Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Raktambar and Gwilliams went off to shoot chikor, game birds, so that there would be something for the meat eaters. This left King first enthusing to his commanding officer, but growing ever more mournful, using poetic language to describe how the survey of the Great Arc of India had been like the opening of a flower as the mappers slowly worked their way northwards, the triangles its petals, the line of longitude which was the 78 degree meridian, its stalk.

  ‘I was born too late,’ moaned King, realizing that he still had not yet used his sextant in anger. ‘I was born too late for the blossoming.’

  16

  They entered the land of the five rivers, the Punjab, knowing their journey was now nearing its end. A few days previously the country-side had changed to lush jungle, except where it had been cleared along the banks of the rivers themselves, for agriculture. Looking at the tangled thick foliage it was not difficult for Jack to understand why ‘jungle’ was a Hindi word.

  Although this new vegetation held hidden dangers for the travellers, by way of tigers, wild boar and snakes, Jack Crossman was pleased to see thick foliage again. It filled his heart with green joy and his letters to Jane were suddenly lifted out of the despondency which, despite every effort to keep them positive, had filtered into their pages at times while on the Rajputana plains.

  He was looking forward to seeing a familiar face again too. Colonel ‘Calcutta’ Hawke was apparently waiting for him in Ferozepur. Hawke had been born in Surrey, but had an Indian mother, the wife of an officer of the East India Company. There were derogatory epithets for Anglo-Indians here, but Crossman could not imagine anyone using them to the colonel’s face, or even behind his back. Hawke was a lean, iron-man, the hardest man Crossman had ever met, and it would be a brave warrior who insulted him. He was not alone in his mould, of course, for in the Company army were generals who had Indian mothers and British fathers.

  ‘We’ll need to ford the river further down,’ said Crossman, having spoken to one of his guides. ‘The current’s too fast at this point.’

  It was indeed too fast for them to negotiate a crossing. It was a rushing torrent. Over the other side of the river, dhobi-wallahs were bashing white cottons with stone and spreading them on rocks to dry. A tame elephant was washing itself in the shallows, sucking up gallons of water and spraying its own back. Chattering children were picking amongst the stones, looking for creatures in the mud. The scene was one of peace and calm, except in the middle of the river, where the water was raging and running amuck. It was intolerable to have to take the long route to reach the other side.

  They trudged along the south bank, eager to be amongst humanity again. As they walked they saw one or two dark lumps like thick logs floating down with the current. Raktambar told them they were bodies: he did not seem disturbed by the fact. However, one particular sight did anger the Rajput. A human corpse went by, out in the middle of the flow, with a jackal standing on its chest. The creature was eating flesh. Raktambar fired his musket, but missed the raft’s passenger. By the time Gwilliams took his shot, the human carrion and its live cargo were gone, far downriver.

  ‘I’ve sin buzzards do that,’ said Gwilliams, shaking his head in disbelief, ‘but never a cur.’

  ‘Where did you see something like that?’ asked King.

  ‘After an Injun battle,’ replied Gwilliams, then upon reflecting for a moment, added, ‘diff’rent Injuns.’

  There had been a storm the previous evening, one which ripped tents and tore poles out of the ground. A ferocious swirling thing. In the morning the ground was covered in what Ibhanan called beerbahutis which were like little bits of red velvet littering the place. There was also a multitude of frogs, which no one could help treading on, the British amongst them grimacing squeamishly when they squashed the creatures underfoot.

  At one point along the riverbank they came across a group of men carrying huge objects on their shoulders which turned out to be the inflated hides of buffaloes. The ballooned skins were so obscenely strange in appearance, something like dumb blind animals with stubby limbs, they frightened young Sajan. Crossman was told by Ibhanan that the skins were used to float goods and people over fast-flowing waters such as this river by mussock men. The mussock men tried to engage Crossman and persuade him to avail himself of their services, but the lieutenant could not see what they were going to do with the camels and carts. King was terrified of losing his instruments in the flood. The sergeant argued that if his cargo of brass sank here it would never be recovered.

  ‘Tell them no,’ said Crossman to Ibhanan, reluctant to get into a hassle with them himself. ‘Say we don’t wish to cross here.’

  The ford was eventually reached and the party crossed the river to an army camp on the far side. They discovered the camp belonged to a Frontier Punjabi force known as Stuton’s Rifles. Irregular units often took their name from their commanders – Hodson’s Horse, Brownlow’s Punjabis, Wilde’s Rifles – and the commander himself was in residence. Crossman went to pay his respects to John Stuton himself. He walked through a camp full of Sikhs, Pathans and Dogras, whose hawkish eyes bored into him when he was not looking at them directly, but were politely removed from his person when he did. They wore indigo blue-black coats with trousers and turban to match. In consequence they were known locally as the saih post, the ‘black coats’ and they had the honour of being the one of the first irregular infantry regiments raised in the Punjab.

  Colonel Stuton greeted Crossman amiably enough, but the commander’s mind was obviously on other things. He was a large man with thick black hair and a bushy beard and his gruff tone indicated to Crossman that he was a straightforward infantryman with no frills. Jack liked this in a man. He waved Crossman into a bamboo chair and asked him who he was and what he was doing travelling towards the infamous Khyber Pass.

  ‘Please excuse the whites. I shed my uniform back on the road, finding it too burdensome to travel in. My name’s Crossman, sir. Lieutenant Jack Crossman, of the 88th Connaught Rangers . . .’

  ‘Bit far from your regiment, lad? Lose your way?’

  Crossman explained that he was now only loosely attached to the Rangers. He was working for Colonel Hawke, who was waiting for him in Ferozepur.

  ‘I see no reason to hold this back from you, sir. I’m here to help gather intelligence, a spy if you will but not one of those fellows who go sneaking about in false beards, looking in private drawers . . .’ The attempt at a little humour was lost on Stuton who simply drummed a rhythm with his fingers on a table in front of him until Crossman got back to basics. ‘No, more a man who travels under another guise picking up bits of information as he does so, hopefully dropped by unsuspecting speakers.’

  ‘You speak other languages?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do. And I hope to become more proficient as my time here goes on.’

  ‘What guise?’

  ‘Mapmakers. We’re posing as a party of mapmakers.’

  Stuton grunted in a non-committal way. ‘Hodson’s always on about this sort of thing, intelligence gathering. And what have you learned on your journey, sir? Where are you come from?’

  ‘Bombay.’

  ‘So, what have you discovered?’

  Crossman told him everything he knew, seeing no reason to hold back before this powerful Punjab commander. While he was unravelling his information, along with his theories, a servant entered the room with two glasses of water. Crossman stopped his narrative to thank the man in Hindi, before letting him leave and continuing.

  At the end of his telling, Stuton said severely, ‘You spoke Hindi to my servant.’

  ‘Oh’ Crossman suddenly realized he may have made a mistake. ‘Was he a Pashto speaker?’

  ‘No, but do you also speak to your own men in their language?’

  ‘Some of the time, yes, though many of them have some English. I have a Rajput bodyguard who is an excellent English speaker.’

  Stuton stared through the opening of his hut, out at the clear sky above the
forest. ‘If I were a spy, I should keep such a talent hidden,’ he said, ‘so that those around you would think they were safe when they opened their mouths to their friends. You might learn more that way, don’tcha think, Lieutenant? Take my advice, don’t trust a Rajput or Bengali at the moment. They’re frying fish we might not want to eat.’

  Another officer entered the hut then, a captain, and Colonel Stuton told him to ‘see to the lieutenant, if he would’ and Crossman suddenly realized he had been dismissed.

  The captain, a tall thin man with heavily hooded eyes and a sour twist to his mouth led Jack out of the hut.

  Crossman was horrified with himself. Of course, John Stuton was right, he should have kept his knowledge of the local languages secret. What a fool he had been. It hadn’t occurred to him until now, he’d been so full of the fact that he could converse with Indians, probably hoping to impress them with his skill. It was such a simple thing. Why hadn’t he thought of it?

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ asked Crossman. ‘Did you hear what the colonel said about Rajputs and Bengalis?’

  ‘No,’ replied the captain in a reedy voice, ‘but I can guess. There have been four Bengal regiments disbanded recently. Some talk of mutiny amongst the sepoys.’

  ‘You think it’s serious?’

  ‘Serious? In what sense?’

  ‘You think it’ll spread?’

  The captain took off his cap and shook his head. A spray of sweat went out from his thinning hair, which Crossman avoided. The cap was replaced and the captain peered down his narrow nose.

  ‘Not to my way of thinking. Lot of fuss about nothing, if you ask me. Come down hard on these Pandies and they’ll respect you for it. My guess is it’ll all peter out. They’ve seen what happens when there’s an odour of mutiny in the air and I doubt we’ll see any more trouble. Those that have been naughty have lost their livelihood. If I had my way . . .’ But the captain did not expand on this, having to return a havildar’s salute.

  When the sepoy had passed by, the captain suddenly turned and faced Crossman. He put his hands on his hips, revealing the perspiration patches beneath his armpits. His manner was almost confrontational.

  ‘Well, what d’ye think of India, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I haven’t really had time to gain an impression yet, being a new boy here.’

  A snort of derision greeted this answer. The captain cried, ‘I was in India a week before I knew I hated the place. It stinks. You either love it or you despise it. There are those who tell me they find England dull after here, but I ain’t one of ’em, I can tell you that. To my way of thinking the food is disgusting, the heat is unbearable and the social life intolerable. I am bored to the very roots of my soul. I can’t wait for my time to come.’

  He rubbed his right shoulder hard with his knuckles.

  ‘Took a bullet there,’ he explained, wincing. ‘Plays the very devil when I get out of sorts with myself.’

  Crossman didn’t know whether the man meant death or repatriation, but it was clear from his vehement words and the ugly expression on his face that he loathed every aspect of life at the moment. For his part, Jack had not really thought very deeply about whether he himself loved, hated or was indifferent to India. There had been days when he had been very low and there had been times when he had felt lifted by the sheer intoxicating breath of his new environment. He thought about it now. To hate a subcontinent? Was that possible? There were so many diverse regions and peoples you couldn’t put them all in one bag. Yes, the food took some getting used to and the heat was not good to someone from a temperate climate, but he felt that time and usage would help to smooth these into place. As for a social calendar, when had he ever had one of those?

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I may be one of the first to fall between your two extremes, Captain. May I know your name? Mine is Crossman – Lieutenant Jack Crossman of the 88th Foot.’

  ‘Queen’s army, eh? You may get out of here quicker than me. I see you’re travelling in cottons. Good idea. Damn stock.’ He ran a finger around the inside of his collar as if it were strangling him. ‘Name’s Butcher. Captain Douglas Butcher.’ He stuck out a hand which, when Crossman grasped it, felt as limp and slippery as a basted fish. ‘See you around, Crossman.’

  The captain marched off, his hand clenched by his sides, looking drab and unhappy.

  Jack went back to his tent and found King waiting for him. When he told King about Colonel Stuton’s criticism, the sergeant scoffed.

  ‘Sir, you don’t really think these natives would open up in front of you, do you? It doesn’t take long to learn a smattering of the language. I’m not bad at it myself now and I didn’t do any formal learning, like you. I just picked it up as we went along. If they had anything important which they wanted to keep from you, they wouldn’t say it any language. They’d wait until they were sure you were out of earshot. I expect men like Stuton and Hodson and Nicholson all speak the local languages like natives themselves and wouldn’t think of holding it back.’

  Crossman was relieved. ‘Of course, you’re right, Sergeant. Thank you.’ Still, he resolved that in future the fewer people who knew that he could understand Hindi, Pashto and Urdu the better. He would keep himself to himself and not seek admiration for his skills. ‘It’s just that Stuton . . .’

  ‘Look, sir,’ said King, ‘I’ve been talking with a Scotch sergeant while you’ve been out. You know what this commander’s maxim is? The way to deal with a Pathan is to first knock him down, then pick him up. That’s the kind of man you’ve been talking to. He sounds a rough sort, if you ask me. A raw-knuckles man. I had a sergeant-major, just the same sort, in training – he would put you on your back as soon as look at you and then tell you it was for your own good.’

  ‘Perhaps the frontier needs men like him to hew it into shape?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but we don’t need to admire them for other things, do we? All I’m saying is, he’s probably not the man you ought to be taking lessons from, in your line of work.’

  Crossman was grateful to his sergeant for these words.

  King could be irritating in the extreme, but there were aspects of his character Crossman was finding admirable. The blacksmith’s son was driving prejudices from Fancy Jack Crossman by the day. The lieutenant’s direct dealings with classes lower than his own birthright had opened him to new revelations. His father had taught him that common people were not very bright, had no proper understanding of manners and morals (which was rich, coming from him) and were all right if told what to do. The easiest way for the upper classes (and indeed the middle classes) to ensure superiority was to equate station with intelligence: the lower the station, the lower the intellect. Jack Crossman had learned on his own account that it didn’t work like that and he was going to make sure he didn’t make the same mistake with people of another culture, which it seemed many Europeans were apt to do in India.

  While they were in Stuton’s camp, Crossman studied the local men under British command. They looked a fierce, tough breed, some of them undoubtedly from the Afghan hills, others from the Punjab itself. Crossman saw a variety of weapons displayed, including the dreaded long Khyber knife and, apart from the tulwars, the shamshir swords with their lighter hilts. It was wise to recall that the British had suffered one of their worst defeats when Afghan tribes slaughtered a column of more than 4,000 British troops and a far more numerous band of camp followers on their way from Kabul in ’42. A promise of safe passage by the Afghan ruler had been ignored by the hill tribes, many of whom were autonomous. Only one man had survived, a surgeon, who had witnessed the last stand of the 44th Foot, men of the Essex regiment, who had refused point blank to surrender to the enemy.

  Besides native troops, attached to the Rifles, for the march they were making, was a contingent of EIC European soldiers As with many regiments there were different groups and one or two loners. The loners were mostly lying on their beds in their tents, reading or simply laying back with their hands behind their
heads staring at canvas. Down by the river was a bunch of men who obviously enjoyed physical exercise, playing long-bullets, a game which Crossman had seen only once before, where a ball was hit along the ground with one hand.

  A few clutches of men were wandering the bazaar. It did not matter where the British set up a camp, whether they be billeted in the middle of a town or out in the desert, a bazaar would spring up next to it within hours. There would be women in one of the tents, selling themselves, and there would be bars and pepper-steak grills and all sorts of entertainment for those who had rupees to spend. Barbers, tailors, shoemakers, coffee sellers – their tents were up and running alongside the army. When the regiments were in the process of striking their camp, so were the camp followers.

  Crossman passed a group of British soldiers on the edge of the jungle. They were in shirtsleeves, lounging on a grassy sward. Crossman heard one of them say, ‘Billy Stink, if it please you, Johnson . . .’ The lieutenant paused, thinking they might be referring to him in some way, but he saw a bottle being handed from one man to the other.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘What’s in the bottle?’

  ‘This?’ One soldier said, smirking. ‘This here’s Billy Stink. You want a taster, chum?’ The bottle was held out to him. He did not take it and for a moment he thought he was going to be abused for failing to drink with them, but something must have triggered their caution. His accent, perhaps, or his demeanour, his confident approach. They sensed authority.

  One of the men whispered hoarsely to his friend, ‘He’s the officer.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said the man who had offered the drink, ‘didn’t know you in them cottons.’

  They did not jump to their feet. Soldiers were never as concerned by an officer not of their regiment and even less so of one not of their army. They knew him now for who he was, for in such far-flung lands such a party as his would be the sole subject of conversation for at least a couple of days.