Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  They sat down a little later and drank coffee at the kitchen table together. King was again being rather starchy with him and Crossman had to guess why.

  ‘I rather like a kitchen, don’t you, King?’ he said, looking round. ‘I always say it’s the warmest room in the house, don’t I, Betty?’ His housekeeper turned and dutifully nodded. ‘That’s why I eat most of my meals out here, though Mrs Hodges disapproves.’

  ‘I do indeed, sir. It’s not a fit place for a gentleman.’

  Sergeant Farrier King did indeed seem to relax after this disclosure and Crossman felt he was right in thinking that King was disgruntled with being consigned to the kitchen. The sergeant no doubt thought he was there because his commanding officer wanted to keep him from soiling the dining room. Many officers might have acted that way.

  ‘So what is in that crate of yours, or is it a surveyor’s secret?’

  King took a sip of his coffee before answering.

  ‘No secret, sir. A theodolite, sextant, boning device, chronometers, a chain measure made by Ramsden. That sort of thing.’

  Some of those names were gobbledegook to Crossman, but he wasn’t going to say so.

  ‘Chronometers? In the plural? I mean, why several.’

  ‘Only two. In case one gets damaged. It’s always good to have a spare. Would you like to have a look?’

  Jack said he would and they went into the hallway. There King opened the lid of the crate and began naming the instruments. Crossman took all this in, but pointed to one device in particular and asked what it was.

  ‘That black monster there, the thing that looks like a tangled iron grate?’

  ‘That’s the theodolite, sir, made by Troughton and Simms. It’s for measuring vertical and horizontal angles.’

  ‘But the size of it! Must weigh a ton.’

  ‘Three hundred and twenty-nine pounds. Hardly a ton, sir. It is, as you say, constructed mostly from iron.’ King placed a fond proprietorial hand on the large cumbersome-looking instrument. ‘This is only a twelve-inch theodolite and not as accurate as one of the larger ones. The thirty-six-inch theodolite Mr Everest used is called the Great Theodolite and weighs almost half-a-ton. He carried it on an ox-cart thousand of miles around India.’

  They were both quiet with one another for a few minutes. Then they went back into the kitchen. Mrs Hodges poured another coffee into King’s cup without him asking, after which she went to the stove and began peeling potatoes. Crossman broke the ensuing silence.

  ‘A sextant, eh?’

  ‘For my astronomical observations, sir.’

  ‘You need the stars to draw a map of the Earth? Is this a celestial map, or a mundane one?’

  King smiled indulgently and was almost in danger of being patronizing himself.

  ‘You have to pinpoint your position on the ground. The map would not be accurate without you do that. In order to do it you need to take an angular altitude of stars to determine latitude, while timing the observations with a chronometer. Accuracy is the key word, sir. One also needs to know the elevation above sea level, and the . . .’

  ‘Whoa!’ said Crossman, holding up his hand. ‘A little at a time, if you please, Sergeant. That’s enough for one evening. I would like to hear more sometime though. When we have time enough to wile away. You and I have something in common. A shared enthusiasm, by your tone. You might not know, indeed you don’t, but my pastime interest is inventions. I have a close relationship with machines.’

  The lieutenant leaned his chair back.

  ‘Best of all I like devices such as those you mention. Glass and brass instruments. Clocks and watches, and locks. Those precision-made delicate machines are my forte. Secret levers, wheels within wheels, ratchets, levers, escapements. Brass cogs with teeth that fit neatly together, sometimes a dozen in a row, all of different diameters. Trembling hairsprings. Lenses, polished spyglasses, metal arcs.’

  King nodded. ‘After listening to you, sir, I see there is a difference between us though – a difference in our particular interest.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘You enjoy these contrivances for how they are made and what they are. I am only interested in them for what they can do.’

  Crossman thought about that and decided King was right.

  The lieutenant was not so much concerned with actually using a clock. Rather what fascinated him were the workings themselves. So it told the time? All well and good. But how did it mark the time? What wonderful whispering machinations were going on beneath its face to enable it to calculate the seconds, minutes and hours? And how marvellous were those workings! More stirring than a Vivaldi concerto. More beautiful than a painting by Raphael. More profound than a sonnet by Shakespeare.

  It appeared that the sergeant could not care less how his chronometer or theodolite did its work, so long as it told him to the second what was the time or calculated a curve according to the shape of the Earth. He needed to stun the moment on the head in order to get his own sums correct. What was it to him how the device got to the answer, so long as it had reckoned it with supreme accuracy? If a pebble could have given him the same reading, with a true scale, Sergeant King would have just as much interest in that smooth stone as he did that dark-iron theodolite.

  ‘Yes, it would appear so, Sergeant.’

  King stood up, draining the last of his coffee.

  ‘Thank you kindly for the refreshment Mrs Hodges.’ Having no hat on he touched his forelock. ‘It was much appreciated.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Sergeant,’ she replied.

  ‘Now I must go and find my quarters.’

  Crossman rose to see him to the door. On the way Crossman happened to say, ‘I think our scheme will be very successful, Sergeant. There are survey teams all over India at the present time. Our disguise will serve very well.’

  King stopped and flexed his broad shoulders. ‘Disguise, sir?’

  Crossman wondered what was wrong. ‘Yes, our pretence at being interested in mapmaking, while all the time we are gathering information.’

  ‘Spying,’ said the sergeant, calling a spade by its correct name.

  ‘Right.’

  King had started to put on his forage cap, but now took it off again.

  ‘My understanding,’ he said, after clearing his throat, ‘is that the surveying is our primary task. I was told the officer and his man would be observing other things while we did it, but the main work would be the mapping of the regions to which we are sent or through which we pass.’

  ‘No, no, no. We are to be an intelligence-gathering team.’

  King’s mouth was firm. ‘That’s are not what I was told, sir. I have my instructions. I was told for definite that the unit will survey the territories and, as a side issue, do a bit of spying on the locals.’

  Crossman’s voice rose a pitch. ‘I’m the damned commanding officer of this unit, Sergeant. Don’t you think I know my own orders?’

  In the excitement of getting his point across, the lieutenant accidentally knocked his wooden hand against the sergeant’s elbow. King stared at the hand, then after a second or two, said, ‘No one told me about that. Is it just the hand, sir, or the whole arm?’

  ‘If it’s any of your damn business, it’s just the hand. I lost it in the Crimea.’

  The spleen was lost on the sergeant, who continued to speak in the same calm tones he had used since arriving in the house.

  ‘My father,’ he said, looking candidly into Crossman’s eyes, ‘has got a set of Napoleon teeth. He lost his own to the butt of a musket when it was used like a club on his face. Some Frenchy did it.’

  ‘Napoleon teeth?’ repeated Crossman, faintly.

  ‘Yes, you know. After Waterloo the surgeons pulled the teeth out of the mouths of the dead lying on the battlefield. They sent them home to England in sacks. The surgeons over here matched them up as best they could and set them in false gums, and gave them to the veterans of the war. Those that needed ’em. My pa now uses
a set of dead men’s teeth to chew his meat with.’

  ‘What’s all this got to do with my hand?’

  King smiled and shook his head. ‘Nothing really, sir. It’s just that seeing you with that false hand reminded me of my pa’s false teeth. Well, now we’ve got it all straight, I’ll bid you good night.’ He gave his precious crate of instruments one last possessive glance. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Within a moment Sergeant King had opened the door and was gone, out into the dusk. Crossman stood there, staring after him. How was he going to bear this man? Of all the sergeants to send him! He tried to think what kind of man he had expected. Someone compliant to his will, that much was certain. He was now a lieutenant and he expected that subordinate ranks would treat him with enough respect to fall into line. Was he wrong to expect that? He was the commanding officer of the expedition, he had said as much, and as such it was he who would decide what were the aims and goals of that expedition. Officers led and rankers followed. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? Otherwise, why have ranks at all, if no one was going to take any notice of them? A little deference, that’s all he wanted. Hadn’t he earned it over the last few years?

  Of course there were many kinds of sergeant. He had been one himself and he was neither unintelligent nor obsequious. Wynter, who had served under him in the Crimea had been obstructive, belligerent and sullen. He was also now a sergeant. Crossman shuddered when he thought they might have given him someone like Wynter. At least King was not the worst that could have ended up in his team.

  ‘Yet this King has an obstinate streak which might turn to stubbornness if not watched closely. And he thinks a lot of himself, simply because he has been given a little education,’ Crossman muttered to himself, more than a little put out by the sergeant’s general demeanour and attitude.

  The lieutenant went back to the kitchen, to thank Mrs Hodges for her show of hospitality.

  ‘What a nice soldier he was,’ said Betty, wiping the kitchen table top with a damp rag. ‘Such a polite young man, with good manners.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Crossman, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll bid you good night, Betty. I’m off to White’s for the evening. Don’t wait up for me, nor even listen for the key in the lock. I’m quite capable of putting myself to bed.’

  ‘Yes, sir. What time shall I wake you in the morning?’

  ‘Seven o’clock, if you please.’

  11

  So Crossman went along with King, drawn more by his sergeant’s excitement than his descriptions. The lieutenant was however as breathtaken by the sight of the observatory as any man who had entered the park. It was truly a wondrous experience for someone who held scientific instruments in awe. The evening sunlight and shadow fell upon great bowls with star maps in their concave parts; they draped themselves over two huge sundials that dwarfed the nearby houses; they striped two glimmering metal astrolabes as tall as a man; they highlighted tall precision-made walls whose marble quadrants and arcs revealed such secrets as the maximum declination or obliquity of the sun’s ecliptic.

  Circles, discs, dials, bowls, walls, towers. Crossman and King walked amongst these vast instruments like two small boys. These were India’s answer to the pyramids. These were holy temples to practical science. These were the secret-sharers of bygone giants.

  King spoke in low whispers, of zeniths, equators, meridians, azimuths, altitudes, eclipses, declinations, ascensions, longitudes, latitudes, equinoxes, solstices. The fantastical magic words of the science of measuring. Spellbinding words that pointed at the solar system, tracked the stars in their courses, kept the sun’s pace and used it to chart the precise movement of time. The sun, moon and stars – their rotational and elliptic motion, their fiery tracks through the sky – were captured by these towering devices which glittered their timely cryptic messages to men who knew their use.

  This wondrous park, this garden of science, was a holy shrine to men like Sergeant King who measured the length, breadth and shape of the Earth. If it would have been appropriate to pray, he would have fallen to his knees. Here was the equivalent of the mystic’s gateways to other worlds. And they worked, they worked! The Kranti Writta, the Yantra Raj, the Chakra, the Ram, the Shashthansa and the Dhruva. They worked as in dreams. They did as they were asked to do, close to perfection, their scales providing measurements which turned the man of science into a wizard of the universe.

  The pair climbed the steps cut into the gnomon to the top of the ninety-foot sundial and surveyed the lesser world.

  ‘Well sir, what d’you think?’ asked King.

  Crossman replied gravely, ‘These people – we give them no credit for science, yet they surpass us. Explain to me again when these instruments were constructed.’

  ‘I was told they were built by Maharajah Sawai Jai Singh during the first half of the eighteenth century. He was a warrior-astronomer and built other observatories at Delhi, Ujjain, Mathura and Benares, as well as this one. He studied Ulugh Beg’s tables – a royal astronomer of Samarkand – and Portugal’s De La Hire’s too, finding errors and correcting them. This man was brilliant. Euclid, the syntaxes of Ptolemy, Flamstead’s works, De La Aire’s tabulae, nothing was beyond his reach . . .’

  Crossman glanced at his sergeant, suspiciously. ‘Where did you get all these names from?’

  King looked shamefaced for only a second, then said defiantly, ‘I was fortunate to be shown round the park by the maharajah’s astronomer.’

  ‘Ah, I thought your education had been somewhat expanded from this morning.’

  ‘I’m not too proud to take lessons from others,’ said King, not at all defensively. ‘If a man knows more than I do, I admire him for it and listen hard.’

  ‘But,’ Crossman looked about him, ‘you were right about this observatory. It’s one of the wonders of the world for men like you and me. I feel humble in such a place. The size of these devices alone! Why they almost touch the sun in a physical sense. Marble and stone! What I would give to have been here when they were constructed. I wonder if the workmen who built them knew what they could do? I mean, you build a palace and know that someone is going to live there – but to build something unique, something quite strange which has never been built before! Why, man, that must stir even a bricklayer’s mind.’

  The two men went back to their quarters in separate quiet and contemplative moods. Crossman was so impressed he immediately wrote about the ‘astronomical observatory’ in his diary, noting that even though these were works of science, they had a mystic side to them too. Nothing which was fashioned in the orient could be wholly practical. Astrology would be part of its function, as well as astronomy. So too would be aspects of the Hindu and perhaps Buddhist religions, which would influence the design and use of these instruments. Crossman had been in India long enough to learn that, though the meanings and subtleties of any shapes or symbols would be beyond him. He knew next to nothing about Hinduism, even less about Buddhism, and just a smattering of Islam. The park would pay homage to a god or gods, of that he was sure, but just how escaped him.

  ‘Sahib, you work to the candle!’

  It was Sajan, his dusty face coming between page and eyes.

  ‘What do you want, young man? You should be asleep.’

  ‘I sleep this afternoon, sahib. Now I stay awake to serve you. Shall I make you chocolate? Ibhanan tell me how to do this.’

  He smiled at the boy. ‘If you’re truly not sleepy.’

  At that moment the child’s expression changed to one of alarm and he gripped Crossman’s sleeve with a clawlike grasp.

  ‘Cobra, sahib.’

  Slowly, slowly, Crossman turned his head to see the snake which had slid into the room, under the large gap beneath the door. The lieutenant was relieved that the serpent was not rearing, nor was its hood wide, but any movement from him or Sajan could have the creature up and ready to strike, of that he was certain. The pair stood like statues for what seemed a very long time, though indeed it
was only moments, Then suddenly the door flew open and Raktambar stepped inside. The Rajput had a stick in his hand the end of which he hooked under the cobra to flick it through the air and out of the open window at the end of the room. It was neatly done.

  ‘I saw it enter,’ explained Raktambar. ‘You must guard against Indian snakes, they do not like firinghis.’

  It was the first time anyone had used the derogatory term for a European directly to Crossman’s face.

  ‘I’m sure cobras aren’t choosy,’ he said, mildly. ‘They’ll bite anyone they fancy a threat.’

  The sullen Rajput shrugged. He left the room. Sajan, now that the fear of being bitten had gone, was back to his chattering self. He made the chocolate on a small stove and carried it gravely to Crossman who thanked him and told the boy to get to his bed.

  Then the lieutenant had a thought. He went to the box of arms, which Gwilliams kept close by him at all times, and told the corporal he was taking one of the Enfields. Carrying this weapon and an ammunition pouch, he went to the Rajput’s quarters. The Indian appeared to be asleep. He placed the rifle at the foot of the man’s mat, hoping this gift would buy Raktambar’s acceptance of the situation.

  The next morning, when Crossman woke, he found the rifle back by his bedside. Annoyed, he sought out Raktambar, determined to take issue with him. He found the Rajput washing by a well in the courtyard. Sajan was nearby, watching the warrior at his ablutions, seemingly entranced by the water droplets, that flashed like diamonds in the sun.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, taking the same tone the maharajah had used on him. ‘You refuse my gift?’

  ‘I am washing myself!’ protested the Rajput, sulkily. ‘This is my moment for cleansing.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ snapped Crossman, determined not to be put off. ‘I’m talking about the rifle. I gave it to you as a gift in good faith. It’s the very latest firearm.’

  ‘I don’t want it. It’s no good.’

  ‘It’s a very good weapon. I used it myself on my last campaign. You couldn’t get a more accurate rifle.’