Crossman asked, ‘What’s Billy Stink?’
‘Blimey, you ’aven’t bin ’ere long, ’ave you, sir? Arrack, it is. So cheap we use the dregs in our lamps at night.’
There was laughter amongst the men, which encouraged the comedian.
‘It burns so bright and fierce you’d think an angel of the Lord had landed amongst us. Sometimes it don’t do us no good, ’cause too much of the stuff make you wake up blind in the mornin’. Just now it’s burnin’ our bellies, bright and fierce as you please.’
‘That’s if you wake at all,’ said Crossman, ‘for you might as well drink quicklime as that fermentation.’
The soldiers roared at that. One of them suddenly broke the conversation with a whooping sound. He reached into the grasses where a line was pegged to the earth. He grabbed the cord and began reeling in a large black crow, which fluttered and flapped as it fought against the pull. The line was hooked at the end like a piece of fishing tackle, but obviously laid out to catch scavenger birds such as this one.
‘Got you my little beauty,’ cried the soldier. ‘Now we got a goer, eh, Smedge? You get yourn and we’ll set to soon as you like.’
Crossman walked off. He had seen this before, in Bombay. The men would tie coloured rag collars to the crows and set them on to each other like fighting cocks, gambling on the winner. Unlike in cock-fighting, the crows did not kill each other, but usually one saw the other off. The troops called it ‘mortal combat’ but rarely did the birds suffer serious harm, except when the disgruntled owner of the losing crow shot his bird. Sometimes a soldier who had lost a lot of money also shot the winning bird in a fit of pique. It had also been known for the owner of one bird to shoot the owner of another. Who knew what would happen when you mixed rot-gut alcohol with gambling in a bunch of tough, bored soldiers let loose in a foreign land?
When Jack was a short distance from them, though, an Irishman among them called out in a strong Ulster accent.
‘That sergeant of yours – I know him for a runner, sor.’
The man stood staring darkly at Crossman and nodding his head slowly. The remark was significant. Jack thought about questioning the man, but decided against it. The Irish soldier then turned back to his friends and joined in with encouraging one or the other fighting bird.
Later, when one of those soft evenings came in, black-and-red velvet curtains over the silhouetted jungle, Crossman asked King to join him at his tent. They sat outside on their canvas chairs like two explorers of an untamed land. Jack had opened a bottle of whisky which he had been saving to celebrate the end of their journey. He now offered the sergeant a tot ‘. . . or a chotapeg, as they say here,’ said crossman. King accepted the offer gratefully and was soon mellow in his mood. As Crossman had guessed, Farrier King was not a hard drinker, finding his work more intoxicating than any leisure pursuit. It did not take a great deal of amber liquid to make him merry.
‘So, Sergeant, tell me,’ said Jack, as they listened to the sounds of the crickets and other jungle inhabitants, ‘have you seen any action? Anywhere?’ He rubbed his stump involuntarily as he spoke and King seemed to notice this and appeared to be a little embarrassed by it.
‘Oh, never as much as you, sir,’ came the reply. King sipped his whisky. ‘You were in four or five battles, I understand, in the Crimea? It’s not easy to survive just one. You must have a lucky stamp on your soul.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. So, you have seen some fighting. Where was it? You weren’t in the Crimea?’
‘No, but in the same war, sir. I was at Kars.’
At that moment they were interrupted by Ishwar Raktambar, who came into the light of their lamp. He was dressed in splendid attire and gleamed from head to foot. Crossman was tempted to joke about the Rajput going to a ball, but knew it would not be taken in the right humour.
‘Sahib,’ said the Rajput, ‘one of my cousins has asked me to visit him this evening – he is here in this camp.’
‘Certainly. Permission granted.’
The dark brown eyes of the Indian gleamed in the lamp light.
‘We may talk a long time.’
‘If you wish to remain with him for the night, I have no objection. However, I would like us to be ready to leave at six am.’
The Rajput bowed his head and backed away, his two palms together in that prayerlike attitude the locals often adopted.
‘Now,’ Jack said, ‘you were saying? You were at Kars. With General Williams?’
‘Williams Pasha, as they called him. Yes. I was there with some sappers,’ confirmed King. ‘We dug trenches – dirty work like that. Nothing so glamorous as what you were doing as a sergeant in the Crimea. No famous charges, no blistering infantry attacks. It was a war of sorts, I suppose, but nothing to write home about.’
King had reminded him gently that they had both been of the same rank at one time and were therefore brothers-in-arms. Crossman was beginning to realize that this otherwise roughly-hewn man, from low beginnings, had natural subtleties in his character. King could also manipulate, for the constant reminders that Crossman had fought a hard and bitter war in the Crimea would have tempted any old campaigner into launching into stories. The lieutenant did indeed appear to fall for this ploy, telling King about one of his exploits, that of tracking down and killing deserters. The young sergeant was obviously a little shocked by the tale of the massacre at the end.
‘You executed them?’
‘We fought them on the beach. They were just as likely to kill us as we were to kill them. The corporal who was their leader had indeed “executed” some of his own rebels. It was a dirty business, not at all like digging trenches, it dirtied the soul not the hands.’
King was still a little shaken. He stared at his lieutenant as if seeing him in a new light.
‘Did you do work like that all the time?’
‘All the time. That was our job. To infiltrate the enemy lines. To spy, to commit acts of sabotage. To assassinate . . .’
‘To assassinate? To murder? Sir, forgive me, but you sound – I don’t know – you almost sound proud of such work.’
‘It was thrust upon me. I did it to the best of my ability. That’s what a soldier should do. One gets used to the grit. One swallows it. I admit it took me some while to come to an acceptance of it, but lives were saved because of that which me and my men achieved.’ Crossman began to move in for the kill. ‘But tell me, have you never done anything of which you were ashamed? In war, I mean. What about Kars?’
King said, ‘No – nothing like that. I have never killed a man in cold blood. Of course, I’ve killed in battle, but . . . you know my ability with a weapon, sir.’ He laughed lightly. ‘I’m an engineer. That’s what I do best . . .’
‘Digging holes.’
‘Not just that. As you are well aware, I’m now a mapmaker. That’s a very noble occupation – isn’t it?’
Crossman conceded that it was better than digging holes at any rate. Then he went on to say that he had also fought in and survived those battles that King had mentioned. Firefights that were open and above reproach. They were legitimate killing grounds where men could shoot men without any stain on their souls. On the battlefield a soldier could kill and not have his name go up in his parish church as anything but a hero.
‘Did you ever fear that?’ asked Crossman, casually. ‘A note pinned to the board in the parish church? A note with your name on it?’
Despite the mellowing effect of the whisky the sergeant suddenly smelled a rat. He stared out into the night. There were comforting sounds out there, of animals eating fodder; of men conversing quietly in the light of other lamps; of the clink of horse brass and other metal objects. He did not answer Jack’s question, remaining silent, listening, watching.
Crossman said quietly, ‘Did you ever run away?’
King tried to get to his feet, but was a little drunk and fell back in the canvas chair.
‘Well, did you?’
The sergeant said, ‘I don�
��t know what you mean.’
‘Yes you do. I was told you ran away. The man who told me might’ve been lying of course. Or even mistaken. But that’s what he said, without malice it seemed to me. Was it true? I need to know. I need to know because I have to understand how far I can trust you in tight conditions. It doesn’t matter to me otherwise. I’m not here to judge. Others have presumably already done that, it being common knowledge amongst some. Did you, Sergeant King, leave your post, desert the battlefield?’
King’s struggling now paid off. He finally managed to get to his feet, though he was swaying dangerously. The sergeant looked down at his commanding officer.
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘What was it like? That’s all I’m asking. I’m not looking to twist knives into old wounds. I know what a hell the battlefield can be. I’ve been there. Sometimes men become disorientated, lose all sense of direction, or are simply out of their minds with fear. Others simply become confused by the noise and the smell of human blood. It’s not always a straight case of cowardice . . .’
King flushed at the word to the very roots of his hair.
‘I’m no coward!’ he shouted. ‘Whoever said that was a liar.’
Talk in nearby tent suddenly ceased. Other ears were now listening.
‘Calm down,’ said Crossman. ‘Sit down. Keep your voice low. D’you want to rouse the whole camp? I’m trying to understand.’
King flopped down in his chair again. He took a large gulp of whisky and held out his glass for more. Jack filled it, sympathetically.
‘There were seven of us,’ said King. ‘We were digging a mine, under an enemy position. The idea was to put explosives in the end and blow a gun emplacement to the heavens . . .’
Jack wondered at the difference between this kind of warfare and his own sabotage which King had decried, but said nothing. He also wondered if King’s objections to such an action had put him at variance with his superiors, but this did not appear to be the case.
‘. . . but the materials for the mine’s supports were hard to find. The wood we took was either rotten or not good – not hard and strong – and the weight of the mine’s roof – well, it was heavy, full of rocks and stones. I said to the ensign that the mine wasn’t safe, that I didn’t want to go down.’ King licked his lips after taking another swig of his drink. ‘But I did go down, for a while, then I came out again. Have you even been down a mine, sir? It’s hot and smelly. You get that closed-in feeling.’
‘No, but I can well imagine how such an atmosphere might cause feelings of panic.’
‘I didn’t panic,’ snapped King, indignantly. ‘That’s just what I didn’t do. Because I was last in, with arguing with the ensign, I was at the back. I heard the props cracking. I yelled at the others to get out too. But I was in their way. I was just the corporal then. There was a sergeant. He was up at the front. We were passing stuff, munitions and other equipment, from my end up to the front chamber, where they were laying it, ready to light the fuses. I heard something. I heard a creaking and shouted it was going. Then I got out of the way quick. I had to be quick or there wouldn’t be enough time, see. We had to crawl backwards swift as we could. The roof was so low we were almost on our bellies, so it wasn’t easy. I had dirt in my nose and mouth and there was water in the bottom of the tunnel. It wasn’t easy, but I’m certain sure I didn’t knock a prop out. Not with my elbow, not with my leg – nor any bit of me. Look, if all of us were to get out at all, I had to get out of the tunnel first. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’
It did indeed make sense and Crossman nodded thoughtfully.
King had bitter words to spit out. ‘They said I panicked. They said I somehow caused the fall by scrambling backwards in a funk. That wasn’t so.’
‘The tunnel collapsed then?’
‘It fell in. I was the only one who got out. We tried to dig to them, but they’d suffocated, or was crushed by then. I didn’t do any good.’
King slumped back in his chair, the misery apparent on his face. He was vociferous in his proclamations of innocence, but Jack could see the man was in an agony of torment at the remembrance of the incident. Was he so sure of himself? It appeared to the lieutenant that his sergeant was still questioning his own motives, still wondering whether they were right. Had he panicked? Or had he simply been more aware than the others of his team of the fragility of the tunnel? Certainly his ears would have been tuned at that point to the slightest sound from the support timbers, having raised the fact with his officer. But his refusal to go down in the first instance must have fuelled the suspicions of those who believed it was his fault that the mine collapsed, that he knocked something in his haste to get out which triggered the falling of a whole domino line of struts and props.
‘Thank you, Sergeant, I understand now.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’
Crossman said, ‘I haven’t any right to judge you guilty or otherwise – of anything at all. I wasn’t there.’
A silence fell between them during which a harsh laugh of some soldier or other rent the peaceful evening air. It was probably nothing to do with either of these two men. It was simply campfire humour, out there in the night, where men without heavy consciences could alight on something funny.
‘Were you punished?’ asked Crossman, out of curiosity.
‘Yes, but not for getting out – for refusing the order before we went down.’
‘I see. But you kept your stripes?’
‘No, sir. I lost them. I got them back later, when I transferred.’
‘And was promoted yet again, up from corporal?’
‘I went straight to sergeant. If you must know my father had a little money he saved. He bribed an officer to promote me. And before you say anything, sir, I must tell you I don’t see the difference in that to officers like you purchasing a lieutenancy, or a captaincy, whatever. It’s just the same thing. Money for rank. I’m not ashamed of that, that’s certain.’
The inference was that he was ashamed of something, but whether the incident at the mine, or some other aspect of his army life Crossman was not going to know. The lieutenant said he had nothing further to say on the subject, except to tell the sergeant that he had not bought his lieutenancy, that he had been promoted in the field.
‘I knew that – I wasn’t meaning you, personally, sir. I was talking of the purchase system in general.’
‘Just so. Well, I’m going to turn in, Sergeant. I’m glad we had this little talk. I’m sorry if it opened old wounds, but I needed to know what was behind that remark I heard. Thank you for being honest.’
‘You do believe me, sir?’
‘I’m in no position to comment.’ He could see that King was desperate for support. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant.’
‘No, you’re right.’ King hung his head a little. ‘You can’t absolve me – no one can. Good night, sir. Early wake-up?’
‘I think so, Sergeant.’
Once King had gone Jack poured himself another whisky, knowing he would suffer for it in the morning, but feeling a need to re-enter that gleaming old-gold world where even if everything is not all right, one doesn’t care that it isn’t. He leaned back in the creaky chair and allowed the balmy evening to cosset him as it never would have done at home. Warm soft air wrapped itself around him making him feel better than he should.
The extra imbibing didn’t work of course: whisky will not do the same job twice in one evening. Second efforts are always disappointing. Yet he enjoyed the gentle breezes on his back and the rustling of the palms. It was a tranquil atmosphere. Jane, he knew, would find India a joy. She would be one of those who fell definitely into the adoration yard. The exotic sights, scents and sounds of the orient would beguile her.
Jack missed Rupert Jarrard, to talk with. He and Rupert, an American war correspondent, had shared many quiet hours during the two years Crossman had spent in the Crimea. Rupert was a good man to bounce things off, even if in the end you did not take his advice,
which was often applied in a forthright manner. They were soulmates, he and Jarrard. Jane was the love of his life but she did not understand military problems, or if she did she did not care to enter into a discussion about them. Her advice over King would be to let bygones be bygones, give the man a fresh start. Forget what had gone before and begin with a clean sheet.
That was too dangerous for a soldier to do. Rupert would understand that more was at stake than mere forgiveness. There were other lives to consider. If King was a military recidivist then Crossman would feel duty bound to get rid of him, even if Hawke or Lovelace insisted the sergeant remain. Neither the colonel nor the major had to go out into the field with Sergeant King. Crossman and his men did.
Jack no more wanted to judge his sergeant than King wanted to be judged. There was a thinner line between cowardice and courage than there was between sanity and madness. If a man be afraid and fall under the spell of that fear it need not be a sin. It is only a wrong if others are relying on the sinner and he runs and leaves them to a terrible fate. Then, of course, in the eyes of the army it is a monstrous wrong, worthy of a death sentence. To leave King behind a desk would not injure anyone but King, who would wrestle with his shame and either win or lose. There would be no external effects. No group of men would suffer because that struggle.
It all came down to this: did Jack believe Farrier King when the sergeant said he had not panicked?
‘I’m turnin’ in for the night, sir. Should you be wantin’ me for further duties, I’ll be in my own tent. Your kit’s all up to the mark. I seen to that earlier. Boots is shined. Coat is brushed. Got to get some shuteye now.’
‘Thank you, Corporal,’ said Crossman, turning to see Gwilliams coming out of his tent. The lieutenant had not seen him enter it. ‘Er, Gwilliams, did you hear the conversation?’
‘Atween you an’ the sergeant? Couldn’t but help it. Didn’t stay intentional to hear it, but once the sergeant started in, weren’t nothing for it but to listen in.’
Brothers of the Blade Page 14