Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  There was no hint that Crossman fell into this category in the sergeant’s rancour. He was simply telling it how it was. And Jack knew the man was right: the wealthy did not pay their bills until they were absolutely forced to.

  ‘Have you no brothers or sisters?’

  ‘A younger sister, a very sweet girl, married to a tavern landlord who works her to a frazzle.’

  ‘But she is well cared for?’

  ‘Oh yes, she wants for nothing, really. I suppose, being my sister, no one was good enough for her. Her husband’s a lot older than she is, but then she chose him, I didn’t. I must admit she seems happy enough. Whenever I visit she seems pleased to see me, but isn’t demonstrative.’

  ‘Does she not write to you?’

  ‘Unlike me, she’s had no schooling, though she can do figures well enough, in her head.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Ran off with an Irish tinker.’ He paused, then, ‘Or she might be dead.’

  Crossman was naturally surprised. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Gone before I was old enough to understand. My father is a close man. He rarely speaks of her.’

  Jack made no further enquiries, feeling he had overstepped the boundaries as it was. To delve into another man’s family history was not dignified. Things had simply trundled on a little too far.

  ‘Gwilliams! You had a letter too! From your President, no doubt?’

  ‘President Franklin Pierce kept out a Whig, but that’s the best you could say of him.’ He frowned here, before adding, ‘That’s if he’s still in office. Mr Buchanan, now, he’s different. I give him a shave once, and one of them body rubs I give you from time to time. He was very appreciative, Mr Buchanan. Gave me ten dollars and told me to keep the change.’

  ‘Not a Whig I take it?’

  ‘Nope, nor a damned Republican neither. Good ole Democrat.’

  ‘I hesitate to ask then, who your letter was from, it being your private business.’

  ‘Yep, it is, but I don’t mind tellin’ who. It’s from a cousin o’ mine, Jake, down in the state of Kentucky. Seems if I see a Clegg I gotta shoot him, cause the Gwilliamses is having trouble with the Cleggses down that way.’

  ‘Any Clegg?’ cried King. ‘It’s not an uncommon name in England.’

  Gwilliams stroked his chin. ‘Well I guess an English Clegg might be different. I’d have to think on it first. I ain’t come across that problem before. There’s a feud on, see, and family is family. Do you know any Cleggs?’

  King and Crossman looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Crossman, ‘and I wouldn’t tell you if I did, Corporal. I’m not going to be responsible for you murdering some innocent soldier simply because he’s had the misfortune to be born with the wrong surname. Sometimes I wonder about the American culture.’

  ‘Tain’t the American culture, so much as round about Kentucky and Tennessee.’

  ‘And that was the extent of your letter?’ said Crossman. ‘No news from home fields?’

  Gwilliams shook his head. ‘Nope. Just that. Jake did ask after my health, which was damn good of him. How’s your health?’ he said. And by the by, if you see any Cleggs, be sure to shoot ’em.’

  ‘A man of words,’ muttered King.

  ‘No sense in rattlin’ on about nothin’ in particular,’ replied Gwilliams, not at all put out. ‘Ain’t nothin’ important going on, I guess.’

  When a red-clouded evening came around and trees became silhouettes on the skyline, they rode back to the main column to report. Crossman was summoned to Hawke’s tent after he had eaten. The colonel had a new man guarding his entrance, but when he heard Crossman’s voice he said, ‘I’ll come out there, Lieutenant, it’s getting stuffy in here.’

  Hawke indeed came out a minute later, a smouldering cigar in his right fist.

  ‘Would you like one?’ he said, taking out a cigar case.

  ‘Thank you, yes.’

  The first pull on the cigar made Jack’s head swim and he had to steady himself on the branch of a tree. Hawke smiled. ‘You haven’t smoked for some time I take it?’

  ‘I enjoy my chibouque, when I can get good tobacco. I thought the tobacco was rough in the Crimea, but it had nothing on the sawdust that parades itself as tobacco in India. This is a good cigar, sir.’

  ‘By way of Singapore. Not sure where it came from originally. Now, Lieutenant, I’ve got some Hindus under guard. They wandered into camp earlier today. Their leader, an elderly man, says they’re Sergeant King’s chain-men, or somesuch.’

  ‘Is his name Ibhanan?’

  ‘Yes, that was it. They’re lucky I was around. You know how suspicious and jumpy everyone is at the moment.’

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat, as he thought momentarily of a horrible scenario: Ibhanan and the other perambulator-wallahs dangling on gallows.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Where can I find them?’

  ‘At the south end of the camp. Here.’ He handed Jack a card with something scribbled on the back. ‘Give this to the guard commander and he’ll release them to your charge. You’re sure they’re loyal?’

  ‘Even if they weren’t,’ Jack replied, ‘they’re harmless. They wouldn’t know one end of a musket to the other. They’re just coolies and lascars. I’ll take Sergeant King with me. They’ll be more pleased to see him than me. He’s their man, really.’

  Crossman collected King and they went together to the compound where Ibhanan and the others were being held. There was an ensign in charge, who seemed flustered. When shown the colonel’s card he said, ‘I’m not sure General Nicholson – I mean, I’ve been told to keep all prisoners under tight guard.’

  ‘The colonel will answer to the general,’ said Jack. ‘And as you can see, I’m a responsible officer too.’

  ‘All right then, but I hope I don’t get into any trouble.’

  Ibhanan was delighted to see the two British soldiers. His face was covered in creases as he smiled.

  ‘Oh, Sergeant sahib,’ he said to King, ‘so happy to see you alive. I hear many stories, terrible stories.’

  ‘I’m equally happy to see you are all safe too,’ replied King, while Jack stood in the background, not at all put out to be second best. ‘Are you all here? No one missing?’

  Ibhanan hung his head. ‘I am sorry to report, sahib, that one of the men run away to go with the badmashes.’

  ‘Badmashes?’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Dacoos who would join with the sepoys.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ibhanan, but it’s not your fault if a man runs away.’

  At this moment, Jack’s eyes were sweeping the group of Hindus who were clustering around King. He then said, sharply, ‘Where’s Sajan? Where’s the boy?’

  ‘Unfortunately, sahib,’ replied Ibhanan with sorrow in his voice, ‘the boy went with him – with the dacoos.’

  King cried, ‘He did? Was he taken?’

  ‘No, sahib, he went of his own choosing. He steal the sun compass, sir, I think because it is the most shiny of the instruments.’ Ibhanan raised his hands in a gesture which asked them to think leniently. ‘A boy, just a boy. An orphan. He knows no better.’

  ‘The sun compass,’ said King, hopefully. ‘Perhaps he thinks he can find Nepal? I spoke often of Nepal to him. Is that what he’s done? Gone to Nepal?’ Jack realized King was grasping at very thin straws.

  Ibhanan said, ‘No sahib, I think he takes it to polish, so the good genie leaves an anna under his pillow very night.’

  ‘Oh, how disappointing for the child,’ King said, genuinely distressed by this news. ‘I shouldn’t have told him such fairy tales.’

  ‘The boy Sajan say he want to fight the British, to make them go from our country. I told him that the sergeant and his officer are very good to him and save him from being punkah-wallah all his life, but he talk to many Hindu people in the village through which we pass. They tell him the British are bad people and he listen to them.’ I
bhanan could see the distress in King’s eyes and it upset him. ‘I am sorry, sahib. I try to stop the boy, but he escape in the night. I think he go to Delhi with the badmashes. What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Jack, intercepting a sharp reply from the sergeant. ‘You did what you could, Ibhanan.’

  Seeing the Indians begin to cluster around King, Crossman left them to supervise the putting up of his tent by coolies. Once it was done he sat outside and relit the cigar given him by Hawke. It was an awkward business with one hand, but eventually the thing was glowing. It tasted better with every draw and he tried to enjoy it but he was feeling more upset than he was likely to admit to anyone about Sajan’s defection.

  How old was the boy? Eight? Nine? Old enough anyway to know right from wrong. Could he blame the child though? Crossman’s mother had always told him to put himself into the other man’s shoes. Now, if he was a young boy and the French were tramping all over Scotland and England, taking what they wanted, would he throw in his lot with the invaders? He knew he wouldn’t. Yet, he had taken a risk in accepting the boy into his care and yes, he did expect a little gratitude for that gesture. It was all very unsavoury. He was a soldier, going where he was told to go, doing what he was told to do. Was that good enough? Were there times when a soldier should go against authority? He had never heard of such a thing and was inclined to think that chaos would be result.

  He sighed and tried to get his mind on other things. Around him was activity. The Punjabi and Pathan irregulars tended to gather in natural groups of eight or ten men around fires not lit for warmth but to act as a focus. Horses, camels, bullocks and other livestock were either tethered near to their owners or in makeshift corrals within the camp, usually under guard, for there were still thieves out there in the night. The mixture of smells, both exotic and foul, thickened the atmosphere. Perfumed oils were in there somewhere, but also horse and camel dung. In a place where weapons were carried there was always the clatter of metal striking metal, metal hitting wood, wood knocking against wood. With over four thousand men, their mounts, and their baggage train, however light, there was bound to be a constant noise going on. It became like waves falling on the beach, something there in the background, but hardly worth the brain’s attention

  More interesting was the talk from his neighbours, tents having thin walls and withholding no secrets. It seemed that now that they were getting closer to Delhi, fugitives were dribbling in. A magistrate from one of the outlying districts had wandered into camp a few hours previously in a daze, completely naked, covered in dozens of tiny incisions. When asked how he came by his wounds, he said he could not remember. A young man and his sister came in both disguised as local female labourers. The pair had arrived in India just seven weeks ago from Gloucester and were as cool as if they had been in a pageant back in their home village. The woman and her little girl were mentioned. And, inevitably, the story of the minister.

  ‘. . . came in on a bleedin’ elephant, he did, like some bloody maharajah. You could see where he’d put the colourin’ on his skin, it bein’ streaked and running down his face. What a sight! A vicar he is, or somesuch. Said the Lord had delivered him into the hands of his people. Like some bugger out of the Bible reachin’ the promised land.’

  ‘You watch your blasphemin’ tongue, Oakes, mentionin’ religion and buggery in one breath.’

  ‘Well, so does the Bible, with Sodom and Gamborrow an’ all that,’ came the protest. ‘I’m just tryin’ to paint the picture.’

  There were more tales of fugitives, stories of the punishments meted out to captured rebels, prophecies of what was to come.

  ‘It’ll be all over by Christmas, you mark my words.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so – it’s only bleedin’ August.’

  Suddenly Jack was aware of Sergeant King approaching him and he stubbed out the remains of the cigar on the rock which made his seat, scratched his stump to relieve the constant itch, and greeted his visitor.

  ‘King? Any problems?’

  ‘No sir – just came to talk about the boy.’

  ‘Ah yes, the boy. Unsettling business.’

  ‘Sir,’ said King, firmly, ‘there’s talk of Brigadier Chamberlain blowing mutineers from guns. If Sajan should fall back into our hands, we must protect him from such barbaric punishment.’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Sir, you know we must. He’s a child, easily impressed. I impressed him with my instruments and talk of mapmaking. The mutineers, or their followers, have done the same with their talk of liberty and wealth for all who support their cause. As I understand it, until now he’s been a prisoner of a rajah, having seen nothing of the outside world. Now we took him from that prison, rightly in my opinion, but we exposed him to all sorts of influences which he couldn’t possibly cope with, not all at once.’

  ‘So he’s still our responsibility? Even though he’s betrayed us?’

  ‘I think so,’ said the sergeant, firmly. ‘I hope you feel the same way, sir.’

  ‘It might not matter what I think,’ replied Crossman. ‘If the Company army gets its hands on him before we do, we may have to witness his execution.’

  King went pale. ‘I could never do that.’

  ‘You could if you were ordered to.’

  ‘I’m one of Her Majesty’s soldiers, not a damn copycat civilian in uniform,’ shouted King. ‘This Company army is just a collection of clerks playing soldier. I don’t have to follow their orders.’

  The murmured conversation from the neighbouring tent ceased abruptly.

  Crossman said, mildly, ‘Don’t shout at me, Sergeant. Who the hell do you think you are? Find yourself a suitable stone and sit down . . . and you, sir, go back into your tent and mind your business.’

  This last was directed at a man in braces, trousers and vest, who had emerged from the tent next door. When he heard the authority in the voice and subsequently saw by the lamplight that he was being addressed by an officer, he muttered something and reluctantly did as he was told. Low threatening voices then came from that tent, but no one else felt like taking on the toff and his man further down the line.

  ‘Now just calm down,’ said Crossman as King sat moodily down on the ground. ‘We must try to get to Sajan first, though I have to say I’m extremely angry with the boy. It won’t be easy. If we have to storm Delhi it will be a bloody and confusing business. I know about these things. I’ve been involved in urban fighting before, in the Crimea, and it’s nothing like a battle on open landscape. There’s casualties from friendly fire as well as from enemy fire. No one’s quite sure who’s who, especially in darkness. The best we can do is hope to sort through any prisoners before some revengeful major or colonel gets his hands on them.’

  Crossman sighed. ‘You’ve got to remember, King, that many of these soldiers have family here, some of whom have been cut down in their homes. You can’t expect things to remain on a cool and rational footing. Atrocities will occur, on both sides. There’re some who’ll take little notice of the fact that he’s just a child, especially if they’ve lost children themselves in this unholy conflict.’

  King screwed his forage cap with his hands. ‘I just don’t want him to die needlessly.’

  ‘Nor do I. We’ll do what we can. Now, where’re your instruments? What had Ibhanan to say for himself?’

  ‘Ibhanan stored them with a merchant at Ferozepur. He says he thinks the man is honest, but of course we can’t be sure. Those instruments are worth a lot of money. If we lose India, of course we can’t expect to see them again, but the merchant has many holdings in Ferozepur and he won’t simply disappear or he’ll lose his business. I think Ibhanan did the right thing.’

  ‘It sounds reasonable. Tell Ibhanan I’m very grateful. And King?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Don’t ever raise your voice at me again.’

  The sergeant looked down at the ground, still twisting and turning his cap in his hands.

  ‘I’m sor
ry, sir. I was overwrought.’

  ‘Don’t get overwrought. Don’t even get wrought. You’re a sergeant in Her Majesty’s army. Conduct yourself with dignity.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  King got up and bade the lieutenant goodnight. But as he walked away he had to pass the neighbouring tent. A remark came from within. King gave answer. A tall dark-haired man flew from the tent and began raining punches on Crossman’s sergeant. Far from conducting himself with dignity, King returned the blows with fiery temperament. The two men went at it like prize fighters, trying to punch holes in each other. King was very stocky, a square man with fists like hammers. Without question the other soldier had been drinking: the smell of arrack was in the air. Alcohol and hard physical exercise do not go together. Arrack may help to numb the blows from an adversary, but it slows action, and destroys balance and judgement. King gradually began to take the other man apart, parrying strikes, delivering body-shattering blows.

  Crossman was at a loss to know what to do. As a responsible officer he knew he ought to intervene, but since he knew that it would be beneficial all round for King to let off steam, he was inclined to hang back in the shadows of his tent. He finally did the latter, while King proceeded to paste his taller opponent, getting under the man’s longer reach and thumping him in the ribs and gut until the soldier fell on the ground, groaning.

  Other men had come out of the tent to watch. One of them began to go forward, but seeing King’s stance, decided that valour was not worth the effort. He and his friends helped the broken soldier to his feet. Yet, being upright again, the man suddenly got a second wind and decided he was not yet beaten. His rage fuelled another foolish attempt at victory. He shrugged off his fellows and flew at King once again in fury. King landed a solid punch to his jaw, as he came on, and the soldier went down like a felled tree, to crash amongst some kettles and pans on the ground.

  At that moment another officer, a major, appeared on the scene.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he cried, imperiously. ‘Fighting?’

  No one answered him.

  ‘I ask you again, are you men fighting? Is that you Sergeant Collins? Answer my question, if you please.’