‘Wait. What on earth’s this…oh!’ McGowan exclaimed, noticing a rolled bundle of curtain cloth close to the woman’s cadaver.
The mainly buff, floral-patterned cotton curtain had been pulled from the pole above the window, that much was obvious, and something wrapped within it had bled into the material, staining it a rusty red.
McGowan pulled the tight-wrapped fabric to one side, revealing a crushed baby’s head, blue and deep purple with bruises and contusions. ‘It’s baby Gwen. They’ve beaten the poor little mite to death.’
Morgan had seen plenty of starvation-dead babies back in Ireland, and one of the servants’ still-born children at Glassdrumman, but nothing like this. The toddler had been deliberately wrapped in the curtain to drown any noise, then, from the look of things, heels had stamped hard on the delicate bones of her head, thumping the skull almost flat, making the grey matter of the infant’s brain ooze from her nostrils and ears.
‘Dear Lord.’ Carmichael was genuinely appalled. ‘Come on, there’s not a second to lose.’
‘Yes, but they’re almost cold.’ McGowan was too squeamish to touch Gwen, but reached down to Kathy Forgett. ‘They’ve been dead for at least a couple of hours.’
But Carmichael wasn’t having any of it and went charging through the house, out of the back door and into the night, towards the sallyport of the fort.
‘Right, I’ve got you, you murderin’ Pandy, you.’ The officer commanding Number One Company had run two hundred yards down the cinder path that led from the married officers’ quarters to the back gate of the fort, and there seized a sentry from the 10th, thrusting his pistol against the forehead of a terrified sepoy.
One minute Sepoy Puran Gee had been quietly standing at ease, belching curried goat, guarding the least used gate of the fort and expecting an agreeably undemanding couple of hours, and the next an angry sahib had come running at him, thrown his rifle to the ground and pushed a steely-cold revolver hard against his head whilst yelling a stream of incomprehensible Angrezi at him. It was bad enough having the Feringees blow his friend Mungal Guddrea to dog meat, without this sort of indignity.
‘For heaven’s sake, Carmichael,’ McGowan exclaimed, running across after him. ‘He’s not your man!’
Carmichael had forced the sepoy to his knees, one hand twisting the soldier’s collar, the other ramming the barrel of the revolver into his temple, a series of jerks causing the man’s cap to fall off and his face to twist in a combination of fright and pain, whilst his hands shot out sideways to steady himself against the officer’s assault.
‘Forgett and his family must have been dead for hours.’ McGowan grabbed Carmichael’s wrist and pistol. ‘Puran came on guard, what…about an hour ago?’ He looked to the soldier for confirmation, but the man was too scared to follow the question in English. ‘Besides, that wasn’t the work of soldiers – not from the Tenth, anyway.’
Carmichael allowed McGowan to push the pistol away from the sentry’s head, and released the hold on Puran’s collar. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘It stands to reason: the Forgetts have been dead since this afternoon, when the whole battalion was being trained by you lot, every man jack accounted for. All ranks are under curfew, either here in the fort or down in the cantonment, and believe me, all the officers and NCOs are on a hair trigger. And anyway, those executions have put the fear of the Almighty into the lads; the mood’s not right for this sort of thing now. I’ve never seen the troops so obedient and keen to please,’ McGowan answered. ‘No, this has been done by bazaar wallahs or perhaps soldiers from another battalion, though I doubt that.’
‘Oh, I see, you’re probably right.’ Now the aggression had gone out of Carmichael, who lowered the pistol and even stooped to pick up Puran’s cap.
‘May I suggest an apology to the man, Carmichael?’ Morgan asked. He could see how this story would spread like plague back to the ranks of the 10th, the very men whose trust they were trying to restore.
‘Apologise to some damned…’ Carmichael blurted, whilst the Indian brushed the grit off his rifle and rubbed his bruised forehead with offended gusto.
‘Yes, Carmichael, apologise to a man you’ve wronged, even if he is a private soldier and a mere native.’ Morgan thought the apology just as important for McGowan to hear as for Puran.
Carmichael looked hard into Morgan’s steel-blue eyes, opened his mouth to object, but then changed his mind. ‘Er…I’m very sorry, my man.’ He was still holding Puran’s cap; now Carmichael brushed the dust off it before handing it back. ‘Hasty of me and needlessly rough.’ He thrust his hand out to the soldier whilst McGowan translated.
Puran looked perplexed at the big, pink mitt. McGowan uttered something more before the sepoy awkwardly put his rifle between his knees and made namasti, cocking his head to one side and grinning so widely that his teeth flashed below his moustache.
Carmichael was equally confused. Not to be outdone, he grasped both of Puran’s hands that were now pressed, palms together, in front of his face and gave them a vigorous waggle. ‘No hard feelings then, old boy,’ he said, just as he might have done after accidentally tripping a fellow team player at Harrow.
‘Right, thank you, Carmichael. I’m sure that’s soothed the poor fellow,’ McGowan said with a note of sarcasm. ‘I doubt that these troops have been involved in this outrage, but they may well have turned a blind eye to those who did. After all, whilst we accepted Forgett, he was a policeman; the executions were pretty well all his own work. The colonel will want this investigated.’
Women and babies getting torn to bits; what sort of a war is this? It’s going to be a nasty bloody bitter fight that’s not really any of our business. We should have left it to the John Company boys to sort out. After all, they got themselves into it…thought Morgan as the little group of officers trudged back to the mess, skirting the horror of the bungalow.
All eight hundred men of the 10th Bengal Native Infantry stood in two ranks arranged in three sides of a square whilst Commandant Brewill, the British officers and McGowan, the adjutant, stood in the middle of the fort’s parade ground in the early morning cool. The sun had hardly risen, the dust lay still, whilst the monkeys blinked sleepily from the branches of the trees that peeped from just beyond the high stone walls.
The men had breakfasted on dates and chapattis before parading by companies and filing down to the square under the voice of the subadar-major; now they waited for the word of their commanding officer.
‘Boys…’ Brewill’s Hindi was clear and firm, if not especially grammatical, for he had learnt it from the lips of the men with whom he’d served over the past thirty years rather than from any babu, ‘…yesterday Forgett sahib was murdered in his bungalow here inside the fort. Some baboon slew him with a butcher’s meat cleaver and left a pig’s tail in the dead man’s mouth.’ There was complete silence from the troops, not a flicker of emotion. ‘As if that’s not bad enough, memsahib Forgett was dishonoured and murdered as well; and there’s worse: their baby daughter was beaten to death by these same criminals.’
Where the chief of police’s death had caused no reaction, a quiet ripple of disgust and dismay came now from the throats of the 10th.
‘Men, you know how bad things are in this country and how many sins have already been committed, but the death of women and babes-in-arms is unforgivable, and I pray you to tell any details that you know,’ Brewill continued.
‘What the fuck’s ’e on about, Corp’l?’ Private Beeston and Lance-Corporal Pegg had made it their business to collect Captain Skene’s and Ensign Keenan’s chargers as well as the little bat-horse from the syce in the stables when the urgent message had come down to the Grenadier Company’s lines. The visitors were in a sudden hurry to return to Jhansi; their mounts needed full saddlebags and their pony had to be carrying enough fodder for three days’ march, whilst Pegg and Beeston wanted to see their old pal and boon companion – now a grand officer – James Keenan before he disappeared.
Now they waited outside the officers’ mess, reins in hand, watching the 10th.
‘Dunno, Jono.’ Pegg could hear the passion in Brewill’s speech without understanding a word. ‘But ’e’s layin’ into ’em. It’s about that peeler’s murder, ain’t it?’
‘So they say. Them sods did it – revenge for the executions – but the wife and nipper as well…’ John Beeston could understand the desire to murder any officer of the law, but the death of white women and children was too much.
‘Aye, it’s out of order an’—’ Pegg was about to produce some solemn judgement when voices and clattering spurs came from within the dark entrance of the mess. ‘Stand up!’
Pegg brought Beeston to attention and saluted as Skene and Keenan came hurrying out.
‘Well, Charlie Pegg, ye fat wee sod, as I live an’ breathe; what about ye?’ Ensign James Keenan recognised his old friend instantly.
‘Doin’ rightly…’ Pegg did his best to imitate Keenan’s brogue, ‘…your honour!’ Pegg swept down from the salute and the two men clasped each other’s hands and slapped shoulders as if no chasm of rank now existed between them.
‘An’ Jono Beeston, heard you was both out here with the Old Nails.’ There was more delight from Beeston and Keenan. ‘Ain’t it just the devil’s own luck that I’ve not time for even a swally with ye?’
‘No, lads, I know how much you’d like to keep Mr Keenan here with you…’ Captain Skene was obviously eager to get moving, pushing one foot into the nearside stirrup of the horse that Beeston held and reaching up to the saddle’s pommel, ‘…and talk about old times, but the Twelfth have turned in Jhansi and it’s going to take us twelve days or more to get back; I knew we shouldn’t have left the garrison when things were so bloody touchy.’
‘What’s happened, sir?’ Pegg asked.
‘We don’t know, exactly, but the news came over the telegraph in the early hours and some clown of an operator didn’t want to disturb us too early, damn him,’ Skene continued. ‘A fire had been started near the royal palace. Most of the Europeans – and that’s not many – turned out to fight it, and whilst the officers were away, the sepoys stormed the armouries and marched on the Rhani’s quarters and the officers’ cantonment.’
‘Ain’t your missus there, Mr Keenan, sir?’ asked Beeston without an ounce of tact.
‘No, t’ank the Lord. She an’ the wee boy are up-country with some of the other ladies an’ a horde of the Rhani’s officers to look after them,’ Keenan replied calmly. ‘They’ll be fine. And anyway, with Commandant Kemp in charge, it’ll all be sorted out. He’ll cool any hotheads sooner than you can say jildi-rao, so he will.’
Keenan, too, swung up into the saddle. So intent had they all been in the conversation that the quiet arrival of two more figures on the veranda of the mess had gone unnoticed. Still buckling on their sword belts and settling their caps came Bazalgette and Morgan, on their way to the 95th’s lines for morning inspection. Both officers hesitated when they saw the group before them.
‘We got all that, Skene. Keenan, you’ll need every ounce of that gold to smooth things over, won’t you?’ said Bazalgette, full of earnest concern.
‘Aye, it should come in useful, provided we can get there fast enough,’ replied Skene.
But as the two officers spoke, Morgan’s eyes met Keenan’s. They both knew that they’d deliberately avoided conversing the night before in the mess, but now there was no choice. Morgan started towards Keenan, his mouth open, but no words coming, and as he did so the ensign walked his charger a few paces away from the mess, putting a little distance between himself and the others.
‘Hello, Keenan.’ Morgan stretched his hand up and gently laid hold of the horse’s bridle. ‘So Jhansi’s risen?’
‘It has, Captain Morgan, sir.’ Though Keenan’s voice was low and cool, it seemed to Morgan that the pair of them had never been parted. ‘It’ll be nothing that Commandant Kemp an’ us can’t cope wit’, though.’
‘No…no, I’m sure you’re right,’ Morgan stammered. ‘Have you heard of any casualties?’ He thought of dead, ripped Kathy Forgett.
‘No, sir, not yet,’ Keenan answered levelly. ‘But you can be sure of one t’ing: Mary. Keenan will always come through, just like she did with them Muscovites.’
Morgan blinked up at Keenan sitting high above him in the saddle, the sun turning him into a black sillhouette.
‘An’ there’s another t’ing you can be equally certain of.’ Keenan’s voice now held an edge of menace. ‘With the greatest of respect, sir, if ever you come near my Mary or our boy again, I’ll kill ye dead.’
THREE
Bombay to Deesa
‘Stop yer fuckin’ swayin’ about, can’t you, Beeston?’ barked Colour-Sergeant McGucken, cheeks glowing with the salt air, his dun sea-smock such as all the troops wore to protect their scarlet shell jackets from the tar and omnipresent stains on board ship, as smart and soldierly as if it had been fitted in Savile Row. ‘Ye get more like a lassie with every tape ye get, ye bloody puddin”!’
The whole of the Grenadier Company had been paraded on the starboard deck of the Honourable East India Company’s steamer, Berenice, as much out of the sun as possible to be addressed by their company commander, Captain Anthony Morgan. As they’d left Bombay the swell had increased a little, reducing a good third of the company to mewling, puking hollows of themselves, fit only for sympathy – and that was in short supply. Now, four days into their six-day voyage north to the Gulf of Cutch and Mandavie, where the whole of the three hundred men of the left wing of the 95th were to disembark, most of the troops had recovered as the seas became more moderate.
Most of them, but not all. To his intense embarrassment, Private Beeston, veteran of more scrapes and skirmishes than he cared to remember, and the wearer of two good-conduct stripes, was amongst the worst affected, and only now was he beginning to stagger about, so pale that he made the ship’s canvas look positively ruddy.
‘Keep still, can’t you, Jono?’ Lance-Corporal Pegg muttered to his wobbly pal as the company, now drawn up in four ranks, obediently standing at ease on the rolling decks, waited for their officer. ‘Else Jock McGucken’ll bloody ’ave you.’
‘Aye, Corp’l,’ Beeston whispered back through the side of his mouth. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Drops of sweat were forming at the edges of his nostrils. ‘Where are they tekin’ us now, Corp’l?’
After four months’ enforced idleness in Bombay, alleviated only by swirling rumours and counterrumours that they were off to deal with first one hot spot and then another, which resulted in nothing more than early rises, kit inspections and then numbing waits in the heat, they had all been glad to embark on the Berenice – glad, that was, until the seasickness struck. Then the electric excitement of the news that they were going to crush the mutineers, of new adventures and, above all else, the prospect of loot, had been dampened under a blanket of vomit.
‘Dunno. That shave about Delhi was all bollocks,’ Corporal Pegg opined. ‘That’s safe back in our hands now, an’ you heard that Sir Colin took Looknow, couple o’ weeks back?’
‘Oh, aye.’ Beeston brightened a little. ‘That’s that Scottish bogger, Sir Colin Campbell, in’t it? Last saw ’im at Ballyklava, din’t we, with them Jocks ’oo couldn’t shoot.’
They both sniggered at the memory of the 93rd Highlanders’ appalling musketry all that time ago.
‘Aye, that’s the bloke,’ smiled Pegg. ‘Stuck it to the bleedin’ Pandies this time, though; killed thousands. No, I reckon it’s Cawnpore for us. Needs to be. I’m bored to the fuckin’ death of ’anging about whilst all the others get the loot an’ quim, not to mention—’
‘Listen in, yous.’ McGucken’s bass Scots halted Pegg’s philosophising. ‘Grenadier Company…Company, ’shun.’ At the word of command every man stiffened, pushing his clasped hands straight down in front of his bellybutton, hollowing the back and bracing his thighs before snapping the left heel back against the right, thumping
his boot hard on the teak decks of the ship.
‘Sir, one officer and seventy-eight men on parade…’ McGucken made the little ritual a spectacle, ‘two detached on duty, one sick.’ His hand quivered at the salute as the company commander came on deck, the colour-sergeant’s great legs like some satyr, straining at the cloth of his blue-black trousers. ‘May I have your leave to stand the men at ease, sir, please?’ The crescendo of his words made two muscular lascars in the waist of the ship look up in startled admiration.
‘Please do, Colour-Sar’nt.’ Morgan returned the salute with a relaxed grace, standing out clear and sharp in his scarlet coat, for Colonel Hume had forbidden the officers to wear smocks. ‘An’ gather the lads in around me, please; I can’t be doing with any shouting.’
A few, good-humoured insults about the men’s parentage from McGucken soon had the Grenadiers shuffling into a crescent around Morgan, straining to hear what news he had to tell them.
‘You’ve put up with a great deal of boredom, lads, over the past few months, and behaved pretty well,’ Morgan started. ‘Fairly well, anyway.’
There was a great storm of laughter as Morgan looked pointedly at eighteen-year-old Private Pierce from Crewe, one of the new draft, who had been found wandering drunk and stark naked on the fort’s yard two weeks before, making the natives, according to Private O’Keefe, ‘…t ’ank God that it wasn’t a proper man from Lifford there in the nip – that would o’ caused another mutiny – but amidst the wimmin this time!’
‘But now we know where we’re bound.’ Morgan paused for effect. ‘It’s Cawnpore, lads, to right the wrongs that were done to General Wheeler and his people back in June.’
‘See, I told you so,’ crowed Pegg as a general mutter of satisfaction swept around the company.
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