Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Crazy,’ Gwilliams muttered. ‘Plain crazy.’

  ‘I am not mad,’ cried King, the hotness coming to his eyes again. ‘I know he’s my son. I can feel it. Who’s to say he’s not?’

  ‘Who’s to say he is? Chances are he’s a waif and stray from some other corner of India,’ replied Gwilliams. ‘This country is comin’ apart at the seams with damn orphans. Your boy, if he lived that is, might be somewhere around, but who the hell knows where? In any event, Sergeant,’ said Gwilliams with cruel logic, ‘how’d’you know your little Indian sweetheart didn’t give birth to a girl baby? Answer me that one.’

  ‘I prefer to believe Sajan is my son,’ answered King, stiffly, ‘and I won’t hear arguments otherwise.’

  Gwilliams shrugged and Crossman thought it was time to let matters alone. If Sergeant King had decided the boy was his son, then what harm could it do? As Gwilliams had said, the baby could have been a girl. King had not been there at the birth. Or she could have lost the infant in childbirth: that happened a great deal, everywhere in world. More than likely she had been punished by her family, once they found she was pregnant, perhaps even forfeiting her life. Anything could have happened. Anything. So, if King wanted a son that much, why not let him have one. Except that Sajan was still missing and would probably remain so, making the whole argument an academic one.

  In fact, they had no time to search for either Ishwar Raktambar or Sajan. The whole population of Delhi was driven out into the countryside and there were rumours that the city would be razed to the ground. Certainly, to Crossman’s disgust, the local vultures had gone in and were rooting through the houses for valuables. Peasants who had nothing and wanted everything, and who could blame them? He could not find Colonel Hawke but he asked Major Lovelace whether it could be stopped.

  ‘We have very little authority here, Jack. We’re Queen’s army and we’re not even attached to a regiment. Things will change soon, though, it’s it the wind. This uprising has sealed the fate of John Company. ’

  So Jack and the others had to watch as more crimes were piled on top of those already committed. Sepoys and civilians captives were tried by courts martial and most sentenced to death, with scant attention to evidence. It was a time not for justice but for revenge. You could not restrain men whose wives and children had been chopped to pieces. Bloody madness ruled in both camps, though Crossman felt those on his side should have been acting under more civilized rules.

  Soon, however, regiments were reformed and on the march again, heading towards Agra to relieve that city. Brigadier Greathed left Delhi on the twenty-fourth of September and marched towards Agra with weary battle-stained troops: a remarkable achievement considering the same men had fought a huge battle and an urban street fight only a few days before.

  Crossman and his men did not join the column to Agra. They had been ordered north again, back to the Punjab, the land of the five rivers. Akbar Khan had kept his promise, but some of the smaller tribes were getting restless and threatening to band together to attack Peshawar while the British and Punjabi troops were occupied in Bengal. Colonel Hawke had granted Crossman time though to search for Ishwar Raktambar, seeing that the Rajput had been a gift from a powerful maharajah.

  ‘By the way, Lieutenant,’ the colonel had said, ‘well done. I hear you fought well in the battle. Your father will be proud of you.’

  Jack had winced at that remark. The last thing he wanted in life was his father’s approval. If his deeds warranted that, then they were wrong. Hawke’s remark just about summed up the whole war for him. They were actions which his father would have relished. Putting down the native when he got too uppity. Yes, Major Kirk would have approved of that.

  One evening Fancy Jack Crossman, who was feeling anything but ‘fancy’ after the embittered battle for Delhi, returned to the Ridge. He knew it was foolish of him but he found himself thinking of Geraldine Stanton. The pretty young woman was not his responsibility and it was dangerous to seek out someone to whom he found himself attracted. He kept telling himself he only wished to discover whether she was in good safe hands. It was a very stupid exercise in any case, for most of the non-Indian civilians had long since moved off the Ridge and were under army protection elsewhere.

  Luckily, he did not find her amongst the ruins of the old cantonment, but he did see someone else camped in the shadows of a wall. The man had not noticed Jack approaching and the lieutenant walked carefully through the rubble, so as not to disturb anything and cause a noise. It had not been an hallucination that night down by the canal. It had not been a figment of a fevered brain. Here was the assassin, large as life.

  Jack crept up behind Arihant and placed the muzzle of his revolver against the back of the assassin’s neck.

  ‘Do not move one inch,’ Crossman warned. ‘Or I shall shoot you in the head, do you understand?’

  The man went stiff. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Place your hands, palms first, against the wall.’

  Arihant did as he was told.

  ‘Now, sir, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh,’ the tone was light and airy, ‘I visit relatives in this unfortunate city.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No, no, I do not lie – I visit. . .’

  Jack pressed the muzzle hard against the man’s skull.

  ‘I am going to pull the trigger.’

  Jack squeezed the cocking trigger of the Tranter. The click made Arihant jump.

  ‘No – no – please, sahib – no. This is murder.’

  ‘Yes, your stock in trade. Don’t think I won’t do this. I too am an assassin by trade. A reluctant one, but nevertheless I kill those who wish to do me and mine harm, without compunction. And one more body on the Ridge will count for very little. Thousands have died here, in the last few months, in the last few days. Another body will be just left to rot. Was it a man called Hadrow who sent you to kill me? Answer me.’

  At that moment the worst possible thing happened. Geraldine Stanton, light shawl about her shoulders, came out of a ruined building nearby. It almost seemed as if she had been waiting for him to come and seek her out, for there was no real reason for her to be there, except that it was the last place they had met before Jack had gone into battle.

  ‘I thought I heard your voice, Lieutenant. Goodness gracious, what are you doing? Is that man a rebel?’

  The shades of evening were falling. One of those magnificent sunsets which were made to be admired was spread across the sky. God had not spared the paints, for there was not just red up there but a wonderful array of deep rich colours. Jack, however, was not concerned with beauty at this time, be it of women or skies. It was his prisoner he was interested in. Information was what he required. And he would have it, or blow a man’s brains out.

  ‘Please leave, Miss Stanton,’ Crossman ordered. ‘You may not like witnessing what I am about to do.’

  ‘I have done nothing,’ cried Arihant. ‘I am no rebel. I am loyal to the British. This officer is crazy. Call for help, memsahib, please.’

  Ignoring the Indian’s words she lifted her muslim shawl to her head, to cover it from the evening gnats.

  ‘Lieutenant. . .?’

  ‘Go away, Miss Stanton. Now.’

  ‘Shoot him – I don’t care,’ she replied in a bitter voice. ‘Shoot all of them.’

  Jack drew a deep breath. ‘Miss Stanton, for the last time. This is official army business. I’m not an ordinary officer. I’m a cold-blooded killer, saboteur and spy. I am reviled by most of my fellow officers. You would do well not to speak to me again. Now you will go away and leave me to my work. I have no further interest in you whatsoever. Go.’

  Her face hardened under the fading light. Jack could not afford more than a glance at her. His attention had to be on the individual under the revolver. He heard her stumbling away though, into the darkness that swept in. She did not speak again. When her footsteps were no longer in his ears Jack growled at his prisoner, ‘And you will
speak, sir – or die now. Who is it you have come to kill. Is it me? Tell me quickly. A name only. If you say anything else, anything at all, I will squeeze the trigger. A name, sir. Just a name. Even a grunt or a sigh will have your brains on that wall.’

  ‘Sergeant King!’

  Crossman lowered the pistol. He was a little shocked he had to admit. What he had been expecting was his own name, or Lovelace, or Colonel Hawke, or Major William Hodson, but not King’s. King was a tiny pawn in the sabotage and spying service. Almost just a cover for what they did, with his obsession with surveying and map-making. This surely could not be about army business?

  ‘You work for money.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who hired you to kill Sergeant King?’

  ‘A family.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘He made their daughter pregnant a few years ago. Her brothers killed her. When Sergeant King arrived in the village, asking for her by name, they knew he was the lover returned. They paid me to assassinate him.’

  ‘And the child? What happened to the child?’

  ‘I do not know, sahib. That is the whole truth.’

  Jack considered the answers, which were flowing now, and felt that Arihant had no reason to lie further.

  ‘You must have had an opportunity to kill the sergeant before now – why have you waited?’

  Arihant turned and faced him in the gloom. ‘There is a right time and a wrong time, sahib. I am a religious man. I take note of favourable dates, of the phases of the moon and the position of the stars. One cannot kill a man just like that. One needs good portents, good omens.’

  ‘Or perhaps you thought you’d wait in case the sergeant got killed in battle? Then you could collect your fee without any danger to yourself?’

  Jack knew he should shoot the man under his weapon but, as always when faced with a cold-blooded murder, he felt sick to his stomach. In the heat of battle, or even in a fracas, he could take out a man as well as the next soldier. But not like this. Not without some sort of provocation. Granted, this assassin was here to murder his sergeant, but having confessed his plans he surely would not go about putting them into operation. Better to hand this creature over to the authorities and let them deal with him.

  ‘Listen to me, Arihant. Listen very carefully. I am going to hand you over to the British army. I have no doubt you’re skilful in bribing your way out of captivity, or you would be rotting in some prison cell by now, so I add this – if I see your face again, I will kill you. I will shoot you without any more recourse to talk. There will be no time for explanations. I shan’t care why you’re there, next time I shall simply put my gun to your head and pull the trigger. So, if they let you go, or you escape, you’d better run. Run hard and fast. Go anywhere but make sure it’s out of my sight or reach. Be assured, I will destroy you. Understood?’

  Drops of cold sweat flew from the man’s face as he nodded vigorously. Jack saw that he had been scared. Terrified, in fact. He was right to be. He had escaped instant death by the merest shadow of a man’s finer feelings. A future trial would probably condemn Arihant to death anyway, but at least Crossman would not be pulling the lever on his life.

  Even now Jack knew he was being foolish, but someone had forgotten not to rip out his conscience when they sent him on special duties and made him an assassin. He marched Arihant to the nearest guard post and told them to put the man under arrest. ‘He threatened to kill a British NCO,’ Jack said. ‘I have to leave him in your hands, but I will provide a written statement for the trial.’

  The court would not need much in the way of a statement. An officer’s word would be enough. Arihant’s fate was sealed, unless he did manage to get away. If that happened, surely the assassin would forget any contract with this distant family and get to a place of safety without delay. This was not the way the major would have done it, but he was not Nathan Lovelace, he was Jack Crossman, and he still had a soul somewhere within him.

  Much later on, while Jack was reflecting on the whole business. he realized something important: surely Arihant had been following them before they went into the village where King’s lover had lived? He strained his memory, but much had passed since then; illnesses had warped his sense of time. Was it possible the assassin had lied and was, after all, chasing Jack Crossman? This place, this India, was full of mysteries which might never be solved.

  Later that night Gwilliams carne to him.

  ‘We’ve found Ishwar Raktambar. They have him under guard. He’s to go to the gallows tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Execution?’ said Crossman. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s what the guard said. Early. Before breakfast. Saves having to feed ’em,’ Gwilliams said. ‘The sergeant’s speaking with the duty officer now., but he don’t seem inclined to listen.’

  Jack knew that Major Lovelace and Colonel Hawke had already left for Agra, so he could not count on support from higher up. Hodson knew him, but Hodson was not around either and Jack had no idea where to find him. If Crossman were to save Raktambar he would have to do it alone.

  ‘What’s the duty officer’s name?’

  ‘Captain Deighnton.’

  Crossman’s spirits took a plunge. ‘Oh, Lord – him.’

  ‘You know him, sir?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  Jack dressed in his uniform and followed his corporal through the darkness to the prisoners’ compound. There were about fifty men in the compound, but Jack soon recognized Raktambar, taller than the others. The man was in chains behind a guarded wire fence.

  ‘Raktambar,’ he said, touching the other man on the shoulder, ‘how are you?’

  The Rajput’s expression was naturally gloomy.

  ‘How is a man who is to hang tomorrow to answer such a question?’

  ‘You will not hang. I’ll get you released. Just as I did before, that day out on the Punjab trail. But first I want your word that you didn’t fight with the rebels, or side with them in any way, or assist them in their cause. Do I have that?’

  ‘Yes. That night in the river, I had to get to shore. I would have drowned. Once back in the city I found a place to sleep. In the morning I thought I would try to get out, to join you again, but my heart is not in this business, sahib. I did not wish to fight my own people . . .’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘. . . so I decided to stay. But, since I am your man, I thought I would search for the boy instead. That way I would be helping you, but not going against my people. So I scoured the city, day after day, seeking the child Sajan. I found him with one of the sergeant’s men – the one that ran away. I killed the man, but the boy would not come with me. He remained with the rebel sepoys and badmashes.’

  ‘So, you left him?’

  ‘No, I found a place nearby, and kept my eyes on him. I think I can find him, now. It is difficult to explain.’

  ‘Right. Gwilliams, take me to the duty officer.’

  The corporal walked on ahead, into the night. Crossman followed. He glanced up to see the heavens were encrusted with stars. All this death and destruction, he thought, and still they shine with such purity. All this mayhem and justice gone bad. It didn’t seem right to him at this moment. A man was about to go to the gallows and the angels still sang sweetly, the stars shone brightly – and in England mothers were kissing the cheeks of their children and telling them that all was well with the world.

  Outside the duty officer’s hut, Sergeant King was pacing up and down. He saw his lieutenant and he shrugged.

  ‘He won’t listen,’ he said, as Jack marched past him.

  The lieutenant entered the hut to find Captain Deighnton sitting on the corner of a makeshift desk, with what looked like a glass of port at his lips. There was a trooper in one corner of the room, talking quietly with a sergeant. Deighnton’s eyes widened when he saw who was his visitor.

  ‘You have a prisoner in your compound,’ said Crossman. ‘He’s one of my men. I want him back.’
>
  Deighnton swung a booted leg on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Really? You want him back? A condemned man.’

  ‘I don’t know what sort of court convicted him, but they would never have done so had I been called on as a witness. The man Ishwar Raktambar is a British spy. He works under me. I work under Major Lovelace, who works under Colonel Hawke. We are, in the current circumstances, part of Major Hodson’s intelligence network.’

  The captain looked amused and took a sip of his port.

  ‘Hodson? The spy? He of he Plungers? Hodson’s Horse. The Guides. Oh, yes, and more recently, the self-proclaimed excutioner of regents. A regicide. I suppose you know the man’s in disgrace at the moment. Killed the royal princes without a by-your-leave. He’ll get his come-uppance now and not before time. A thief to boot, I’ve heard. Fiddled the Company’s books. Never did like the man. Too full of himself by half.’

  ‘Notwithstanding your personal opinion of Major Hodson, the fact is he runs an intelligence network of which I – and Ishwar Raktambar – are part. Raktambar was in Delhi on my instructions. He provided valuable information to us from time to time, which helped in the assault. I would be grateful if you would release him to my jurisdiction. You cannot continue to hold a man who was working under cover for the British. Should you refuse to let him go, and he does indeed hang, I shall personally take pleasure in seeing you go down at your subsequent court martial. Have no fear, I shall spend all my efforts in bringing about an enquiry.’

  Deighnton laughed out loud now. ‘You think they’ll court martial me after this mess?’ He waved an arm in the general direction of the shattered city of Delhi. ‘Why, man, you could hide the blackest of deeds amongst all the failures and mistakes that have gone on around here. No one in India will want to dig in this pile of shit, once it’s all over.’

  A coldness came over Jack. He knew that the captain was right. Some awful blunders had been made. Some terrible injustices were taking place. One more would only be lost in a sackful of others. Such small injustices as this would also be tossed against the pile of atrocities committed by the enemy. The massacre of the British women and children at Cawnpore; the horrors of the well; the slaughter of the families in the boats at Lucknow. When future courts of enquiry weighed all the terrible things that had occurred, on both sides of the war, this hanging would be of such insignificance it would be dismissed as just a minor error.