Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘That’s as maybe, Commandant, but I’ve got to find Mrs Keenan and the boy alive first, and – from what you say – they’re likely to be hard alongside the Rhani, so both our ventures are linked,’ replied Morgan, trying hard to hide his fury with his father’s typical clumsiness.

  But just as he was trying to think of a suitably frosty reply, one of the leading scouts, a dust-wrapped sowar on a handy little pony, came skipping down the track, his body alive with tense excitement.

  ‘Sahib…sahib…’ was all that Morgan understood as the soldier pointed over his shoulder further up the track, gabbling in Hindi to Kemp.

  ‘Spot of fun for us here, Morgan; take your mind off the things we’ve just been discussing,’ said Kemp, waving the hussars to a halt and beckoning for his own posse of officers to join him.

  ‘Moore, will you take the left and sweep around that stand of trees yonder?’ Kemp spoke to his former quartermaster quickly, economically, the man instantly understanding what was needed and, beckoning for his orderly to follow, spurred his horse into a canter, creating its own individual cloud of dust.

  ‘Breen, be so kind as to hook round from the right; stop the bugger from running down that nullah.’

  The light cavalryman, younger than most of the others, knew at once what Kemp wanted, drew his sword with a rasp from its scabbard and with a simple, ‘Very good, Commandant,’ rode off in a wide circle towards the top of the dried stream bed that Kemp had pointed out, one of the sowars following him without any spoken orders that Morgan could detect.

  ‘Right…Rees, Dr Stockwell, Morgan, form left and right of me and keep your pace nice and steady. Those two flanking parties should make him run towards us if they do the job right. Just don’t let him break the line. No, Rees…’ the civilian railwayman had drawn his revolver from its holster on his saddle and was checking the priming, ‘…no musketry. We’ll be too close to each other for that; I’ve seen more accidents with pistols and ricochets than I can count – sabres only.’ They all drew their blades, the afternoon sun winking off the curved steel. ‘All ready?’

  Morgan nodded with the rest of them, not wanting to show his complete ignorance of precisely who they were about to kill, whilst hoping that it wasn’t another of Kemp’s murderous ideas.

  ‘Come on, then, keep the line straight and close; when he comes he’ll run hard and fast.’

  And with that the four horsemen trotted forward towards the clump of trees and brush, swords glittering, whilst the troop of stationary hussars looked on with almost as much bemusement as Morgan. The faces of the other three were hard and set, their eyes narrowed as they squinted at the tangle of brush and thorns ahead of them. When they were still sixty paces from the cover, trotting smartly but cautiously forward in a tight-drawn line, Breen and his man, invisible to Morgan from over on right, let out a series of shouts and hoots. Kemp tensed in the saddle, tightened the reins and flicked his sword down from where it had been resting on his shoulder. The point hovered low, just above his horse’s rising knees; Morgan saw how the commandant tightened his grip on the hilt in silent anticipation.

  ‘There…see there…there’s the bastard!’ Kemp yelled in delight, and kicked his mount into a gallop. ‘Stay close.’

  Morgan saw how no one doubted Kemp’s leadership; they obeyed his word without question.

  As all three of them surged forward trying to keep up with their leader, Morgan braced himself for battle. But where he’d expected to see some desperate mutineer, musket primed and ready, steeling himself for one last throw of hate, there was something very different.

  Jinking and swerving out of the thorns came the biggest, blackest wild sow that Morgan could ever have hoped to see. The hackles on her shoulders stood up like a scrubbing brush, her hoofs scraped at the ground as she turned this way and that, whilst her vicious, curling tusks were held just as low and ready as any of their swords. In the dust that she raised followed four piglets, their tiny hoofs drumming as they tried to keep up with their mother; but where she was menacingly silent, the young ones squealed in alarm.

  Morgan caught a flash of her eyes – they were tiny, black and determined, set above long, bristled cheeks that ended in a surprisingly pink snout. As he watched she turned and bounded directly for the gap between Kemp and him, gathering speed as she came, a ribbon of speeding forms spreading out behind her.

  ‘Fall back to my right, Morgan,’ Kemp bellowed. ‘I’ll slow her, you finish her,’ as naturally as if Morgan had been slicing bacon from a fast-moving horse all his life. But there was no time for doubt as the sow turned hard to her right almost under Kemp’s hoofs, causing the colonel to lean low to his left, and making a powerful blow from his sword all but impossible. Kemp’s blade cut a bloody line across the pig’s nearside shoulder, causing her to yelp in pain and stagger in the dirt, but no sooner had she stumbled than she was back on the attack, driving a tusk firmly above one rear hoof of her attacker’s horse. Rearing and neighing in pain, Kemp’s grey rose on wounded legs and tossed his rider clear, the big man landing with a thump, thickening the dusty air.

  A younger, leaner Kemp might have mastered the situation, but the fall was heavy and so was he. Winded and stunned, the commandant was at the angry sow’s mercy. Now, as her brood scattered around her, she gathered her bleeding haunches, lowered her sharp ivory and charged her tormentor. Morgan saw the danger.

  Use the point, man. Don’t slash at her; it simply won’t stop her, he thought as memories of human enemies, whom he’d wished he’d stopped dead with his sword, flashed through his mind.

  The target was difficult, being so low to the ground – which was why spears were normally used to deal with dangerous wild pigs – so Morgan leant as low as he could, dug his heels into Emerald’s flanks, aiming a couple of yards in front of the dashing sow that was heading for Kemp. She came fast, diagonally across Morgan’s front as the command ant raised himself on a bruised elbow and looked into a pair of furious, button eyes that were coming straight for him.

  Hold the goddamn thing straight. Morgan’s sword arm made one long rigid line with the steel. Use her weight to run onto the blade, don’t chop at her.

  Morgan knew it would be tight. The sow hadn’t seen his galloping horse, so intent was she on her victim, but he knew that he had only a few feet to intercept her: too far left and he risked trampling Kemp; too far right and he would miss the careering pig completely. This time he got it right. Holding tight to the saddle’s pommel with his left hand he lowered himself ever further, and as the great, bristled flank was under Emerald’s nose, his sabre sank into it, pushed deep by the combined momentum of horse and pig.

  The speed of the quarry almost pulled him from the back of his horse, but as the sow shrieked in pain, blood shot from her mouth and nose, flecking Kemp as he pulled his arms up to protect himself. Even as the point of the sword emerged through the ribs on her right side, the animal was dead, her weight bringing horse and swordsman to an abrupt halt.

  Kemp hauled himself to his feet, sword dangling by its knot from his right wrist. He banged some of the muck from his clothes, stooped for his soiled topee and stared up at his saviour.

  ‘I thought they’d taught you to be faster with wild pig, my boy.’ Morgan was still struggling to free his sword blade from the sow as Kemp threw his head back and chortled, ‘You mustn’t hesitate with these brutes. You can afford to be much rasher!’

  The piglets were especially good, thought Morgan, as the British orderlies – for none of the Indians would touch the profane creatures – carved hunks of pale meat off the spitted animals. The knot of 8th Hussars had been particularly assidu ous, a fire being lit to prepare a bed of cooking embers and butcher’s knives at the ready almost before the sow and her offspring had been dragged back into the clearing where a camp had been established. Now the British and a pair of Eurasian telegraph clerks from Kemp’s party sat in a gaggle around the fire, gorging themselves on the fresh meat.

  ‘I’ll tek a
look at your charger’s off-rear, sir. She’s got a bit of a limp there.’ Farrier-Corporal Martin was sitting cross-legged on the ground next to Morgan, charred pork and chapatti jutting from his mouth. The NCO was difficult enough to understand even when he didn’t have a mouthful of food, for the sabre cuts that the Russians had administered to his skull had left his speech slightly slurred, just as the surgeon had said it would.

  ‘Thank you, Corp’l Martin,’ Morgan replied, just before he stuck a piece of crackling and mango into his mouth. ‘I thought she seemed a bit uneven during the chase. She’ll be good for another couple of day’s march, though, won’t she?’

  ‘Aye, sir, so long as you let me get at her hoof. I’ve got some linament that them chasseurs learnt us how to mix in the Crimea; wonderful, it is,’ Martin replied.

  ‘Is that all it is, sir, two more days before we get to Jhansi?’ Lance-Corporal Pegg had not enjoyed the journey so far. The horsemanship that he’d been taught on a Derbyshire hill farm had served him well enough there, but the techniques of horse husbandry, the stowage of kit, fodder and weapons were all new to the infantryman. He’d found the notion hard to accept that at every stop, or even the slightest pause, the horse’s needs came first; Morgan had to tell him time and again to water his mount before he even thought about refreshing himself. On top of that, the inside of his calves and thighs were rubbed almost raw in places, making him bad-tempered and hard on the bit.

  ‘Well, it should be, but unscheduled stops like this don’t help,’ replied Morgan. ‘You can see how fretful they make the commandant.’

  It was true. Kemp had driven the small force remorselessly, not allowing even the shortest halt for a little gentle looting when they had passed by ravaged villages. But the wild pig had been different. Now their leader sat on a saddle-cloth spread out on the ground, gnawing at a roasted rib as fat dribbled down his chins. Even in the firelight, Morgan could see how his eyes were half closed with pleasure as the meat disappeared down his throat at remarkable speed.

  ‘Aye, sir, the commandant’s a bugger for ’is grub, ain’t he?’ Pegg was no amateur either, for he’d already tucked away more than his fair share, by Morgan’s reckoning. ‘But you know what he’s like: there’ll be no rest once this food’s done. ’E’ll want to use the cool o’ the night to get a league or two behind us, won’t ’e, sir? Don’t see what all the rush is about, I don’t. But you know what the army’s like, sir. It’s always, “Not a moment to be lost,” then, “Rush to bloody wait,” ain’t it, sir?’

  ‘Most times, yes,’ answered Morgan between mouthfuls, ‘but that galloper that came in earlier put the toe of his boot up our arse.’

  Whilst the hog and piglets were being bled and the hairs singed off their pelts, the whole group engrossed in the forthcoming feast, a trooper and one of Rose’s aides – a cornet of Scinde Horse – had come cantering into their camp.

  ‘General Rose was expecting to start the assault on Jhansi yesterday. It was a question of whether they would have enough artillery ammunition to begin the bombardment and then sustain it. Our political people suggest that the Rhani is still in the main fort. They think she’s been seen there with her bodyguard, tearing around the garrison trying to put some mettle into ’em,’ said Morgan, ‘but it also seems that Tantya Tope and an army of several thousand Pandies may be advancing to help her. Now, you know how important she is to the enemy’s cause…’

  ‘I’ve ’eard she’s a sweet little piece, sir, well titted out an—’ but Pegg wasn’t allowed to continue.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Corp’l Pegg, but I think that the Rhani’s contribution to the spirit of the rebellion may go just a little further than the size of her poonts. As I was saying,’ Morgan continued, ‘Rose is going to have to decide how he handles both the siege and any force that may be coming to raise it; that’s why he needs us sharpish, to find the woman and to destroy her. So, Corp’l Pegg, enjoy that meat, for I suspect you may be right. Once the commandant’s had his fill, it’ll be “boots and saddles” and away.’

  Pegg was, indeed, correct. No sooner had Kemp thrown the last pig bone into the fire than he was up and impatient, stirring the others to their duty, to mount and ride into the night.

  There’s those goddamn stars again, thought Morgan as the jolting of his horse brought another, meaty belch bubbling from his mouth. I wonder if Mary knows that I’m not far away. And I bet Carmichael’s ordered double sentries when there’s no need to, just so that his precious sleep won’t be disturbed…bloody man.

  ‘Who’s the Bombay Europeans then, sir?’ Pegg asked as they fed and watered their tethered horses in a shell-pocked yard in the town of Jhansi.

  ‘The Third Bombay Europeans, Corp’l Pegg, are the lucky set of people yonder,’ said Morgan as he pulled the strap of the nose-bag tighter over Emerald’s ears so that she could get to the oats at the bottom of it, ‘who we’re going to grace with our company during the assault on the fort.’

  A last storm of artillery rounds thundered overhead as the evening light began to fail, striking the enemy gun emplacements hard and accurately in the walls of the fort that towered forty feet above them. The occasional shot was returned, but the garrison seemed to have been thoroughly overwhelmed by the weight of metal that was being hurled at them.

  Sheltering behind broken walls and buildings was a crowd of infantrymen, busily lashing shorter pieces of bamboo to longer staves with thick quartermaster’s twine. As they tied and knotted, so long light ladders took shape, which they would soon have to throw against the heavily defended walls, before clambering up into the teeth of the mutineers.

  ‘But they ain’t Queen’s troops, nor are they natives,’ said Pegg, swiping at a cloud of mosquitoes, which had gathered about his sweaty face for an evening treat, ‘an’ they’re full of piss an’ wind, they are. I told one cheeky bogger to ’old me ’orse – friendly, like – and ’e just flicked me the fingers, ’e did: ’e could see me tapes, an’ all. Tempted to give ’im a punch in the gob, I was.’

  ‘They’re just like the Bombay Artillery in our column, Corp’l Pegg: Britons recruited over here or attracted by a bounty back in England just to serve in India in the Company’s white regiments,’ Morgan explained. ‘They’re not bound by Queen’s Regulations so they tend to get above themselves. We’ll see whether they can fight, though, for we’ll all be up and at the fort in a few hours’ time.’

  After six days’ hard riding, Kemp’s people had arrived at Jhansi in the middle of the afternoon of 3 April, where they found that the storming of the town had already started. Kemp had been snatched away to receive orders from General Rose himself, before returning and leading his men up to this courtyard on the right flank of the forthcoming night attack on Jhansi’s main fortification.

  ‘Well, sir, why can’t they attach us to the Eighty-Third or one of the proper regiments, then?’ Pegg was genuinely affronted by the devil-may-care approach of the Bombay Europeans, whose lack of respect for ‘real’ soldiers (were they blind, couldn’t the ignorant bastards see his Crimea gongs, Pegg wondered) was unthinkable.

  ‘Because the Rhani is said to be inside one of these bastions over here on the right of the assault,’ Morgan pointed up to the slope and the louering stone elevations that lay a hundred or so paces in front of them beyond the cluster of mud and brick shanties, ‘and our little gang has got to go and get her.’

  ‘You’ll have the devil’s own job getting up that ladder under the Pandies’ fire, you will, sir.’ Pegg looked up at the battlements in the loaming. ‘Them sepoys won’t be too welcoming to you, will they?’

  ‘No, it’ll be bloody murder, but we’ve been through worse at Inkermann, and in The Quarries, ain’t we, Corp’l Pegg?’

  ‘We ’ave, sir, an’ don’t you worry, sir, you’ll be all right.’

  ‘I know we will, but I’d prefer to have our own men with us, wouldn’t you, Corp’l Pegg?’ Morgan replied. ‘I’ll need you right behind me if we’re to be over the wall sm
artly; you’ll need to have an eye on this Bombay lot and keep ’em up to the mark.’

  But Pegg’s face dropped. ‘On the ladder, sir? Me, sir? Oh, no, sir, I’ll ’ave to stay behind with the ’ussars, sir, keeping ’old of the nags in case you wants them.’ Kemp had told the 8th Hussars to stay out of the brutal business of a deliberate storm by the infantry, preferring to keep them intact for any mounted pursuit that might be necessary. But Pegg thought that his part in active operations of war was at an honourable end; he saw himself now more as an observer and advisor, a sounding board for his officer’s tactical decisions. He was going to be disappointed.

  ‘Shift over a bit, can’t you, mate?’ As the assault parties crouched in the gardens and yards for the signal to surge forward in the darkness, a beefy Bombay European elbowed Morgan to one side as the men tried to balance the weight of the twenty-foot-long lattices with that of their weapons.

  ‘I’m not your mate.’ Even in the darkness of almost three in the morning, there was no excuse for the soldier not to have recognised him as an officer, thought Morgan. ‘I’ll thank you to keep a soldierly tongue in your head.’

  Morgan had never had to use such terms in the 95th, where an officer was automatically treated with respect. This Bombay lot was different, he thought; even Pegg had noticed their scant sense of discipline and general rowdiness. There was no apology, though, just a slight snigger from those who had heard the exchange above the noise of the shells, reminding Morgan of the times that he had seen Carmichael being scorned and laughed at by a squad in the anonymous dark.

  ‘Right, lads, I’m Captain Morgan of the Ninety-Fifth; Corp’l Pegg and I will be leading you up the walls of Jhansi as soon as the signal is given.’ Morgan did his best to recover from the unfortunate beginning; the last thing he wanted was resentful, surly troops at a moment like this. ‘See that flag yonder?’ Morgan pointed to a great green cloth that hung limply from a pole in the dark above them, just visible each time the guns flashed. ‘I’ve a bottle of best Irish in my saddlebags for the man who pulls it down.’ That was better; they all seemed to be grinning at the thought of the grog, except for Lance-Corporal Pegg, who had been deeply taciturn ever since he’d been told that he was to be at the forefront of the attack.