He sighed, knowing exactly what she would have done. Yet, she was a woman, governed by such things as kindness to strangers. He was an officer in the army and as such was expected to make hard brittle decisions.
Yet, as Ibhanan had said, they would probably never pass this way again, and if they did he could always protest that the boy was not found until they were two days out. Deception, deception. But he could not bring himself to consign Sajan to a listless and apathetic life of pulling on a length of string. He could not save all the punkah-wallahs in India of course, but this one had touched his life.
When John Stillwell got the gist of what was happening he threw his hands up in horror.
‘This is abduction, sir. We shall be held to account for it. The rajah or the boy’s father will force a court martial.’
‘Mine will be the sole responsibility, Minister. I am the officer commanding this expedition.’
‘We shall all be tarred with the same brush.’
‘The boy stays. That is my decision.’
John Stillwell seemed to gather in size and formidability, like a great black bear fluffing its fur coat.
‘This is a very dangerous decision, Lieutenant.’
‘You, sir,’ said Crossman, ‘are a guest of my expedition and have no voice here. If you wish to travel with us you may do so. Otherwise you may go it alone. But I will not have my authority questioned by civilian camp followers.’
‘Dost thou mean to insult me, Lieutenant?’ cried the minister. ‘I have powerful friends.’
‘Not as powerful as mine, sir. Now, no insult was intended. I simply tell you how it is. If you don’t mind, I will finish my shaving. Gwilliams, my stump’s hurting. Do you have another pot of that soothing balm?’
The corporal nodded. ‘One pot of soothing balm, coming up, sir.’
‘Thank you. Sergeant, you’re dismissed. Ibhanan, get those two annas back and return them to the boy. The rest of you, be about your duties.’
They all wandered away, the minister looking very aggrieved.
Sajan’s face was a picture which Crossman would never forget, even though inside he was mentally kicking himself. This was India, a place quite new to him. He should be erring on the side of caution all the time, getting the feel of the place before asserting himself. But no, he was rushing in like a fool, following his heart instead of using his head. The boy might not even turn out to be grateful in the end. In another week he might be homesick for the rajah’s hunting lodge and be whining to be returned! It was all of a piece. Yet, he could feel Jane’s smile on him, warming him like a pleasant English sun in springtime. Let it be the only stupid decision he would make in India and he would settle for that.
‘Here’s the balm, sir,’ said Gwilliams, coming up behind him as he stared at his half-shaved face in the mirror attached to the tent pole. ‘Shall I rub it in for you? Why are you shaving yourself?’
The last sentence was delivered in an aggrieved tone.
Crossman glanced down at the raw stump where his hand used to be.
‘No, it’s very sore. I’ll do it. Thank you, Corporal. And I’m just making sure I can still look after myself, even with one hand. I keep forgetting I’ve had one wing clipped. I was at the opera on one of my last nights in London and tried to applaud.’
Gwilliams peered at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Is that a joke?’
‘Not at all. It’s true.’
‘You’re welcome, then. Damned if you ain’t. Next time, I’ll do the shavin’ around here.’
Crossman was probably the most manicured officer on the road, travelling as he did with his own personal barber.
The road north continued to be difficult. They travelled during the cool hours, when they could. Sergeant King and Ibhanan spent some of the rest stops practising the dark arts of mapping the terrain. In spite of himself, Crossman became interested in their machinations. He admitted to himself that he was envious of their skill.
At the end of one day they were out on a windless plain disturbed only by dust swirls. After they had passed a hovel made of camel dung, its outer walls decorated with patterns much in the same way as an English cottage might be covered with pargeting, Crossman gave the order to make camp. Evening was coming on, but the light was still good. Sergeant King and Ibhanan had got their instruments out as usual. Swallowing his ignorance, the lieutenant approached the two men and requested a demonstration on triangulation.
‘It’s based on simple geometry,’ explained King, the enthusiasm in his voice almost childlike. ‘If you know the length of one side of a triangle, and two of the angles, you can discover the rest of the properties belonging to that triangle. See the peak of that hill over there? We make sightings on that from two ends of a line measured with our chains. We know the length of the base line, which is in this case is a thousand yards. Separate lines, drawn from the end, sighting points using the theodolite, will give us the angles. The intersection of the two lines on that peak ahead will close the triangle, revealing the third angle. Thus we can calculate the distance to that hilltop without ever going there,’ he finished, triumphantly.
‘That’s it? You know the distance? That’s all?’
‘You sound a little disappointed, sir,’ said King, sounding equally upset by his commanding officer’s reaction. ‘But consider this, once you have done this exercise you know the lengths of the other two sides of the triangle, even though you haven’t physically measured them, and they can be used as base lines for further triangles. Isn’t that a marvel? Thus only one base line need be physically measured for a whole region! Of course there are other measurements to be made – the determining of angular elevations of the stars and planets to establish latitude. We might do that with an octant or a sextant . . .’ King paused. It was obvious that his lieutenant still remained unimpressed. He drew a deep breath and delivered his coup de grâce. ‘Did you know, sir, that I could work out the exact distance from Earth to the moon, if I used two distant points on this planet as a base line?’
Crossman reacted at last. This was quite startling news: that a sergeant in the Engineers could make such calculations.
‘Really?’
‘It has been done, sir. Not by me, but I could do it, given the resources. I could reach up and touch, as it were, a heavenly body all the way out there in the blackness of the ether.’
Lieutenant Crossman stared out at the distant hill for a few moments, then said to King, ‘May I use your theodolite?’
‘Certainly,’ said the sergeant, his enthusiasm rising again. ‘Here is the telescopic sighting tube, these are the horizontal and vertical scales . . .’ But Crossman had bent down and was looking through the telescope at the distant hills.
‘What do you see, sir? Do you see the peak of which I spoke?’
‘No,’ replied Crossman, in measured tones, ‘I see a band of marauders. Call the men to arms. We are about to be attacked.’
King looked bemused for a moment, then took the instrument and looked for himself. He focused on a dust cloud in the distance.
‘Horsemen, waving swords!’ he exclaimed.
‘Just what I said, Sergeant. Rouse the camp, quickly.’
Within a few minutes they were ready to repel the oncoming bandits, which numbered around a dozen. Crossman had made his men practise their defence against just such an attack, their last drill being only a day earlier. The two wagons were placed at the flanks, while Crossman, Gwilliams and King lay in the gap between them, a rise in the ground protecting their front. There was a single perambulator-wallah with them. He had been a sepoy in the Bombay army. This ex-soldier had his own Brown Bess.
Gwilliams and King were armed with Enfields. Crossman had his Tranter revolver. One or two of Ibhanan’s chain-men had their own matchlocks. The others had been armed with tulwars which Crossman had purchased in Bombay. The chain-men remained behind the line of rifles, looking nervous and afraid. Sajan was further back, out of the line of fire, looking after the camels. Joh
n Stillwell, the minister, was standing with his bible just behind one of the wagons, reading verses aloud. In his left fist he held the black book. In his right, a long-barrelled pistol.
‘He arose,’ roared Stillwell, ‘and smote the Philistines until his hand was weary, and his hand clave unto the sword: and the Lord wrought a great victory that day . . . ’
The attackers wore white cottons and blue turbans. They rode small but sturdy horses that hammered the hard earth with their hooves. Crossman had been warned about the ‘blue turbans’ by Lieutenant Fowler in Bombay. They were a robber band, originally a single family but now inflated with badmashes and dacoits which they had gathered on the way. They had begun their career in a part of Northern India known as Ali Moorads Territory: a long narrow rectangle of land that cut into Scinde. Clearly this was but a fragment of the band of raiders, there being not above twelve riders. Out there on the hot plains they made a hazy target.
Crossman glanced back to check that his own horses were hitched to the wheels behind the wagons. He was satisfied that they were secure. He then turned his attention to the oncoming attackers.
‘You will not shoot until I give the order,’ said Crossman in a firm and steady voice. ‘Then you will fire at will. And before you make any comment, King, I have heard the joke above a dozen times.’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything,’ protested the sergeant.
The horsemen came on, through the heat haze that rippled the air, making them a difficult target. Behind them was a huge molten sun, furnace red, resting gently on the edge of the Earth. At that moment a pack of wild dogs trotted across the ground between the two bands of men, some glancing at men on horseback, some at men lying in wait. It was a surreal moment, touched with fire, in a seemingly tranquil evening. Then the dhole were gone, having slipped down into a dry riverbed, leaving the world to violence.
Crossman waited until the enemy were 300 yards away. There was no doubt they were being attacked. Swords were out and one or two wild shots had been fired from horseback, which fell in the dust yards ahead.
‘Now!’ he roared.
Three rifles blazed out. The matchlock men on the flanks also opened fire. One horse buckled at the knees in front, sending its rider hurtling through the air. A rider also fell sideways from his saddle, trailing his tulwar in the dirt.
‘Shit!’ growled Gwilliams, glaring at Sergeant King, ‘can you at least load? You load and I’ll damn well shoot.’
By that, Crossman guessed King had missed his target, while Gwilliams had hit his. Thus began a very efficient load-and-fire team, as King took the advice. As the riders got closer, Crossman began to use his revolver. He hit one man in the thigh and saw him veer away. Then the matchlock man to his left took a bandit out of the saddle. The marauders began to realize they were up against formidable fire power. Three of them split from the oncoming force and rode in a wide arc to get round behind the wagons. The rest of them leapt from their horses and lay down on the ground, firing their muskets. A chain-man was hit low in the face. He jumped up with a gargled yell and ran away, heading back towards where Sajan stood with the camels. A musket ball struck his upper arm and took it clean off at the shoulder joint. He rolled away, into the dust.
‘Horses, Sergeant!’ snapped Crossman.
The two men ran to their horses and mounted.
Crossman rammed his revolver in his belt and drew his sword.
King had left his Enfield with Gwilliams.
They rode out to meet the three riders who were charging the camp from the rear.
Crossman and King had line infantry officers’ swords, not sabres, so they leaned forward into the charge. Their right arms were straight as fire pokers, their swords level with the ground. They let out yells to encourage each other. Three tribesmen came sweeping in, slashing the air with their tulwars, screaming oaths and insults. Crossman took one man full in the breast, ducking to avoid the slash of the tulwar. His sword went right through the man’s chest. The weight of the tribesman’s body caused it to slide off the blade and drop down to the earth. The riderless horse charged on.
The point of King’s sword went in a little higher, taking his man under the chin, spitting his neck.
The third bandit, this man left-handed, came up on Crossman’s unarmed side. His sword-stroke threatened to split the lieutenant’s head like a melon: would have done if Crossman had not parried the blow with his false hand. The tulwar struck oak, hacking away two wooden fingers from the palm. King had rallied himself by this time and rode up to run the man through the side, sending him to join the other in the dust. The first man King had struck was still in the saddle, but riding off into that red sun, holding his throat with one hand and his reins with the other.
Lieutenant and sergeant then turned their horses and galloped back to the camp. On seeing them, the remainder of the bandits remounted and rode off whence they had come. Indians and Europeans let rip with a cheer. Stillwell was kneeling by the wounded chain-man. When Crossman approached him Stillwell lifted his head and shook it.
‘Dead,’ he murmured. ‘Gone where the heathen goes.’
7
Crossman had expected the boy Sajan to be a problem. He knew he had acted unwisely in allowing the child to stay with the expedition. Still the thing was done now. If he tried to send the rajah’s young slave back, with one of the chain-men, there would be a riot in the camp. The child had ingratiated himself with most of the adults there. Chief amongst those who doted on the boy was Sergeant King. King seemed so taken with him, and, he had him by his side most of the day, teaching him all sorts of things, not the least of which was surveying. His affection for the child was so obvious Jack suspected the sergeant of ulterior motives. It came to the point where he had to speak to his senior NCO.
King was visibly shocked on being confronted. ‘You accuse me of such a terrible crime?’
‘I don’t accuse you, I’m asking you outright – is that your interest in the child?’
‘I – I don’t know what to say, sir. This is – that is, I have no such intent. I abhor men who take boys to their beds.’ A shudder went through the man, who seemed in a highly emotional state. ‘You – you don’t know everything, sir. In fact you know very little about men like me. I am rightly fond of the boy. Why should I not be? He’s a bright child, full of interest and enthusiasm for surveying. I could teach him all I know.’
‘Sergeant, if you’re not telling me the truth, I shall certainly have you flogged, perhaps even worse.’
King blanched. ‘I’m not concerned about a flogging, but I am concerned that you think me so low a creature, sir. We’ve not known each other long, but I would have thought – well, there it is.’ He sighed. ‘All I can do is assure you that my intentions are not ignoble. Sajan is a good boy and I would personally kill any man who tried to corrupt him. I would tear them apart with my bare hands. You have no need to fear anything of that sort from me. Such men are worthless, black-hearted scum.’
King was dismissed and the sergeant left Crossman with more questions than answers. He believed the sergeant when he said he had no interest in boys in general, but there was something about his relationship with this one which was unusual. He decided to keep a close eye on matters. The child was in his care now that he had decided to keep him with the caravan. Sajan was his responsibility, under his protection. He would remain so until they came across a trustworthy third party, a group of nuns or some orphanage which had room for him.
Sajan was a problem, but not so great a problem as was the minister.
The methodist preacher insisted on rising at every dawn and bellowing out hymns while standing under the nearest tree. Sleep was impossible after the first light, but no amount of threatening or persuasion would deter the Reverend John Stillwell from this unhallowed practice. He stood like a rock in a pair of dirty long grey underpants and thundered on regardless, about all things bright and beautiful and creatures great and small. Everyone argued, pleaded with him, i
ncluding some of the most obsequious of King’s workers, but he would not budge. The Lord needed praising. The Almighty must be lauded. It was a minister’s daily duty.
‘It wouldn’t be so bad,’ complained King, ‘if he had some kind of musical tone and could hold a note.’
‘It’s an affront to the human voice,’ agreed Crossman. ‘It grates on the nerves and makes the head jangle.’
‘I could shoot him,’ Gwilliams offered. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing that.’
But the lieutenant reluctantly drew the line at murder. It was a difficult decision to make, but Gwilliams was not given his wish. They had to put up with the minister and his foibles. If one of the chain-men or perambulator-wallahs took a knife to him Crossman told himself he would feel only partly responsible. The minister was trying the patience of everyone in the camp.
Crossman attempted to repair his wooden hand, but was left with an appendage that appeared to be making an obscene gesture. Gwilliams couldn’t help laughing, every time he saw it. King kept his amusement more private.
‘Damn it,’ said the lieutenant, holding his fist up to the light, ‘why couldn’t he have severed the whole hand? It would’ve been easier to put back together again.’
‘Sir, I suggest you call yourself fortunate,’ replied King. ‘It could have been your neck.’
Jack Crossman acknowledged this and decided to try fitting his iron hand, the invention that he and Tom had worked on.
8
Tom Hodges met Jack in the garden summerhouse which had been converted into a workshop. Here Crossman had been indulging his passion with inventions by making himself a mechanical hand to replace the one he had lost in the attack on the Redan. The strange claw-like contraption was held by a bench vice while Crossman made some adjustments to the ‘fingers’. Tom came in with snow on his coat and Crossman looked through a window to see flakes falling.
‘Maybe the snow will help to warm it up,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Tom?’
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