Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Alms?’ he murmured, twisting his mouth so that the words came out strangely warped. ‘Alms for one crippled by the foe?’

  He thrust his good palm into their faces, demanding money, staring them right in the eyes with a pleading expression.

  ‘Give. Give. Allah wills it. Give.’

  A woman pushed his hand aside. ‘Get away from me,’ she said, ‘do you think you’re the only victim in this war? I have a son with no legs. If anyone should be pitied it is my son, who weeps for a lost brother and a father who will never see light in his eyes again.’

  ‘Shame!’ said Raktambar, suddenly, turning Crossman around and leading him away. ‘Shame on you, woman. Pity my poor friend here, who has been robbed of his hand. I am sorry for your son, but here is a man who has given his limb for the cause, his wrist black with rot.’

  The Rajput and King bustled Crossman away on the edge of the crowd, gently nudging men and women aside. Most of them were still only hungry for fevered images from the fallen prophet. His eyes were now flickering and they were urging him to get to his feet and tell them more about the end of the world. Would they defeat the firinghis and drive them from their land before they were all dragged into oblivion? Would they swarm over the infidels and cut them down like corn stalks? Would they stamp the Christians down into the caked earth and spit on their bones?

  The three made their way through the watchers to the other side, without being accosted further. Then they slipped into the shadows and along the city walls, down towards the river. It seemed they might make it without further incident when two sepoys, still in their Company army uniforms, stepped out of a house and came towards them. The sepoys carried muskets in the crooks of their arms and it appeared they had been drinking. Both small men, they stared at Crossman and the Rajput, who had the advantage of height. The sepoys sauntered over to them, looking them up and down.

  ‘Where are you going at this hour?’ said one of the sepoys.

  Raktambar asked, ‘Who is that wants to know?’

  ‘We are the guard,’ replied the other, aggressively. ‘You should know us.’

  ‘I know that you are of low caste,’ Raktambar growled, ‘so do not come close to me.’

  One of the sepoys stepped back, but the other looked fiercely at the Rajput and came on.

  ‘You think you are better than us?’

  ‘Of course I am better than you. I am a Ksatriya. You are Mleccha.’

  ‘I have a firelock,’ reminded the sepoy, whose friend had now come forward again. ‘You do not. You would be wise to hold that in your mind, before you come the high priest over us. We are good working soldiers who struggle for our bread. Do not mock us or insult us.’

  The sepoy lifted his Brown Bess now and aimed at Raktambar’s stomach. Whether or not he meant to fire Crossman never knew. Jack was not going to take the chance. He drew his dagger and drove it hard between the sepoy’s ribs. A scream went wailing up from the man as he dropped his firearm and clutched at the hilt of the knife protruding from his chest. Then he sank to his knees and with a short sigh fell sideways onto the ground.

  The second man gathered his wits, having at first been shocked into immobility. Now he began running away, a gargling noise coming from his mouth. Raktambar chased him, swiftly, grabbed him from behind by his hair, and slit his throat before he too could begin shouting. Then all three of the intruders ran down to the river, expecting a howling mob to come out of the streets and follow them.

  Nothing of the kind happened, for whatever reason.

  The trio reached the waterline and waded in, diving under when some people appeared, but the party on the shore was talking and laughing, and walked on. The moon had disappeared completely now as if it had fallen through a hole in the night. In the blackness the three men lost touch with one another. Crossman found himself battling against the current, the rippling rush of a swift flow causing him to exert great effort. He found he was floundering, his handless arm failing to give him the kind of propulsion he needed to beat the torrent. The river was a strong master, carrying him back down past Delhi, towards the south of the city.

  The hazy moon came out again just as a line of boats appeared. Crossman dived and was swept under them. While under the surface he lost his sense of direction, not knowing which was up, down or sideways. This caused him to panic for a moment, thinking that the current was dragging him to the bottom, but then he felt his good arm break into air. He thrashed around for a bit, gulping down breaths, not caring that he was making a great deal of noise. All he wanted now was to be out of the watery clutches of the Jumna. He kicked his legs like mad to keep his head and shoulders above the surface, but the muscles were screaming now. Strong eddies caught him and began to spin his body round and round. Close to exhaustion, he cursed his missing hand. That small paddle of flesh and bone was sorely missed: he had not realized how much it would matter to him.

  The twisting eddies then started to turn him upside down, savage in their playfulness, like a dog with a rag. He knew he must be near some sharp bend in the river, or the turbulence would not be so fierce. Out there in the middle it was a faster but smoother flow. Here on the edge, where the waves twisted in great cables, there would be logs and even whole trees, washed along by the greedy Jumna to be caught in a tangled corner. His last breath left his body and that aching pain in his lungs began building to a terrible crescendo. There was no chance now for new air. He was topsy-turvy somewhere in the foaming torrent.

  A strong muscled limb came out of nowhere, gripped him under his armpits, and a struggle began to reach the shore. Crossman went limp, his life in the hands of another. When his head bobbed above the surface he snatched at blessed air, trying not to panic when he submerged again. It seemed longer than an hour, but was probably shorter than a minute, before he found himself crawling up the shore, spluttering and gargling warm river water from nose and mouth. All he could think of, with a gladness close to religious joy, was that he had survived the water. He was out of that damned river with its many-fingered clutching eddies and currents.

  His saviour spoke to him. ‘You all right, sir?’

  ‘Sergeant? Was it you who pulled me out?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. You owe me a great debt of gratitude now. It’ll be difficult for you to discipline me in future, won’t it?’

  ‘No it damned well won’t.’ Crossman heaved himself up with his good right hand, until he was sitting. ‘It’s your duty to rescue your commanding officer, when he’s in trouble.’

  There was a serious note to their flippancy and neither felt like carrying it any further. They sat on the shoreline, hidden by a bank of reeds which stretched up to a small village of mud-houses and shacks. Neither felt like moving for a while. King confessed he was aching from top to bottom. That last effort had scoured the energy from him, leaving him fatigued beyond any exercise he had ever undertaken. Crossman was limp in every quarter, not even managing to summon the energy to remove a nest of twigs from his hair: a parting gift from the River Jumna.

  ‘Did you see what happened to Raktambar?’ asked the lieutenant, fearing that his man had been drowned. ‘He was the weakest swimmer amongst us, after all.’

  ‘Yes, he was not long out before he began struggling, even though the water was only up to his chest. I saw him wade back to the shore. He’s back in the city again.’

  Crossman wondered whether this had been a deliberate ploy of the Rajput, to get away from him. Being a Hindu he would be able to hide very well in Delhi. It was a huge city with many inhabitants. No one would be suspicious of a new face in a city into which new faces were appearing by the day. As to whether Raktambar had worked it on purpose, it did not on the surface seem likely, unless the Rajput were very devious. It was true he was used to – Crossman struggled to recall the phrase, but found it in the end – hasad-wa-fasad – jealousy and intrigue. It was the ‘intrigue’ part that interested the lieutenant. Could Raktambar have planned such a thing? It was surely too complicat
ed a method of escape. An easier scheme would surely be to walk away from the Ridge in the middle of the night.

  When he and King were sufficiently recovered they reconnoitred the area. Dawn was appearing now and in the greyness they could see they were quite a long way south of the Ridge. The sky looked as if it had been swept with stiff brooms, the cirrus clouds having streaked edges. There was a village in the way, and a number of small farms, but Crossman guessed they were about three to four miles from the nearest point of the Ridge.

  ‘More like five to six, sir,’ said King.

  ‘I think you’re wrong, Sergeant.’

  King was firm. ‘Who’s the surveyor? You or me.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent.’

  ‘I simply ask the question, sir, without the intention to irritate you, which seems to be a very easy thing to do.’

  ‘You didn’t need to add that last clause to your sentence. Do not think that saving my life makes us bosom friends. I can’t ignore insolence. I don’t dislike you, King, but you’re my sergeant, not my chum.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you don’t appear to have any chums at all.’

  ‘That is surely my business and yes I do mind . . .’

  They kept this up as they made their way over the uneven ground to the Ridge. Avoiding habitations and cattle corrals they encountered no serious problems. A man with a bullock cart out on a road seemed mildly surprised to see them. A gaggle of women going down to the river with their laundry giggled as they passed them. Whether their disguises, as Hindus, worked in the light of day neither man knew. Crossman was inclined not to trust it except at distance. In the main there were very few people about in the early morning. They swung west to come towards the Ridge from the rear, passing Eed-Ghur and going under the aqueduct to join the canal. They then followed the canal in a north-easterly direction, crossing the Kurnaul road, calling out for the benefit of any picquets that they were British and not Indian, as their appearance suggested.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ King kept crying. ‘Scouting party coming in! No itchy fingers, lads. Keep it in the barrel. I’m as English as you.’

  ‘That’ll keep the Irishmen from shooting you,’ muttered Jack.

  However, they managed to enter the camp when they came level with the old racecourse, where some fusiliers were collecting water in their kettles. Weary, the two men made their way to Colonel Hawke, who greeted them with a cheery good morning and bade them welcome. Major Lovelace was called and King gave his engineer’s report first, while Crossman relaxed and let waves of drowsiness wash over him. Then, the important information out of the way, he gave his own report, which terminated with the story of Ishwar Raktambar re-entering Delhi.

  ‘You don’t think he’s defected?’ enquired Lovelace. ‘I simply ask the question, you understand.’

  ‘I don’t believe so – I’m sure he hasn’t,’ Crossman replied. ‘In any case, he has nothing to tell them that they can’t learn from their own spies.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Lieutenant.’

  After passing on their information, Crossman and King went back to their quarters. Crossman was awoken from a deep sleep by two soldiers talking outside his bivouac. One was telling the other that the long-awaited siege-train was nearing Delhi, elephants and bullocks drawing the heavy guns and ammunition wagons. The rebels had sent a force of seven thousand men from Delhi to intercept it and destroy it. Brigadier-General Nicholson had been asked by the commander-in-chief, General Wilson, to take the field again. Nicholson was to pursue the rebel column and crush them before they reached the siege-train. The British force was to consist of 2,500 Punjabi irregulars, three troops of horse artillery and two companies of British infantry taken from the Queen’s Regiment of 6lst Foot.

  ‘We’re in it,’ said the soldier with the deeper voice. ‘It’s our company what’s going out.’

  ‘Sooner out than in, with this lot coming down,’ replied his comrade, speaking of the continual rain of shells and shot from the mutineers in Delhi. ‘A breath of fresh air, at least.’

  Crossman dressed and went straight to Colonel Hawke.

  ‘Shall we join General Nicholson’s force?’

  ‘Not this time, Lieutenant. You need a rest.’

  The colonel did not expand on his reason and the lieutenant did not seek to question his superior further. Jack knew that one of Hawke’s friends, John Coke, who had formed the Punjabi ‘Coke’s Rifles’ had been severely wounded and it had upset him, so the colonel was in no mood for any arguments. Jack left his commanding officer in a thoughtful frame of mind, returning to tell Gwilliams and King that they were staying put. King seemed rather relieved, though Gwilliams, feeling stifled and oppressed in the Ridge encampment, would have liked to take the field.

  ‘I thought one time we was going to join with Coke’s Rifles,’ said Gwilliams. ‘Had we done, would we have got to go?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Crossman. ‘When the colonel says no, he means it. Well, we must make ourselves useful here. God knows, there’s plenty to do and we’re short of men now. They’ll need us to help defend the Ridge while the column is out.’

  Indeed, attacks continued to come, mostly over the ground on the south-west corner known as Subzimundi, where the rebels were able to use dwellings to shield themselves from rifle fire. Some were bold, some were timid, but many were willing to lay down their lives. They had fought for the British for many years, now they were fighting for themselves. The reason seemed enshrouded in fog. It did not appear as if they had any grand plan and senior British officials were mystified as to what was going to replace their system. Many Indians were waiting to see what the outcome was likely to be, before committing themselves one way or the other. Some of the princes thought they would get their power back. Zaminders, the land owners, hoped to increase the size of their properties. The poor had been promised much by the glittering rich. The rich hoped to get richer. All of this seemed vaguely desirable, but remained woolly and loosely woven.

  Brigadier Nicholson achieved a commendable victory. He returned to the Ridge having fought and defeated a vastly superior enemy force at Najafgarh. Almost a thousand of the rebels had been killed in the battle at the cost of thirty lives in Nicholson’s ranks. Guns were seized and the rebels routed. Those in the camp on the Ridge were jubilant. For his part Nicholson praised his troops, saying they had behaved very creditably.

  Crossman could not but help feel the same joy as others on hearing of the victory. There was a certain pride in his nation and the satisfaction of knowing that those people who were even now pounding the Ridge with guns had been thrashed by a force inferior in numbers. He felt their morale must be suffering after this second drubbing by Nicholson.

  One sweltering, humid evening, Jack was sitting on an empty powder keg smoking his chibouque to rid the air of insects, when he saw a man slinking along the bank of the canal. Visibility was poor since the sun was rapidly sinking into celestial foam, but Jack studied the figure, seeing in him something familiar. Then the man passed under the light thrown down by a lantern which stood on the spot where water was scooped in jugs and pots. His features under the lamplight, the man became instantly recognizable. Jack saw it was the willing assassin who had approached him just outside Bombay. Yet the man was here. What was his business on the Ridge? Had he come on a professional footing? Since his work was killing people, ‘any persons you choose’, then one had to assume he was here to do just that.

  Suddenly Jack realized that this was the shadowy figure who had been following them across half of India. His aspect on the situation changed to one of deep alarm. This sinister man, this self-confessed murderer, was now surely after him, for why would Arihant trail him this way and that, if not seeking an opportunity to kill him? The man’s profession bespoke of dealing out death at a price and it could not be purely coincidence that their paths had crossed so often in the last few months. Jack was now sure his own life was forfeit to some unknown third party,
who wished him dead.

  Crossman rose swiftly, intending to go and question the assassin, but the moment he stood up the dark figure was gone. It almost seemed as if he had vanished into the canal itself. Strolling down to the spot where the lamp stood, Crossman found dozens of footprints in the mud, but no Arihant. Had he really seen him? He felt sure there had been someone walking along, but perhaps his eyes were playing tricks in the gloaming? Lizards crawled the banks under the jaundiced light and swift bats darted in and out of the beams. Shadows jumped when he knocked the lamp with his elbow, but there were no other movements along the canal.

  Jack returned to his seat, puzzled, wondering about those strange flitting shapes one experiences at the dying of the day. Perhaps the heat had got to him? It was relentless enough in the day and hardly changed step during the evening. Men shrivelled and died in these temperatures. Kidneys simply ceased functioning. Minds went mad in the hot winds. And the insects were enough to drive one insane on their own!

  Shortly after this incident a woman passed him in the twilight carrying a pail and holding a child’s hand. The woman looked about thirty-five and like most of the families on the Ridge, was black-eyed, haggard and worn. Lack of sleep, fear for the future and her child, being in the presence of death and destruction, perhaps the loss of a husband, father or brother, all had contributed to her state of mind and her appearance. She was wearing a sari which had at one time been bright yellow, but was now filthy. It was torn in several places, the gold trim peeling away leaving a black edge. It was impossible to tell the colour of her hair, which had obviously been dyed black at some time, but was now streaked with light and dark.

  The little girl, possibly around six or seven, looked as if she had fared a little better, but then he reminded himself that children had the buffer of adults between them and disaster. They might be frightened and anxious, but there was comfort to be had in protective arms. For the adults themselves, there was no such solace. Even in the arms of loved-ones the fear did not go away.