It was strangely quiet as he walked out into the dusk of the day. Well, not that quiet; there were the usual noises of life in a large camp, but something was amiss, something subdued, something not quite right. He looked for Maurice but couldn’t see him or Major Preston. He even checked for the wallah. No one. No one near his tent, anyway. He sat at the little table and looked into the distance. Strange, he thought, it seems as though the camp is holding its breath. After ten minutes or so, Arun came toward the table from out of the darkness.
‘Good evenings, Private Sahib. Are you wanting any refreshment?’
‘Oh, yes please, mate, can I have a cup of chai, and if you have anything to eat, that would be great.’
‘One moment, yes please,’ he said, and he skipped off.
Tommy wondered where Maurice had got to and realised that he felt quite alone without his new friend. Although he spoke like a typical upper-class university-trained politician who had swallowed a dictionary, Tommy liked him; there was a warmness to him, a friendly openness and a ready smile. It was typical of the times, though, he thought, the way they treated people who they thought were of a lower class, but he supposed that was normal and shouldn’t make too much of it. After all he, thought, it’s already happened, maybe?
After about ten or fifteen minutes, Arun returned with a steaming mug of tea. It was black and unsweetened, but what the hell, Tommy thought, it was wet and hot. He also placed a lamp on the table so Tommy could see with the failing light, and as the lamp wick flickered, he produced another lovely bowl of meat slop. But Tommy was far too hungry to moan and dug in immediately. After he had finished, to his surprise and delight, Arun produced an apple out of his sleeve like a magician.
‘Where the bloody hell did you get that, mate?’
‘Private Sahib, I am keeping supply secrets, yes please.’ He smiled at Tommy, picked up his empty bowl and went off to whatever secret place he gets his work done. Tommy had eaten better apples but this was a godsend after the tasteless food these soldiers ate. He would never again moan about the ration packs supplied to him, and he relished every juicy bite.
About an hour later, he was considering going back to bed when he heard Maurice’s voice coming out of the darkness. A moment later he appeared, once again carrying a bottle of some sort of liquor.
‘Yes please, Arun, and could you fetch a glass for Mr Evans also.’
‘Yes please, Lieutenant Sahib.’
‘Thomas, my dear chap, I have news.’ He said this as he sat on the opposite chair and uncorked the bottle.
Arun returned a moment later with two glasses and handed them to the two soldiers.
‘That will be all for tonight, my good man. Why don’t you take the rest of the evening off, unless of course the Major Sahib requires your attendance.’
‘Very good, Lieutenant Sahib, yes please.’ Arun disappeared into the darkness.
Maurice poured two healthy measures into the glasses and re-corked the bottle; his hands, Tommy noticed, had a slight tremble. Maurice took a large gulp and turned to his friend.
‘We should have our orders by tomorrow, Thomas, and we might be moving in the next couple of days.’ He became silent.
Tommy took a generous swig of the scotch and tried to understand Maurice’s mood but found he was hard to gauge. He watched him for a few more moments and then decided to press him for details. ‘So what’s the deal then, mate?’
Maurice was gazing over the now-dark camp, staring at the camp fires; he completely ignored Tommy. ‘Maurice, what’s the score then, me old mate?’ he said, louder this time, which got Maurice’s attention.
‘Hmm, oh sorry, old chap,’ he said absentmindedly.
‘What’s the deal, then? Where are we moving to exactly?’
‘Sorry Thomas, I was miles away. Yes, well, the cavalry reports say that they have made contact with Ayub Khan’s forward screen and his army has fully crossed the Helmand. And Burrows believes they will be making for, or bypassing, Kandahar and heading for Kabul, so he has decided to intercept and stop them. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, he says. The enemy have about six thousand men and around four thousand cavalry, and there are also reports of around thirty guns.’ Maurice stopped and took a drink.
Tommy frowned. ‘How many men do we have, then?’
‘Well, there are around three thousand of the force that left Kandahar; a mix of infantry, us, of course, the 66th; the 130th Jacob’s Rifles; the 1st Grenadiers, who you have already met, of course; two regiments of cavalry, the Bombay Light and the 3rd Sind.’ He paused and took a sip of his drink. ‘We also have the guns of the Royal Horse and the smooth bore we captured, which are now attached to the 66th, plus the sappers and miners, of course. More than enough for those heathens, the Brigadier General assures us.’
Tommy was thoughtful for a moment as he sipped his drink; something was nagging him, a memory he could not quite put his finger on. Try though he might, he just couldn’t remember what was niggling him.
‘You are particularly thoughtful, Thomas. Something troubles you?’
‘What? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about what you just said. I seem to remember something…well, I don’t actually remember, that is, but I feel I have to remember, if you know what I mean?’
Maurice shook his head and smiled. ‘Thomas, my dear chap, you really are a heteroclite individual.’
‘Well, whatever that means, thanks. Sorry mate, it’s just, I don’t know, something’s not right. I have a right shitty feeling about all of this now.’ He stood and walked to the edge of the lamp light and stood, thoughtful, watching the light from the fires. What? What is it? What the hell is bothering me so much?’ he thought. Why is this information affecting me so much? Then he remembered about his journey on the cart, what that bloke had said. What was his name now? Watson! Yes, that was it. Now what did he say? But Tommy still couldn’t figure it out, so went back to the table.
When he sat, he noticed Maurice had consumed more of the liquor and was pouring himself yet another. He wasn’t right, Tommy thought. He had become a little pale and he had a faraway look in his eyes. Then a thought came to him.
‘Maurice, where are we due to meet this enemy, what was his name again?’
‘Ayub Khan.’
‘Right, and where is this fella supposed to be when the brigade intercepts him?’
‘Oh, not too far. We will hopefully meet him at or somewhere near a place called Maiwand.’
Tommy went cold and placed his glass on the table with a bump. The memory came back to him with a rush, and that niggling thought he couldn’t remember washed over him like a tidal wave. The history lesson in school about the battle of Maiwand. Now he remembered. The different regiments, the 66th, of course. Watson was right. Tommy had thought the battle had been near Kabul but it hadn’t been, had it? It was bloody Kandahar!
With a sudden sense of realisation and then cold, stark dread, he picked up his glass and downed the fiery contents in one. He ran a hand through his hair.
‘Fucking hell,’ he said, with a slightly lighter voice.
‘I say, you look rather pale, old chap,’ smiled Maurice. He looked at the drawn look on Tommy’s face and the smile faded. ‘What is the matter, Thomas?’
Tommy just reached for the bottle and poured himself another, and downed that in one. He was mumbling to himself, which was starting to unsettle Maurice.
‘Thomas, I don’t care for the theatrics. If you have something to say, then bloody well say it, and stop drinking all the scotch!’
‘Maurice, what is the date today?’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Tho—’
‘What’s the date, you arsehole?’ he butted in.
Maurice went quiet, mouth agape. ‘How dare you speak to me that way,’ he said quietly. ‘Try to remember, Thomas, even though we are friends I am still your superior officer.’
‘All right, I’m sorry, but could you please tell me the date?’ Tommy was now becoming extremely agitated.
&n
bsp; ‘It is the twenty-sixth day of July,’ Maurice pouted.
‘The year?’
Maurice sighed heavily. ‘Well, if you must keep up this charade, it is 1880. Now, could you please explain why you are doing a rather good, and frightening, I might say, impression of an absolute lunatic?’
Tommy was feeling the most helpless he had ever felt in his life. Even if he was asleep or in a coma, the bombshell that Maurice had just dropped on him took his breath away. Is this it? Is this the reason why he was here? But why? To do what?
‘Maurice,’ Tommy looked squarely at his friend, ‘if this brigade meets those Afghans tomorrow, it will be destroyed.’
Maurice sat nursing his drink with a bemused look on his face. After a few moments, he said, ‘Thomas, honestly, you worry too much. This is the British Army, for goodness sake. Disciplined troops, well-armed, professional soldiers against a few thousand heathen tribesmen. What an unbelievably silly notion.’
‘Maurice, it’s true. I know you think I’ve lost the plot, but I remember this from school. They were a few thousand troops when they started out, but they were joined by thousands of Ghazis, thousands, Maurice. They joined Ayub Khan on his march. And their guns, yes, I remember now! Their guns, Maurice, they were modern pieces, breech loaders I think, and it was said they were manned by some Russian gunners. Shit! It’s all coming back to me now.’
Maurice sighed and tried to look sceptical, but the colour had drained from his face as he poured himself another drink. After all, this common soldier sitting in front of him had proved on more than one occasion that there was nothing common about him at all. He was starting to feel the effects of the scotch now and a host of nasty thoughts were going through his head. What if? No! That’s a preposterous thought, ridiculous, very Jules Verne, in fact.
He smiled at Tommy. ‘Come, Thomas, have another drink and forget these silly ideas.’
‘Their cannons will out-gun ours and will create havoc. Our own will run out of ammo and withdraw. I can’t remember at what point that was, but it’s a turning point in the battle. The Jacob’s Rifles will fold under the pressure; they were untested, apparently, and they will bend and fall into the Grenadiers’ rear, which will have already lost something like a third, or even half, I don’t recall the numbers.’ Tommy was recounting the history books now, and he was saying all this whilst looking straight through Maurice with a clouded expression.
Maurice had assumed a horrified look and was visibly shaking. The things Tommy was saying were terrifying, and for a moment he thought he was actually listening to the Devil himself.
‘The Grenadiers will collapse onto the rear of the 66th, then all will be lost. It will be every man for himself. The ones who stay with the colours will die to the last man.’
‘Enough.’ Maurice stood, indignant. ‘How dare you say such things, even in jest. We are on the eve of battle.’ He took a deep breath and looked around to make sure no one was listening. ‘I tell you this, Thomas, if I were someone else, you would be whipped for saying such cowardly things.’
Tommy stood with hands outstretched towards his friend. ‘I’m so sorry, Maurice, but that’s what’s going to happen. Our army’s finished, and by tomorrow night, what’s left of it will be in a full, horrific and desperate retreat back to Kandahar.’
Maurice sat and poured some more of his scotch. ‘Even though you tell a vivid tale, Thomas, and make it sound so true, in the end a tale it is.’ He paused. ‘But tell me, are you thinking of stealing off in the night?’
‘Where would I go, Maurice? No, I’m hoping I will wake up out of this nightmare. If you have any family, you might want to write them a letter and leave it with certain higher ranking officers. I’ll try and remember the ones who survive and you can ask them to post it back home to whatever country estate it is you live on.’
Tommy sat. He didn’t have to worry about it, did he, as he was already dead, or asleep or something, so this didn’t affect him one bit. He looked over at Maurice, who had now fallen silent, a glum look on his face. Tommy felt for his friend.
A notion came to mind, then, a brilliant notion. What, he thought, if I’m here to save Maurice? What, he thought, if I’m here to save the Army?
‘I don’t live on a country estate.’
‘Sorry mate, you don’t what?’
‘I don’t live on a country estate, Thomas,’ Maurice replied in a sad voice.
‘Oh, I thought you might have been the son of a lord or something. You sound like one, anyway, with all the fancy words.’
Maurice looked at Tommy with a sad smile. ‘My father was a Liverpool merchant, a successful one, I grant you, but a merchant all the same. I was sent away and educated at Temple Grove School under Master Waterfield, alias The Cow. Brilliant at teaching, even better at a good beating.’ He took another sip of his drink and Tommy realised Maurice badly wanted to talk about this.
‘I then went to Harrow for a time, until I left to take my army examination. I passed sixty-fifth out of three hundred odd candidates to get my army appointment, which I got with the 66th. I was not given everything on a platter, Thomas, as you presume. I took steady beatings from The Cow, I read, I threw myself into sports – cricket mainly – I read some more and decided, a merchant’s second son or no, nobody will look down on me.’ He paused and looked Tommy straight in the eyes. ‘So now you know why I prefer to use gargantuan, beclouding confabulation. It confuses the officers who are boors and have gained entry into the army not on merit, but by status.’
They both sat quietly for a time, sipping drinks and watching the camp. After a while, Maurice piped up. ‘Besides, Thomas, we might not get any orders at all within the next couple of days, so that will put pay to your turn of events, will it not?’
‘Maurice, if the date today is 26 July 1880, the orders will be given about half ten tonight. What time is it now, by the way?’
Maurice looked at his pocket watch. ‘It is fifteen minutes past the hour of nine.’ He looked at Tommy with uncertainty. ‘Well, I suppose we won’t have to wait very long.’
He poured some more of the scotch into both their glasses, and for the next hour they talked about Maurice’s background and more about his school days, which he compared with Tommy’s. He was shocked to learn of the education Tommy had received, how there were just as many women teachers as masters, though they weren’t called that anymore, and he was particularly shocked at the now redundant use of the cane.
‘Well, how do you punish your youngsters?’ he had asked.
‘We keep them behind after school doing extra work, or we take their mobiles or iPods or whatever else they have sneaked into school.’
Maurice fell silent again, staring into his glass. Tommy watched him with pity, knowing that quite a few officers of the 66th died at the battle. And he was hoping that Maurice wasn’t one of them.
After some time sitting in silence, an officer walked up out of the darkness and approached Maurice.
‘Chute, old chap, what brings you here on this wonderful evening? Would you like a drink?’ Maurice greeted.
‘Hello Rayner. Well, I’m here in an official capacity, actually. Galbraith sends his compliments and asks if you are quite recovered, as he has need of you and wonders if you would attend him as soon as you may. And I will accept that drink, thank you.’
After Maurice had given up his chair and supplied him with his own glass, the man Chute sat, raised the glass in a quick salute and downed it in one. After a moment he seemed to notice Tommy, who was idly staring at him with interest, and nodded, frowning at the petulance of the look.
‘Oh, I haven’t introduced you. Thomas, this is Lieutenant Richard Chute, acting Quartermaster of the 66th. Chute, this is Private Thomas Evans, my secretary, of a sort.’
Tommy glanced at his friend with an amused look.
Chute gave them both an inquisitive look but put it down to the drinking.
‘So, Richard, why does the Lieutenant Colonel wish my return so
promptly?’
‘Have you not heard, then? I don’t suppose you would have, really, sitting in the Surgeon Major’s tent. The General has ordered us to strike camp and make ready for a march to intercept Khan. He plans to bring him to battle on the morrow.’
Maurice looked as if would fall, so Tommy jumped up and steadied him. Maurice looked at Thomas and then pulled his watch out of his pocket. It was showing 10.45. He looked at Chute. ‘When were these orders given, Chute?’ he asked in a tremulous voice.
‘The orders were officially given at thirty minutes past the hour of ten this evening. I say, Rayner, are you quite recovered, old boy? You look terribly sick.’
‘You will have to excuse me, Richard, I am not feeling myself. But rest assured, you can tell Galbraith that I will attend to him shortly. Just a quick rest is in order first.’ He turned to Tommy. ‘Would you mind escorting me back to my bed for a moment’s rest, please, Private.’
Tommy helped Maurice back into the tent and, grabbing the lamp on the way, deposited him on one of the stools and set the lamp on the table. He sat in the Major’s chair and waited for Maurice to compose himself.
‘How did you know, Thomas? How did you know those orders would be given at 10.30?’
‘I’ve already told you, Maurice, it’s in the history books.’
‘So that’s it, then, is that what you’re saying? Tomorrow we’re all going to die?’
‘I don’t know, mate, this is all new to me as well. But as I’ve said, whether you believe me or not, I don’t belong in this time and I have read about this battle. All right, it was years ago, but I read it all the same.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know all of the facts, I only just managed to get through my A level. But what I’ve told you already is pretty much right.’
Maurice looked thoughtfully at Tommy. ‘Supposing for a moment you are, in fact, some reluctant time traveller, why are you here?’
‘Like I’ve already said before, the last thing I remember is getting hit by an RPG and then waking up here. But I was thinking that maybe I was sent here to stop it, or I dunno, save you maybe?’
Forever the Colours Page 12