relief from pain for some days to come. However, the lieutenant wa
s quite embarrassed at having the rough corporal lay hands on his aristocratic form, so this was done in private in the officer’s tent, leaving Jack with the uncomfortable feeling of having a sordid secret. He felt he was participating in something not quite the thing among gentlemen.

  When they eventually reached Burhanpur they went through the town and beyond. Supplies and provisions were purchased as they passed by the various stores. Crossman then finally gave way and accepted the offer from a local rajah to stay at the rajah’s hunting lodge. The rajah’s last name was Singh and this confused Crossman.

  ‘I’m told the rajah is a Hindu, but I thought if one was named Singh one was a Sikh.’

  Ibhanan answered him, ‘All Sikhs are Singhs, but not all Singhs are Sikhs.’

  ‘Ah, I see – the lion surname is general, not exclusive.’

  The hunting lodge was a sprawling one-storey building covering a wide section of ground on the edge of a small dusty plain. Not particularly impressive on the outside, the interior was magnificent, with marbled tiled floor and walls, the marble inlaid with semiprecious stones such as jasper, agate, malachite, onyx, lapis-lazuli, garnet, and others. There were tigers’ heads decorating many passageways and in the dining room, fountains in the gardens and halls and even in some of the bedrooms, latticed windows that let the cool breezes blow through. In the gardens outside were oleanders, jasmine and hibiscus, which added their fragrance to the subtle scent of burning incense.

  In Crossman’s sleeping quarters there was a huge four-poster bed with fine muslin curtains hanging all round to keep out the mosquitoes and flies. A punkah-wallah – an enslaved orphan without family to protect him from powerful rajahs – sat like a shadow-puppet on a rush mat in the corner of the room and pulled on the string connected to a flapping ceiling fan. When no one was in the room, the young boy dozed softly where he sat. His meals were brought to him by one of his fellow servants. Crossman wondered whether the boy ever saw the light of day. Certainly his skin was much paler than that of most untouchables. When he tried his Hindi out on the boy, he got a lazy response. Crossman asked the boy what was making the noise he could hear which seemed to be coming from a tree in the courtyard.

  ‘Owls, sahib,’ said the boy, brightening. ‘May I show you?’

  He took Crossman outside and pointed up, into the branches of an oak-like tree. There were three spotted owls up in the crook of two boughs. They stared down at Crossman with round wondering eyes. Crossman was not very knowledgeable on wild life, but the punkah-wallah, whose name was Sajan, began to point out other birds and give Crossman their Indian names. When Crossman went to move the branches of a particular tree, though, Sajan stopped him, telling him it was a tree sacred to Hindus.

  ‘What is it called?’

  ‘It is a peepul tree, sahib.’

  ‘People?’ repeated Crossman. ‘How strange.’

  ‘Not to us, sahib. It is not strange to Hindus at all.’

  Crossman laughed at the boy’s earnestness.

  ‘You’re a very bright young man,’ said Crossman. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I think eight years.’

  ‘Well, you’re a very intelligent for your age.’ He gave the boy four annas. ‘Spend this wisely Sajan.’

  ‘I shall, sahib.’

  5

  There is always a village which springs up near any rajah’s palace or hunting lodge. The villagers are on hand to provide vegetables, meat and services required by the rajah at a moment’s notice. A living is to be had by simply being available to rich and powerful men and their retinues. A rajah must be able to simply snap his fingers for his desires to be met.

  Sergeant King knew where this village was located and, once he was off duty, walked to it alone. There he began asking questions of the local people, who were naturally suspicious of him. They answered him guardedly, saying they did not know such a one, that there was nobody in the district who went by that family name. King did not believe them, of course, for he knew that a family with that surname had lived in the area, not so many years ago, when King had been billeted there with his regiment.

  Although Crossman did not know it, Sergeant King had been to India before, when he first had joined the army at sixteen. He was seventeen when he had been standing in this very square, in the centre of the village, marvelling at all he saw and heard. Major Lovelace knew the sergeant had been in India. So did Colonel Hawke. Neither had thought to inform Lieutenant Crossman, though there was nothing sinister in that omission. It was simply a matter of forgetting, since it was not greatly important. King had been a private in those days, his emotions swamped by his first visit to the orient, and his experiences in the subcontinent had overwhelmed his spirit. He loved it with all his being – and now he had returned with stripes on his arm, to conquer the land which had conquered him.

  There had been a girl, of course. No memory of a new land is overwhelming unless love is involved, especially the first taste of love in an innocent youth during first blossom. India had awakened King’s soul and love had opened his heart wide enough to take in the Himalayas. His spirit had expanded, his mind had realized what riches there were to be had, and he had thrilled to the whole world. His ambitions, his inner joy, his love of knowledge had soared to heights of which he had not previously dreamed.

  There had been a dashing down, before everything became balanced again, but hope had never left him stranded.

  Yet, now, in the village, those hopes were being crushed. No one could tell him where the girl was. They swore they had never heard of her or her family. He dragged his feet back to the hunting lodge, disappointment like a lump of lead in his breast. Would he ever pass this way again? And if he did, would they still deny him? He guessed what it was. The girl was probably married now, to one of her own kind. Some handsome local boy had stolen her heart and they were even now sitting down to a meal of chapattis and curried potatoes, laughing with each other. He would have to bear it, that was all. He would have to carry his cross.

  6

  That evening all three soldiers were invited to dine with the rajah.

  ‘Today is a religious day – the festival of Rama Navami,’ said the servant bearing the message, ‘and my master would be pleased to entertain you on such an auspicious occasion.’

  His master’s name was Rajah Jaswant Singh. This rajah was a young man, not more than twenty years of age, with a flawless complexion and very white teeth. Gwilliams was suspicious of him because he used make-up around his eyes, but King told the corporal that was probably quite usual for young Indians with some wealth. Certainly it would seem from the trophies that decorated the walls he was no wilting flower. Crossman asked the rajah if he had shot all the tigers, blackbucks and gaurs himself.

  ‘No, Lieutenant, my father shot some of them. But I am responsible for at least half of the beasts.’

  ‘What do you use? Your hunting weapon?’

  ‘I have some English guns – Purdeys.’

  ‘Ah, I have a good friend, a major in the British army, who swears by Purdeys.’

  The rajah drew deeply on a hookah, before replying, ‘I too am very persuaded by them. Would you like to come hunting with me tomorrow morning? I should be pleased to let you try them.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I am unable to delay my journey. I thank you kindly for your offer and sincerely regret having to excuse myself. Perhaps, if I pass this way again . . .?’

  ‘I understand, Lieutenant. There is a wind of unrest in the land. You should be where you are most needed.’

  The rajah did not expand upon this and Crossman did not feel he could question him further. However, after a little thought, Jack decided it would not hurt to lose a morning. He might learn more if he accepted the rajah’s offer.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘could I make a change of mind? On reflection I believe my schedule is not so tight as to prevent me from one morning’s pleasure.’

  ‘By all means,’ cried the delighted rajah. ‘Tomorrow it is t
hen!’

  The was another European guest of the rajah at their table. He was a big bluff bearded man with a North England accent. His box coat and trousers were made of heavy black cloth and there was a black broad-brimmed hat on the floor beside his seat. Beneath his coat he wore a grey shirt with a black-ribbon tie that hung loosely down inside his collar. There was a thick black leather belt around his waist and black boots on his feet. He looked a truly formidable man, in a depressing way.

  John Stillwell, as he gave his name, told the soldiers he was a Methodist minister, though he quickly assured the rajah it was not his intention to convert the local people to his religion.

  ‘I am what is known as a Primitive Methodist and am on my way to Delhi to offer my services to the Europeans who live in that city. May I ask what is thy persuasion, Lieutenant?’

  Crossman divined correctly that the minister wanted to know what was his religious denomination. He replied that he was a Presbyterian when at home in Scotland. Sergeant King was not asked but offered the information that he was ‘just ordinary church, myself’. Gwilliams, true to his wandering nature, had been everything from a ‘Ebionite Baptist’ to a ‘Pharisee Pentecostalist’ but at the moment was between ‘denominations and sects of any kind’.

  ‘Every man should have a Church,’ admonished Stillwell, ‘so I suggest you find one very soon, Corporal.’

  At one point, King, who was sitting next to John Stillwell, leaned over and in a low voice asked what it was the rajah was smoking.

  ‘I believe it is bhang, sir,’ boomed the minister, in a very loud voice. He sniffed the air, drawing it in noisily through his nostrils as though he wished to suck the dust of ages from the room. ‘Yes, that is what it is – bhang. It enlivens the mind for a short while, before the smoker becomes befuddled and over-placid. Would thee like some? I could ask our host to provide thee with another hubble-bubble. I’m sure he would oblige.’