Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Do you think three rounds per man is enough, Colour-Sar’nt,’ Morgan wondered, ‘or should we give ’em five apiece in order to make sure of it?’

  ‘Waste of good powder and shot, if you ask me, sir.’ McGucken was beginning to get impatient with his officer: it would be dark soon and there were a thousand things to do before he could get a swally or two inside him. ‘But it’s kinder to get on with things rather than hing aboot, sir. If we put two men on each Pandy then the boys can get their weapons cleaned and see their blankets all the sooner, sir.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right. Sort it out, please, Colour-Sar’nt,’ though Morgan wondered just how much more of this sort of butchery the Queen’s Commission would require him to do.

  Then the killing started. Morgan’s sword rose and fell five times as fifty lead balls fired at ten paces removed twenty-five former servants of the Honourable East India Company from the ration-roll. At that range a single Enfield round would have done the job for, as Morgan saw, none of his men flinched, no barrel wavered, they fired straight and true, two lead balls ripping the vitals of each prisoner, throwing him against the wooden post, leaving every one hanging dead in the ropes that restrained him.

  Corporal Pegg and his working party didn’t even bother to clear the bodies between each lot, untying the corpses and leaving them beside the stakes in the certain knowledge that friends or relatives would bear the bodies away for burning as soon as possible. In fact, they became quite expert, each set of five mutineers dying before the powder smoke had even had time to clear between volleys.

  ‘All clear, Corporal Pegg?’ McGucken asked as the NCO – who still wore a bandage on his head long after he needed to – turned the torn body of the twenty-fifth man to make sure that he was properly dead.

  ‘Aye, Colour-Sar’nt, good as gold.’

  ‘Right, fall in. Detail complete, sir. May I have your leave to carry on, sir, please?’ As the light failed, McGucken went through the ritual, stamping smartly in front of Morgan and slapping the sling of his rifle.

  ‘You may, Colour-Sar’nt. I inspected weapons last night, so just rod and oil them: carry on, please,’ and Morgan returned the salute before the firing party turned to their right and swung off towards their camping ground.

  ‘Right, lads, march at ease. Smoke if you want.’ McGucken’s words came down the still air to Morgan as normal and routine as if they had been at musketry exercise.

  Morgan asked Ensign Fawcett to stay with him as an escort and they both mounted their horses and walked slowly back towards the town, as explosions echoed dully and fires lit the twilight.

  ‘Distasteful business that, Fawcett.’ Morgan felt obliged to talk to the lad.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so, Morgan. But it’s just part of a soldier’s job, ain’t it?’ Fawcett replied without much enthusiasm.

  All part of a soldier’s job? I feel more like Judge Jeffries than a soldier, thought Morgan. Seems odd that we’ve just executed twenty-five: nice round number, that. I suspect the colonel is as sick as I am about all this and spared as many as he could: two dozen was the least he could get away with. But the men – what’s happening to them? This fellow and most of the troops are just boys but they’re having to do things out here that nothing could have prepared them for, yet they do it without blinking, killing the Pandies like they was slaughtering sheep. Still, at least they’re beginning to see that not every Indian’s the same; the fight at Rowa made the troops look at the Bombay lads in a different way.

  But the failing light made a stand of peepul trees look decidedly odd as the two horsemen rounded a corner in the road. Tropical darkness was falling fast and under the mottled, leafy boughs Morgan could see vast fruits hanging everywhere. Below them a gaggle of men stood and talked quietly, their voices drowned by the crackle of flames in the fortress. The smell of wood smoke and turned earth drifted down the breeze, and Morgan could see tiny red dots at the mouths of the speakers, cigars glowing in the dark.

  ‘Are those what I think they are, Fawcett?’ asked Morgan as their horses slowed to a shuffle.

  ‘Looks like a whole lot of Pandies have been strung up,’ replied the young officer flatly.

  The voices continued, there was even a muted chuckle as the riders drew close, and then from the loaming came a distinct voice, one that Morgan recognised.

  ‘And that cheeky sod even tried to bribe Rissaldar Batuk here with a pot full of gold pieces.’ A bulky arm pointed up into the tree towards one of the dead, who turned very gently at the end of his rope. ‘I don’t know what he thought he might achieve, because no sooner had he shown Batuk the money than he was marched off down here, had a noose around his neck and up he went – and I can tell you that the gold wasn’t left to rot, oh, no!’ Commandant Kemp’s voice growled from the shadows.

  ‘Commandant, is that you?’ Morgan steered his horse through ankles and limp, dirty feet that hung about his head. ‘It’s me, Morgan of the Ninety-Fifth, with my ensign, Fawcett.’

  ‘Goddamn, boy, it’s good to see you.’ Kemp grasped Tony Morgan’s hand as he dismounted amidst a group of heavily armed older men.

  ‘Listen you lot, this is Morgan, son of a friend of mine back in Cork. Brevet majority at Sevastopol and now leading a company in that bunch of rogues some call the Ninety-Fifth.’ There was a laugh all round. ‘Well met, boy. Ain’t seen you since Rowa. Here, let me introduce you: Moore, he was my quartermaster in the Twelfth; Dr Stockwell from Baroda – more used to a sabre now than a scalpel; Rees the railway; Breen of the Light Horse in Gwalior; you know Rissaldar Batuk from the fight at Rowa – oh, just make yourself known to the whole lot. You’re right welcome.’

  Distant firelight fell on the grinning, whiskered faces all around the pair of officers as their hands were pumped enthusiastically. It was like the start of a race meeting, or introductions in a gentlemen’s club, so cordial were the smiles, so friendly were the embraces. But there was no racing or rounds of port here, just orange flashes from the town and swinging corpses. All of these men had harrowing stories to tell of butchered babies, mutinous troops and narrow escapes, but they were dubbed ‘free-lancers’ by the regular forces, sneered at for their extravagant arms and clothing, and kept at arm’s length despite all their local knowledge.

  So free and fast was the talk that Morgan almost forgot the dead all about him until he saw Fawcett, still in the saddle, catch hold of a foot and gently twist its owner so that he could get a better look at the face. Morgan looked too: in the dark it was hard to see the features – like all the rest the head was set at an unnatural angle and the tongue lolled from blue lips – but this man was old and snowy-haired, a cropped grey beard hung down his chest. He must have been sixty if he was a day, thought Morgan, and so painfully thin that he looked incapable of shouldering a musket, still less swinging a sword.

  ‘Seems a bit ancient to be a Pandy, don’t he, sir?’ Fawcett said conversationally, but the group suddenly went silent. ‘Wish those rascals we met in Rowa had been as flea-bitten as this old boy. Why, I’d—’

  ‘Oh, young ’un, so one little skirmish in a fart-arse of a place that no one’s ever heard of makes you an expert on the Queen’s enemies, does it?’ Kemp instantly cut across Fawcett’s callow remark, his good humour vanishing along with his friends’ banter.

  ‘No, sir, not a bit of it,’ Fawcett answered gamely, but he was given no chance to continue.

  ‘No damn cheek from you, you bloody griff,’ Kemp exploded. ‘They don’t have to be in belts an’ scarlet to be our foes. Why, if you’d been in Jhansi with us you’d have seen what the fuckers did: one minute they were our loyal servants, the next they were defaming our women and catching babes on their bayonets. I’ll take no lectures from a kid straight off his mother’s tit.’

  ‘Commandant, young Fawcett meant no offence,’ Morgan intervened, gently taking the furious Kemp by the elbow and steering him away from the boy. ‘Off you go, Fawcett: check the sentries; I’ll be back shortly.’

>   ‘But I was only asking—’ Fawcett was as much confused by Kemp’s angry reply as he was offended.

  ‘Don’t argue, Mr Fawcett, be off!’ Morgan felt how the group’s mood had swung and the best way to assuage it was to be rid of the cause. With a stiff salute, Fawcett trotted off into the dark, leaving a resentful silence behind him.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that, Commandant,’ said Morgan. ‘He’s too green to know how much your people have suffered.’

  Kemp’s gang had dispersed, leaving their commander, his rissaldar and Morgan to talk beside the road under a canopy of deaf witnesses.

  ‘Well, he needs to keep a leash on his tongue, does that tyro.’ Kemp shook cheroots from a worn leather case, offered them to his friend’s son, to Batuk and then lit them from a single match.

  All three puffed appreciatively into the night air for a moment before Morgan judged that Kemp had regained his composure.

  ‘We had to shoot twenty-five prisoners after the court martial; how many was you told to hang?’

  ‘I know, I heard you wasting good lead on the bastards. We stretched about forty-odd necks today – don’t know exactly, not enough anyway. Take a tip from me, Morgan, don’t burn good powder when you’ve got rope at two annas a yard; besides, shooting’s too quick for ’em. Just put some hemp round their necks and pull ’em off the ground; gives them a bit of time to reflect on their sins and lets their pals see what’s in store for them unless they mend their ways.’ Kemp looked up at one of his victims and blew a cloud of smoke.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Commandant, but didn’t the court specify the manner of execution?’ As soon as he’d asked the question, Morgan knew what answer he’d get.

  ‘Court? What bloody court? The only trial they get is the same sort of trial that Neeta got, or Dr Stockwell’s twin girls, come to that. And as for all that dung about clemency that Canning gave us – well, the only clemency that I’ll give this lot is a short drop or a bit of good Birmingham steel – that’s called Kemp’s clemency.’

  There was a chill in the air as Morgan trotted back into Awah alongside Batuk, whom Kemp had instructed to act as his escort.

  ‘The commandant seems hellbent on sorting this whole mess out single-handed, don’t he, Rissaldar sahib?’ Morgan peered through the dark at the man in the saddle next to him to see how his comments would be received.

  ‘He, like so many of us, sahib, has been deeply hurt,’ Rissaldar Batuk answered quietly.

  ‘Aye, but this uprising will be brought under control – it’s only in one presidency, after all – and then the whole country will have to get back to whatever passes for normality here. Wholesale bloody murder of people is only going to sow hatred for years to come, ain’t it?’ Morgan was suddenly aware that he was sounding like Lord Canning.

  ‘Sahib, you don’t understand – you can’t, you haven’t been here long enough. Kemp Bahadur and I have eaten the Company’s salt all our lives, fighting its wars and carving new lands out of wilderness and savages. We heard the grumbles and the rumours, and we knew of the troubles that there had been with sepoy regiments back in the years when your queen was young, but we thought that was just part of the normal music of the army. But we were wrong, and the men we trusted turned into the very filth they had helped to beat.’ Batuk drew heavily on the last stump of his cheroot before tossing it away into the dark, its glowing tip lost against the flames in Awah. ‘Now we must have no mercy, for if we do, my “brothers” will see this as a sign of weakness and peace will never return.’

  ‘But half those men we saw hanging from trees were not mutineers, Rissaldar, they were old folk, villagers—’ But Morgan wasn’t allowed to finish.

  ‘Yes, sahib, just like the men who killed my family up in Nowgong – not sepoys, just dung beetles who hate the gora-log and have no respect for what you have brought us; ignorant monkeys who listen too much to the babus and suck up Hindu poison. Kemp Bahadur saw the massacre at the Jokan Bagh at Jhansi, and I saw the bodies of Turnbull sahib, Burgess, Taylor, Gordon, your friend Mr Keenan of the Twelfth and all the other fine gentlemen, their memsahibs and – ask the gods for mercy – the children. Most were not soldiers and they were not killed by soldiers; they were hacked by butchers’ axes and knives, by scum drunk on the words of evil men. That, sahib, is why these things are being done and why you must understand that this is our war more than yours, that those owls from the Tenth Bombay will learn to cut with the sword of vengeance just as well as your white-faced men and see that many here in Bengal need to be punished for what they have done.’ There had been an intensity in Batuk’s words that left Morgan feeling foolish and naive.

  ‘I see, Rissaldar.’ Morgan paused before adding, ‘There are many hard things for us from England to grasp here. I thought I knew war, but not this sort of war, not this sort of hatred; you’ll have to help me to understand things better, Rissaldar sahib.’

  ‘Morgan sahib, I will try. Now, here’s the way back to your own men; be safe, sahib.’ Rissaldar Batuk pointed towards a clutch of buildings in the dark and saluted with a smile before turning his horse and trotting away.

  What had seemed clear and simple in daylight – and even with the rissaldar’s directions – was now confusing and difficult in the dark, for as he’d left the main body of the 95th to carry out his duties, their camping ground was only just being established amongst a clutter of battered buildings and yards. Now it all looked so different and all he wanted after the nastiness of the executions, Kemp’s theories and Batuk’s cold realism was some food, a drink, no pestering from the troops and as much time in his blankets as he could get. He thought he could see the outline of a tower lit by flames, near to which the company had been billeted, and spurred his horse towards it.

  ‘Hookum dear?’ was suddenly yelled almost beneath the hoofs of his horse, but as he reined in hard there was a yellow flash in the night, a deafening bang and a ball sang past his ear.

  ‘Goddamn you, stop that bloody nonsense,’ Morgan shouted in both outrage and fear, his horse jibbing and plunging at the noise. ‘Friend…friend, stop shooting, won’t you?’

  His angry words brought a sheepish sepoy from the shadows, weapon at the shoulder, grinning with embarrassment, his left hand coming to an uncertain salute.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, man?’ Morgan knew that if one sentry started firing in such circumstances there was a very good chance others would follow suit. Experience had taught him that the best way to avoid another dose of fast-moving lead from a frightened sentinel was to be as imperious and confident as possible.

  ‘You’re Thirteenth BNI, aren’t you?’ Morgan could see the numbers on the sepoy’s brass cross-belt plate. ‘Bertram sahib shall hear about this.’

  The sepoy pricked up his ears at the name of his commanding officer, but obviously understood nothing else that Morgan was saying.

  ‘And don’t just yell nonsense like “Hookum dear?” It’s “Who comes there?” “Who comes there?”, do you understand? Go on, say it after me.’ Morgan got the soldier to repeat the phrase a number of times, but was not convinced that the man was any the wiser. ‘And don’t open fire before you get a reply – you’ll bloody kill someone like that, understand?’

  The sepoy stood rigidly to attention, nodding and grinning at the sahib’s lecture. Eventually, though, Morgan had had enough and left the soldier chastised but, he suspected, just as likely to do the same again to the next innocent that approached.

  The road into Awah was deserted and Morgan was still uncertain of his route until he stopped a passing file of fresh sentries from the 83rd, the corporal in charge of which, to his amazement, knew where the 95th’s camp had been sited. Mercifully, his own men didn’t attempt to murder him as he asked for directions to the building that had been pressed into service as an officers’ mess. It was a tired and dis pirited young captain, though, who finally dragged himself into a large, stone-flagged room that was lit by a cooking fire of planks and spl
intered timber. Looking round, Morgan could see that the place had once been magnificent: there were rich murals of hunting scenes and the remains of heavy curtains at the windows, but the walls had been scored with bayonet blades or defaced with charcoal into crude portraits, vast initials or regimental numbers, the universal graffiti of passing British soldiers.

  ‘Now, the officer commanding our bold Grenadiers…’ Bazalgette was the only officer present other than a few snoring forms in the corner, wrapped in sheets or light blankets, ‘…plate of stew, dish of tea and a splash in the hand would go down well, I’d say? Your man has brought in your bedroll.’ He nodded towards Morgan’s strapped bedding and haversack that lay by the wall.

  The presence of his friend lifted Morgan’s mood, but his servant was nowhere to be found, so he unbuckled his own sword and pistol, levered off his own worn boots and scrabbled in his bags to find his native slippers and a flask of brandy.

  ‘I’m glad to see you, Bazalgette. Here, have a wee bit of this.’ Morgan poured some cognac into his comrade’s outstretched silver beaker. ‘Oh, thank you, Hambleton,’ and he took a china plate of lamb stew from the mess servant.

  ‘We’ve been pulling down buildings all day and dismantling the armoury. Here, look what I took…’ Bazalgette showed Morgan a splendidly chased flintlock pistol that was set with gems of some sort; the fire flickered off the stones. ‘It’s been the devil’s own job to stop the troops from making off with more loot than they can possibly carry…’ But Bazalgette could see that Morgan wasn’t really listening. ‘You’ve been on a firing party, ain’t you?’

  ‘I have and, by God, I’m low about the whole sorry affair.’ Morgan spooned some gravy into his mouth and noticed that the servant was hovering in the shadows.