Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  What indeed? wondered Morgan. He remembered his mother’s excitement when he was a boy whilst they covered Glassdrumman – the ‘big house’, as the servants would have it – in holly and pine cones; how she’d insisted on following the latest fashion from London by bringing an eight-foot fir tree into the hall and covering it with glass balls (to be greeted by, ‘Balls, indeed’, from his scowling father) bought at vast expense from Dublin. What would Maude (how pregnant would she be now?) be doing tonight, and how would Mary be spending the season of goodwill up in Jhansi – assuming she and Sam (what did the lad look like, was he sturdy, like him, or willowy like his mother?) were as safe as Keenan had assured him they would be?

  ‘Will you listen to that, sir!’ McGucken interrupted his thoughts with a delighted laugh.

  Just in sight, a mile away, rose the mud and brick fort of Deesa, the only European station for miles around, which it had taken them over four weeks of blistering, tedious marching to reach. Their only excitement had been the botched ambush two weeks before; now, as the heat started to make the dawn light wobble and the horizon to dip and rise, as the kites wheeled above them and the camels hawked and farted, the sound of a brass band came wafting down the breeze.

  ‘Ha…damn me, it’s “Good King Wenceslas”, ain’t it?’ Morgan smiled.

  ‘Aye, sir, “…where the snow lay round about, Deep an’ crisp an’ even,” – some bugger’s got a sense o’ humour.’

  And so they had. The artillery and its escort of the 95th was the last part of the column to reach Deesa, and as they approached they could see the white-jacketed musicians of the 86th under their German bandmaster, and a neat quarter guard in scarlet presenting arms whilst the guns, carts and limbers rumbled and groaned through the gates.

  ‘Makes you realise just how bloody scruffy we’ve become, Colour-Sar’nt, don’t it?’ Morgan returned the guard’s salute as they passed. The young subaltern in command, just shaved and freshly pressed, stood with his sword held gracefully akimbo.

  ‘Aye, sir, an’ here’s the commanding officer.’ McGucken had spotted some horsemen trotting slowly towards them. ‘March to attention, Grenadiers.’

  The troops brought their rifles smartly to the shoulder, trying to make up for their dust-ingrained, sun-bleached appearance.

  Several mounted figures pushed their horses through the thronging interior of Deesa fort where cavalry, infantry, sappers and all manner of native servants busied themselves around what the army chose to describe as ‘warlike stores’: fodder by the ton, shot and powder being issued to the men from grey-painted deal boxes, dry rations, and soft leather chaggles, to be filled with water and slung across mules’ backs. Every language under Queen Victoria’s hand was there: Hindi and Pashtun, even Farsi, whilst accents from every corner of Britain abounded, from the soft lilt of Skye, through harsh Brummagen to the brogue of Kilrush.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Morgan, Colour-Sar’nt.’ Lieutenant-Colonel Hume, his adjutant, a captain commanding a squadron of the Scinde Horse, and another, half-familiar figure reined in as the ill-assorted artillery column waddled and tramped past. ‘Lost anyone or anything?’

  ‘Hap…happy Christmas, sir,’ Morgan stammered as he and McGucken pulled their hands down from the salute. ‘All our men present, three sick, one native gunner killed but all weapons and ammunition safe and serviceable, sir.’ But Morgan’s attention was fixed not on Hume, but upon a stout, sunburnt figure dressed in riding boots and khaki pyjamas, a puggaree-wrapped cork helmet on his head, and a belt from which hung an infantry-pattern sword and a heavy revolver, who had dismounted and now stumped towards him, both arms outstretched.

  ‘Tony Morgan, my boy, glad you’re safe.’ The horseman’s face was split in a grin below his greying whiskers as he wrapped Morgan in a bear hug, thumping him on the back.

  ‘You obviously know Commandant Kemp, Morgan.’ Hume looked down from his horse, slightly surprised by such an public display of friendship.

  ‘I do, sir,’ wheezed Morgan in the big man’s embrace.

  But he smells worse, he thought as he remembered his last encounter with his father’s closest friend. It was at home in Glassdrumman when Kemp was on furlough and Morgan himself was fresh back from Sevastopol, still limping slightly from his wound. Then Kemp had been firmly in command of the 12th Bengal Native Infantry in Jhansi: he’d talked fondly – indeed, lecherously – of the lovely Rhani, the hunting, and the pleasures of peace and plenty in the Punjab.

  ‘I’m as sure as I can be that Mary’s alive, Morgan, but quite what her position is with the damned Rhani I cannot say.’

  When they’d met at the entrance to the fort earlier that day, Kemp had given Morgan the briefest of outlines of events in Jhansi almost six months before, but it had taken Morgan another couple of unbearable hours whilst he settled the company and reported to Hume in detail before he could get some time alone with the commandant. Now they sat in the poky, improvised mess of the 86th, Kemp drinking lime juice and soda, Morgan slaking a big thirst with small beer.

  ‘The Regiment just turned on a threepenny bit, lad. One minute they were all “Ram-ram, sahib” and kiss yer hand, damning the eyes of their so-called brothers in Meerut and Delhi, next minute it was wholesale murder. My family’s all gone, Tony…’ Kemp dropped his eyes to the floor, ‘…and the Rhani, the harlot, played us false. There were just a handful of us left when Skene and Keenan got back from Bombay – you saw them there, didn’t you?’

  Morgan nodded, silently urging the big, sad man to get on with his account of the tragedy.

  ‘Aye, well, we were besieged in the tower of the Lesser Fort, the bloody Pandies all around, my own boys from the Twelfth and a whole mob of the Rhani’s irregulars firing at us with the very rifles we’d only just issued to the ungrateful sods, as well as all manner of artillery. Funnily enough, there weren’t many casualties, but those there were were nursed by Mary – God, she’s some girl, she is. The real problem was grub and water. Anyway, things were getting pretty tight when, after we’d been there ten days or so, Skene and Keenan suddenly turn up having – and I believe every word of it – bribed their way into the place with the mohurs they’d brought to buy the bitch’s loyalty.’ Kemp pulled at his drink.

  ‘Skene told us that he’d managed to get an audience with the Rhani; that she claimed to have no part in the mutiny and, as a token of her good faith, would allow the remaining Europeans to go free under escort of her men so long as Mary remained behind as her physician-cum-hostage. There was some arguing about that, I can tell you, with Mary saying she would stay so long as her boy could be by her side…’ Kemp paused at that point and lifted an eyebrow at Morgan, who replied with nothing more than a blank look. ‘…and Keenan shouting the odds and wanting to stay with them, but Skene saying that his duty lay with the protection of the main party. Anyway, after all manner of argy-bargy I had to step in and say that we’d accept the Rhani’s terms. We hadn’t heard a thing at that stage of the way they butchered poor Wheeler’s people at Cawnpore, but after what had happened to my family I knew not to trust the devils further than I could spit ’em.’

  ‘So, Colonel, you think Mary and her son are all right still in Jhansi?’ Morgan was doing his best to be interested in the fortunes of the others, but he had to have Kemp’s reassurance about his lover.

  ‘Well, boy, as far as I know she is. I had word about two weeks ago that Mary had been seen – Rissaldar Batuk turned up here after flogging the whole four hundred miles from Jhansi on foot and told me all sorts of horrors – white folk hunted down remorselessly, children speared like pigs whilst their parents watched – any amount of ghastliness. The only good news being that the lass still seems to be drawing breath and can be seen in close company with the Rhani whenever that duplicitous whore shows her face in public, but whether that’s at pistol point is hard to say.’ Kemp took another draught of lime juice.

  ‘But I knew the bastards would betray us – and so did Skene. We weren’t allowed
to carry any rifles, just swords for self-protection, so we primed every pistol and revolver we had, most of the women had knives about themselves, bade au revoir to Mary and one or two of the native Christians who fancied their chances better if they stayed in Jhansi, and set off to meet the Rhani’s troops. Bloody uncomfortable that was, I can tell you. We were jeered and mocked by my men – my own men, mark you. Why, I even saw Havildar Preet, whom I’d pulled from under the Sikhs’ hoofs at Aliwal, snarling and spitting at me as we crept away. That’s gratitude for you, God rot ’em.’ Kemp paused for a moment, his thoughts, Morgan guessed, straying back to happier times.

  ‘And no sooner had we got through the bazaar than I saw one of the rissaldars signal the column to halt and start to draw his tulwar. That was good enough for me: I shot one fucker just as he turned, took his tatt and was away as if shaitan was on my tail – which he was.’

  Morgan was enthralled by Kemp’s account. ‘You must have been damn quick off the mark, Commandant.’

  ‘Well, I was, but I’d had more experience of this sort of treachery in the weeks before these events than I cared for. I’ll tell you about that in a moment, but what I’m about to say must remain between the two of us for ever. I’ve told no one else and if it gets out, Skene’s name and memory will be picked over by the bible-bashers till kingdom come.’ Kemp looked intently at Morgan.

  ‘I’ll say not a thing, you know I won’t, Colonel,’ replied Morgan, utterly gripped.

  ‘Well, I drew the first blood and I suspect that it made Skene and the others realise what they dreaded most. The next shot was Skene’s; as the natives closed in, I saw him cock that big Adams of his, push it straight against poor Margaret, his wife’s, temple and blow her brains out – I swear it. Every word I say is true.’

  ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying, Colonel. I met Skene only briefly but he seemed like one of us, and Mrs Skene had the reputation of being a God-fearing woman, didn’t she? How could such a thing happen?’ Morgan was genuinely shocked; the idea of a husband killing his wife was quite outside his experience.

  ‘I’m telling you precisely what happened, Morgan. I’ve seen some damned odd things out here, and the few days leading up to this mayhem were the craziest I’ve ever lived through. But no, Skene said nothing, he just lifted the pistol up to the side of the poor woman’s head and fired without a second’s hesitation. Margaret looked as surprised as could be – her expression will stay with me to the grave – but she was with her Maker before the filthy heathens could lay a finger on her. I guess that was her husband’s design. Then, God help us, he fired a few more rounds before putting a piece of lead straight through his own head. I know you think I’m a liar but it’s true. It took no more than the blink of an eye – the time it took me to sling my leg over that cavalry mount – whilst the rest of the party were still standing around quaking.’

  ‘And the others…?’ Morgan could quite see the opprobrium that Skene’s acts would attract from many quarters, but was far more interested in how Keenan had fared.

  ‘Well, you’re probably wondering why I didn’t make some effort to save the rest of ’em?’

  ‘No, Colonel, I—’ But Morgan wasn’t allowed to continue.

  ‘Don’t forget, these aren’t civilised folk – despite all our efforts. I’d seen what they could do and knew that I stood no chance if I stayed. And I was right. Batuk saw some of it and heard the rest. He told me that the men were pinioned and made to watch whilst the women and the handful of kids were butchered. Apparently, your man Keenan asked the mutineers to allow him to be sacrificed and the women and children to be spared, but to no avail. They chopped the men to bits immediately afterwards, starting with their limbs and only dealing fatal blows at the very end before the remains were slung down a well à la Cawnpore. Decent folk, ain’t they?’ Kemp seemed remarkably composed.

  ‘So, James Keenan’s dead, is he, sir?’ Morgan was appalled with himself for even asking the question. He hated to think that James Keenan – alongside whom he’d endured so much – was dead, yet he couldn’t regret the death of his lover’s husband, nor the death of a man who had threatened to kill him.

  ‘Aye, boy, I know how much you went through with that brave man in Russia and, without putting too fine a point upon it, I know what a favour he did you by taking Mary off your hands.’ Kemp’s interpretation of events intrigued Morgan, but he didn‘t correct him. ‘And I know you’ll want to avenge your comrade’s murder every chance you get.’

  ‘You can be sure of that, Commandant,’ Morgan replied. ‘But I hardly dare ask about Mrs Kemp and your family.’

  Nothing very much had ever been said about Kemp’s personal circumstances when he came to stay in Ireland. Morgan knew that early in his career he’d married Neeta, the daughter of a well-to-do Eurasian doctor, but she’d never come back to his native Cork with him, even for the longer periods of leave that came round every couple of years. There was always a ghost of a suggestion that Kemp’s family would not be welcomed in Cork’s Protestant society, but whatever the reason, it was enough to ensure that little was known and nothing seen of his brood.

  ‘Well, it’s good of you to ask, and I guess that everything I’m about to tell you will sound normal in these times of madness but, as God sits in His heaven, I shall never trust one of these people again.’ Kemp slowly lit a cheroot, blew the smoke into the blind-darkened roof of the room and settled back in his chair, more sombre than Morgan had ever seen him.

  ‘I’d been angling to get command of the Twelfth for years. All sorts of things suited me about them – good record on the Sutlej, high proportion of Brahmins, but, most of all, they were based in Jhansi where Neeta’s papa was the Rhani’s quack. I don’t mind telling you – seems demented now – but I’d hoped to be offered the command of all the Rhani’s troops once my time was up with the Twelfth – brigadier-general’s pay on top of my John Company pension and a comfortable billet for both my girls if they didn’t choose white society.’ Kemp looked directly at Morgan as he produced the last phrase.

  ‘Anyway, it was early June, there had been some murmurings amongst the boys after the mutinies up north and the business in Delhi, but the subadar-major and I had held a durbar with the men and I was content that all looked well. There was a bit of moaning about the low caste of some new draft, but nothing serious, and not a whisper about whether we’d be expected to serve against mutinous regiments – that I had expected. Now, mark you, I’ve served all my life with Bengal troops, speak Hindustani better than I do English and I had no idea that anything was in the wind with my lot, not the least idea.’

  Kemp furrowed his brow, eased the band of his cotton breeches and continued, ‘That night Neeta had insisted that my damned parents-in-law should come to dinner, just the four of us. I usually insisted that we had other company when they were coming in order to try and take some of the humbug out of her bore of a father.’

  Morgan realised just how little he understood about day-to-day life in India, for Kemp was talking about his Eurasian relatives in just the same way that he might discuss a dinner party in Dublin. Kemp had made a brave decision when he chose to straddle both British and Indian society.

  ‘We’d just finished our savouries and the servants were clearing the china when I heard something odd outside the bungalow. I got up and wandered out into the garden, to be met with the sight of flames licking up from the direction of the troops’ lines. It was the luckiest thing I ever did. I’d just turned back towards the house – I knew the fire meant something was very wrong – when I heard Neeta giving someone such a tongue-lashing that I hung back for a minute – I’ve had some of those scoldings and I trembled for the poor man – until I heard her scream like I’ve never heard before. Then there was fucking bedlam: shouting, crashing of crockery and crystal, and two or three shots…’

  Kemp’s fists were clenched, his face misshapen with unhappiness as he relived the memory.

  ‘What in God’s name could
I do? There I was on the veranda just in an evening kurta, no weapons, looking in through a window as my servants were shot down and clubbed by half a dozen of my own soldiers. Why, I knew each of the scum by name. I’d even enlisted the leader of the mob up near Datia two years back, name of Lolemun Dunniah. I’d been as close to him as you can get with a sepoy. He’d helped my father-in-law with that bloody boat of his and acted as my orderly more than once. They’d got Neeta and her mother by the throat, threatening them with knives off the table, trying to get them to tell them where I was, but they were too bloody terrified to be able to say. Then, whilst her parents watched, Dunniah…well, he defiled Neeta, laughing like a bloody hyena whilst he did so.’

  Kemp paused and gulped, and Morgan could see that the colonel needed to unburden himself of the full horror of that night six months ago. He’d probably spoken to no one about it in any detail.

  ‘I don’t know what I should have done, Morgan. I couldn’t leave my girls as orphans, could I? But all I did was stand there like Lot’s wife, gaping, instead of chucking myself at them. But would it have done any good?’

  ‘Of course it wouldn’t, Commandant. You’d have just thrown your life away needlessly,’ Morgan reassured him quickly.

  ‘I know you’re right, but it’s hard to accept…and once Dunniah had finished his vileness, the heathen brutes drew one of my razors, first across Neeta’s throat and then across her mother’s: Jesus, the blood, it sprayed all across the white linen tablecloth. They were dead before they hit the floor, poor blessed souls, and I console myself with the thought that at least they couldn’t have known much about their final moments.’

  Morgan nodded in silent sympathy.

  ‘There was worse to come. Whilst they were murdering the two women, the rogues had stretched Neeta’s father out across the dining table, ripped his drawers down and then – Christ, I can hardly tell you this – thrust a bayonet right up his…his fundament.’