Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Crossman took immediate refuge in flattering generalizations.

  ‘Your knowledge, Your Highness, is boundless.’

  ‘Not boundless, Lieutenant, but I not an ignorant man on this subject. My ancestors were astronomers. Have you seen our observatory?’

  Crossman said he had not, but he would try to find the opportunity, and immediately put the idea out of his mind. He had visions of the observatory as a sort of inflated gazebo with astrological designs all over its facade. There were many, many beautiful buildings in India, some of which took the breath away, but he had not time to see them all. He hoped his lack of interest had not shown on his face and strove to recover ground.

  They continued drinking tea and eating cakes, during which the maharajah probed Crossman on his journey. The lieutenant did not mention the attack by the blue-turbaned tribesmen, but told the ruler more or less everything else that had happened. Ram Singh sighed and said it must be nice to be an ‘ordinary man’ for when he himself travelled it could not be without a great deal of elephants, all weighed down by howdahs and decorated with jewelled blankets and other trappings. The ruler also had the misfortune to have to take with him ‘almost an army’, including infantry, cavalry and baggage train.

  ‘Unlike you, Lieutenant, who can ride with the wind, just yourself and a small contingent of happy men – more cake, sir? There is plenty.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Crossman, finding the cake rather dense and overfull of fruit and nuts. ‘It is delicious.’

  The maharajah looked at his guest masticating stolidly on the rich confectionery.

  ‘This cake is like the British army, is it not?’ said the ruler with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Too many kernels.’

  Here Crossman let out a genuine bellow of laughter, which delighted Ram Singh, who felt he had scored well with his English joke.

  They talked further, the maharajah asking politely how the lieutenant had lost his hand. Was it in an heroic action? Of course, it must have been. Did it impede his duties much? There had been several British heroes with missing limbs, of course. Admirals such as Horatio Nelson. Generals such as Lord Raglan. The lieutenant was in good company.

  Crossman, for his part, probed as well as he could without appearing to, gathering as much information as possible while avoiding alarming or insulting his host. His time in the Crimea, his visits amongst the enemy in Sebastopol, had given him practice at gathering tidbits of information without appearing to be searching. Certainly the maharajah did not seem to suspect anything untoward and he must have found Crossman amusing, or interesting, or even both. The local ruler was quite taken with his gift of the tiger dagger, because he later paraded some twenty tall Rajput warriors before Crossman and told him to choose one as his bodyguard and companion for the length of his time in India.

  ‘While you are here mapping in this vast land, there will be many who will try to kill you, Lieutenant. There are savage tribes to the north. There are raiders and assassins to the west. You will need a good man to protect your back. These are my personal guard. I call them “the Immortals”. All of them speak reasonable English, apart from one or two of our own languages. I insist upon it. One of them also speaks French. Please choose one man as your own personal protector and guardian . . .’

  Crossman felt he should politely reject this offer, but when he hinted such the maharajah’s face hardened. Could he believe his ears? The British officer was about to refuse to accept his gift? Crossman quickly retracted his remark, asked to be forgiven if it was misinterpreted, and proclaimed his gratitude and thanks for the maharajah’s generosity.

  Crossman walked along the line, studying the guards. They were all dressed in the maharajah’s livery, with red turbans, loose shirts overworn by waistcoats with embroidered gold centripetals, and pantaloons. Each man wore a sword at his hip. The men inside the clothes came in many shapes and sizes. He stopped at a barrel-chested fellow who looked as if he could mince a bear with his hands. But the man’s eyes were too close to his nose and altogether rather too vacant. Then there was the small fierce-looking fellow with the tight mouth. He too was studied intently, but eventually rejected for his height.

  Finally, Crossman stopped at a tall lean young man who looked as if he could be the maharajah’s son. The Rajput flicked his head once or twice, ever so slightly. Crossman completely missed the implications of this gesture, thinking the young man had some sort of twitch. Crossman peered into the man’s eyes, finding intelligence there. He was not over-muscled, but in the lieutenant’s view this was to his advantage, for large men were often slow and inclined to clumsiness. The Rajput appeared to have suppleness about him: better the cobra than the buffalo, in his opinion.

  ‘This one,’ he said. ‘He looks a very fine fighter.’

  The expression on the warrior’s face became one of dull resignation.

  ‘This man? Ishwar Raktambar. He is one of my best soldiers,’ confirmed the maharajah. ‘He is a killer of men, destroyer of armies, annihilator of barbarous hordes. I give him to you with infinite sadness and regret, he being the best of my soldiers. He will be a courageous, loyal, devoted servant of yourself. He will root out treachery and meet frontal attack without fear or concern for his own life. Henceforth this man will be your shadow and strive to keep you from harm.’

  Once out of earshot of the maharajah, however, Ishwar Raktambar seemed a very reluctant bodyguard.

  ‘Why did you choose me?’ he grumbled. ‘I do not wish to be your protector. Choose someone else. You think I will be like the big Pathan that is John Nicholson’s faithful servant? I will not. I will be no good servant to you. Leave me here, take someone else with you.’

  ‘All right, I’ll send a message to the maharajah, telling him you don’t wish to accompany me.’

  The young man’s eyes widened and revealed fear.

  ‘No – no. We must say nothing to the maharajah.’

  ‘Then I haven’t any choice but to take you with me.’

  ‘I shall be very miserable. I was about to take a wife. You have stolen my bride from me. I can never forgive you for this.’

  Crossman was exasperated. ‘Look, I had no idea you were to be married, I certainly did not ask the maharajah to offer you as a bodyguard and as for my back, I can watch it myself, thank you very much.’

  The lieutenant himself would have been only too pleased to reject the tall Rajput. The obvious had occurred to him: that the maharajah was suspicious of his seemingly innocuous questions. These people, Crossman reminded himself, were past-masters at intrigue. They had had centuries of plotting and conspiring against each other and against their enemies. It was entirely possible that this Ishwar Raktambar was the maharajah’s spy, put into Crossman’s camp for the sole purpose of reporting back to the ruler. Jack did not think for a minute that he had fooled the prince when he had been questioned about mapping. No, Raktambar had been planted in the enemy camp to keep an eye on this travelling gatherer.

  Both men, fuming within themselves, left the palace and made their way to the lodgings where Crossman had left his men. This was a wayhouse on the edge of Jaipur, near to Amber. The old fort could be seen from one of the windows, its strength and grandeur undiminished by time. When they arrived at the house, Crossman introduced the Rajput to Ibhanan, King and Gwilliams, but Raktambar simply threw up his arms and removed himself from their sight, his head high in the air.

  ‘What’s with him?’ asked Gwilliams. ‘Got a spider up his nose?’

  ‘No,’ explained Crossman, ‘the maharajah’s ordered him to be my bodyguard. He doesn’t like it. In fact he says he’s due to be married and now his plans have been shattered by this order.’

  Gwilliams snorted. ‘He’ll thank us later, for saving his life.’

  ‘I might remind you, Corporal, that I’m happily married myself.’

  ‘Only just.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, sir, that it ain’t been given enough time to
be otherwise but happy. It ain’t been given but a few months to settle into what’s real. Give it five years. Give it ten. If it’s still good after ten years, then I’ll grant you happy. So soon after you’ve been wed, it don’t mean a damn.’

  Crossman decided to ignore this cynical philosophy, but when alone in the room he began to project. What would marriage be like in ten years’ time? He would have plenty of time to reflect on this curiosity over the next few months, perhaps – a horrible thought – the next few years. When would he see Jane again? Certainly he couldn’t send for her while he was trundling over a subcontinent with a parcel of Asians and Europeans. She wouldn’t have minded it. She might even revel in it. But her presence would interfere with his work. He couldn’t watch over a wife and spy.

  A terrible thought came to him. It was farfetched, but not entirely beyond the realms of possibility that it would be ten years before he would see her next. What? No, that was ridiculous. He would see her within the year, he hoped. Settle her somewhere in some safe haven where the Queen’s army was strong and visit her whenever possible. Yes, that was what would happen, provided nothing untoward happened to stop it.

  He missed her more than he imagined he would. He missed her laughter, her insights, the way she looked at things differently from him and found the words to change his own views. He missed her warm body next to his own at night and he craved their lovemaking still, though he hoped the feeling would dull over time. It surely could not remain at such an intensity or he would go mad? In quiet moments he sat and tried to imagine her face, the way it lit up with a smile, and the way her eyes flashed anger when she was upset, and it put him out of sorts when he could not hold those pictures of her in his mind. How frail was his imagination! Were all minds like his, with imperfect recall? The essence of Jane was there, but the pictures warped and faded, leaving him feeling bereft and guilty. Surely a man in love, so soon after his wedding, should have a better grasp on his own brain? Was the mind so faithless? Were the thoughts so ephemeral? Her fleeting images made him enraged with himself, for their inconstancy.

  Sergeant King, however, was not interested in Rajputs nor the solemn statehood of marriage. While Crossman had been visiting and having tea with the local monarch he had heard from Ibhanan that here, in this very city, was an astronomer’s park, a place of giant instruments to tell the time, to track the stars, and to gauge direction by the use of heavenly bodies. At his insistence Ibhanan had taken him there, where he had met the royal astronomer from the court of Ram Singh. Having seen this miracle of science, he came rushing into Crossman’s room, uninvited, to blurt out his news.

  ‘There are instruments to determine celestial latitude and longitude to a precise accuracy,’ said King, excitedly. ‘Others reveal the zenith and altitude of the sun. There’s a sundial with a gnomon ninety feet tall! I took my chronometer with me and the comparison’s astonishing. The Samrat Yantra as it’s called can keep time to within two seconds of my timepiece. Two seconds! These are the kings of astronomical instruments. I’ve just returned from the park. You should see it. Giant astrolabes with maps of the night heavens etched into their metal faces. They’re said to be made of seven alloys so they remain unaffected by changes in temperature. You must come with me now, sir, and visit it before it gets dark. You might not get another chance.’

  Crossman smiled. ‘I can see you’re enthralled, Sergeant, but does it really call for such enthusiasm?’

  ‘It’s a marvellous wonder,’ said King. ‘This park will make your mouth water. We’ve nothing like it in England. I don’t suppose there’s another to rival it anywhere. These instruments are magnificent. They soar! There’re some eighteen superb devices. Will you come?’

  10

  Outside in the London street, the snow was thick upon the cobblestones. Crossman was reading a letter from Jane, with mixed emotions washing through him, when Betty came to tell him that there was a soldier at the door.

  ‘Not an officer and gentleman, sir, but a common soldier.’

  Gwilliams? thought Crossman.

  ‘Show him in, Betty. I’ll see him in the parlour.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Crossman finished his chocolate drink then went to see what Gwilliams could possibly want at this time of the day. In the hallway he was surprised to see a large, long crate made of wood. It was sturdily made and it looked heavy. Crossman passed the crate with a puzzled frown and entered the parlour.

  A sergeant, forage cap in hand, stood on the rug near the fire. He immediately put his cap on, came to attention and saluted.

  ‘That’s all right, Sergeant,’ said Crossman. ‘You may remove the headgear. Mrs Hodges does not like hats worn in the house.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The voice had deep timbre. In fact everything about the man looked sturdy. He was square-faced with a solid-looking jaw, his shoulders were broad, his chest deep and his limbs stocky. A strong-looking man, if a good deal shorter than Crossman. The hair was a reddish-chestnut colour and the eyes a muddy brown, the bridge of the nose and cheeks sprayed with a constellation of freckles. Fingers that gripped the cap were short and square-ended. He stood at his full height, straight as an iron poker, and returned Crossman’s stare without a blink. Here was a confident man, thought Crossman, if a little impertinent in his stance before an officer.

  ‘Is that your crate in the hallway, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes sir, it is.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Sergeant Farrier King, sir, of the Engineers.’

  So this was the mapmaker he had been led to expect.

  ‘Farrier? That’s an unusual Christian name.’

  ‘It’s my father’s trade, sir. He never wanted for me to be a smithy like him, but he wished for me to remember my origins.’

  ‘I see. Well, Sergeant, I’m at a bit of a loss. I know we sail together soon, but why are you here, at my house?’

  ‘It’s the box, sir.’

  ‘And just what is that thing doing in my hallway?’

  ‘I’m sorry for that, but it contains valuable instruments. It would hurt the army’s purse for it to be stolen, so I couldn’t leave it on the steps. I was wondering, sir, if you would keep it here until we leave for Southampton? I shall no doubt find myself lodgings, but I would rather have it safe with someone I believe I can trust.’

  ‘Oh, you believe you can trust me, do you?’

  ‘Sorry for how it sounds, sir, but the contents of the case are very valuable.’

  ‘So you said.’

  They stood there, the two of them, still taking one another in. Crossman felt the sergeant had an enormous cheek, but then he saw the man’s dilemma. If the ‘valuable instruments’ were lost it might delay their departure and Crossman wanted none of that. Such a crate would be a temptation to bootboys and scullery maids at inns. They would not necessarily break into it themselves but they were often loose-tongued, for a fee, and there were always rapscallions in alehouses who would steal its contents without a second thought. Crossman made a sudden decision, one that surprised him as much as it did his visitor.

  ‘I think you should stay here too, Sergeant, until we leave.’ Unfortunately he couldn’t resist tacking on one of those patronizing comments which often came out of the mouths of gentlemen when they were dealing with the lower classes. ‘You can hold a candlelight vigil over your valuable instruments to make sure nothing goes missing.’

  ‘I’d rather not stay, sir.’

  Crossman was taken aback.

  ‘Why not? Is the house not to your liking?’

  There was a firm and stubborn look to the jaw.

  ‘It’s in the way you offer, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ There was no sir on the end of this sentence. He was gripping his forage cap with all ten digits. ‘I’m an educated man. Just Church School in the first instance, but trained later in surveying. I don’t like to be spoke down to and since we’re here in a private way, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get it strai
ght. It seems I must serve under you for some time to come, in close company. It won’t do either of us any good if I make out I’m willing to be trod on. I am the NCO and you the commissioned officer, and as such I must respect and obey you, but I won’t be laughed at as a silly man.’

  God, thought Crossman, the fool was too sensitive by half.

  I did not call you silly, Sergeant.’

  ‘There was an implication, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for it.’ He now remembered that he had been a sergeant himself not so very long ago and how he had hated those lisping lieutenants who mocked him with the same sort of condescending remarks. ‘You’re right, Sergeant,’ he admitted, ‘I was being supercilious. That’s not very commendable. Now, I shall ask you again, would you prefer to stay here or find lodgings? It would give us an opportunity to get to know each before we ship out.’

  The sergeant was quiet for a while and then he said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir, I shall find lodgings.’

  Crossman found himself irritated. ‘Very well. You might try the Cock Inn. I’ll give you the address. You’ll find Corporal Gwilliams there. He’s my corporal and will be travelling with us. He seems to find the place comfortable enough.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, and my instruments can stay here?’

  ‘Yes. Look, Sergeant, I haven’t offered you any refreshment. Would you like a drink of some kind? You must be weary from travelling. I don’t have any ale in the house . . .’

  ‘I don’t drink beer, sir, but a cup of coffee would quench the thirst.’

  ‘I shall ask my housekeeper to make you one. In the meantime, please sit down.’

  Crossman left the room, still annoyed by the sergeant’s refusal of his offer to stay at the house. Was the man going to be on his high horse the whole time? What more could Crossman do but apologize for the remark. All right, he was trying to be clever at another man’s expense, but surely it was a forgivable offence? King was acting as if he had just suffered the grossest of indignities.