Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  From the look of things, thought Morgan, the princess and her bodyguard had done just as they had expected and paused around midday for prayers and food. The temple had probably been a defendable convenience rather than preplanned stopping place, and, judging by the doused fires and the speed of the Indians’ reactions, they had just been about to mount and move on. Now all was chaos as a knot of men knelt and fired at the British, others tried to load the last bits of kit onto their saddles, whilst the rest fought with frightened horses to get their feet in their stirrups and turn to face the attackers.

  ‘Sir, look, the commandant’s got ’is ’ands full.’ Pegg, unarmed as he was, and to his enormous credit, whacked his horse with the ends of his reins and set off towards Kemp, who was cutting and thrusting for all he was worth against three mounted opponents.

  ‘Come on, Corp’l Martin, follow me,’ cried Morgan as the NCO, another hussar and he plunged into the hoofs and flicking blades that surrounded the commandant.

  Martin was hard up against his left stirrup as Emerald – gutsy little mare that she was – barged into one of the mutineer’s chargers, sending horse and rider sprawling on the ground. The impact threw Morgan’s aim, but next to him, Corporal Martin pulled his arm back and thrust just as his horse came level with the back of one of Kemp’s assailants. All the Indian’s attention was focused on his quarry; he’d just been parried by Kemp and was pulling his arm back for another jab when Martin’s sabre hit him squarely in the back of his left lung. Morgan could only admire the way that the farrier-corporal turned the blade at the last moment so that it could slip between the cavalryman’s ribs without jamming. Indeed, there was a look of impressed surprise on the victim’s face as the reddened sword emerged through the front of his tunic; he dropped his tulwar and reins and feebly groped at the steel before tumbling out of the saddle, Martin pulling the sabre from the dead man with one smooth movement.

  ‘Neatly done, Corp’l Martin,’ gasped Morgan, as his horse danced to avoid the bodies on the ground below them. ‘Have a care!’ But even as he warned Martin about the third sowar, who had realised the danger and was reining his mount back and preparing to defend himself, the commandant struck. It was a roundhouse blow, a catharsis for every bit of his hatred for the mutineers and all their works. Kemp, Morgan noticed, had acquired an ordinary cavalry private’s sword, the blade of which he had honed at every opportunity; now he put sixteen stone of venom behind the sickling steel as he brought it from behind his left shoulder in a great, slashing arc. As his arm straightened, so Sheffield’s best hit the sowar just below the left ear and sheared the top off his head. Away went a dome of bone, skin and hair with a skull cap clinging to it, just like a knife slicing through a soft-boiled egg.

  Even as Morgan shook himself clear of this scrimmage, he became aware of another party of riders putting as much distance as they could between themselves and their pursuers.

  ‘Look there, sir.’ Morgan tried to seize Kemp’s attention, for the older man was still marvelling in the sight of his decapitated victim. ‘I fancy that’s the Rhani and her retinue making off.’ He pointed to twenty or so horsemen who were still just visible through the trees some hundred paces away.

  ‘Aye, most likely. The bodyguard have done a good job of delaying us,’ the hussars were rounding up the few sowars whom they had decided not to hack or stab, the prisoners begging pathetically for mercy, ‘but Breen will settle the Rhani’s hash once they leave the cover of the trees,’ Kemp chuckled.

  Aye, and anyone else who’s with her, thought Morgan, railing at his own impotence.

  ‘Deal with those Pandies, will you, Corp’l Martin.’ Kemp casually condemned the captives. ‘Come on, Morgan, let’s see what practice our sharpshooters make,’ and off he set, spurring his horse just as the Rhani’s party left the cover of the trees and broke into the open ground.

  What in God’s name can be done? Morgan felt sick as he thundered after Kemp. Is she there at all – I can’t see her? But he knew he was grasping at straws. If Mary were a valuable hostage she wouldn’t be allowed to go free, and if she were with the Rhani willingly, there she would stay, especially if her son was with her.

  The fugitives, now only thirty or so by Morgan’s reckoning, kicked up their own smudge of dust as they galloped across the plain, making it hard for Morgan to see the details of any riders at all in his binoculars.

  ‘Can you see any sign of Breen’s people, Morgan?’ Kemp and he had pulled up at the edge of the trees, the commandant shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘They should open fire any minute now.’

  Morgan dragged his glasses away from the fleeing horse rumps with great reluctance and slewed them round to find the covering party. He searched the top of the bank, where he knew they were meant to be, without success whilst, as each minute passed, the Rhani’s party lengthened the range for the waiting carbines.

  ‘Where the devil have they got to?’ cursed Kemp. ‘They’ll be safe away unless Breen stirs himself.’

  But even as he spoke, a carbine popped, another, two more, then silence. Morgan’s stomach dropped at the sound, but as he studied the puffs of smoke that flew from the bank, he could see hussars and irregulars rushing up, throwing themselves down, scrabbling with their weapons. The covering party had obviously been slower than Kemp had hoped and Morgan had dreaded. Far from being poised and ready for the target to cross their front, they had had to sprint to their firing positions, snatching potshots rather than firing deliberately at properly estimated ranges. The result was predictable: the Rhani and her people flew unscathed – whilst a rush of guilty relief swept over Morgan.

  ‘God dammit to hell…’ There were no histrionics from Kemp; he was too good a soldier for that, thought Morgan. His plan had failed so he would design a new one without further waste of time. ‘We’ve missed her again. Right, Morgan, gather up our folk that are back at the temple; Corp’l Pegg, hack off to Mr Breen and ask him to be good enough to join us at that tank…’ Kemp pointed to a pool of stagnant water some little way to the front, ‘…as soon as possible. We’ll run the bloody woman to ground yet.’

  With Pegg bumping away to pass Kemp’s message to the covering party, Morgan trotted back into the trees and buildings, pleased to be by himself even for a few minutes. But as he reached the temple he found the hussars and their NCOs milling around, some in the saddle, dithering, others picking over the half-dozen corpses that littered the ground, and two dismounted, pointing their carbines at four dishevelled prisoners, one of whom held his hand to an arm that bled badly. There was fear in the Indians’ eyes, their clothes were torn and travel-stained and their hair and beards matted with dust; they pressed themselves together for comfort whilst the British decided upon their fate.

  ‘Are all your men unhurt, Corp’l Martin?’ Morgan saw the look of relief in the hussar’s face when an officer arrived and took command.

  ‘Sir,’ Martin stiffened in the saddle, ‘we’re all fine, sir. Just wondering about these prisoners, I am.’

  ‘The commandant told you to deal with them, didn’t he?’ Morgan knew the answer to his question.

  ‘’E did, sir, but…’ the soldiers looked at their corporal, as did the prisoners, with wide, mute, pleading eyes, ‘…I’m not sure what ’e wants exactly. We can’t tek ’em wi’ us but we can’t just shoot ’em, can we?’ Martin was desperately hoping that Morgan would make the decision for him. ‘They all fought fair, sir, an’ it’s not as if they’re mutineers exactly – they’ve been loyal to their queen.’

  Morgan was surprised to see such a sense of fair play in one of the men; he thought that all notions of justice had been swept from their heads by the brutality of the fighting, by the newspapers and windbag politicians baying for revenge.

  ‘Let the poor devils go, Corp’l Martin. You’ve beaten the fight out of this lot. They’ve no weapons and you’ve taken their ponies, ain’t you?’

  ‘We have, sir.’ There was no mistaking the burden that fell from Cor
poral Martin’s shoulders as the decision was made. ‘We shot four and kept the only two mounts that are fit, but they’ll do for us baggage.’

  ‘Well done.’ Morgan saw the two guards lower their weapons and shoo the prisoners to freedom, the Indians scuttling away like rats let free from a sack. ‘But fire a few shots to hurry them on their way, won’t you?’

  ‘Why’s that, sir?’ asked Corporal Martin.

  ‘Just do as I say, man,’ replied Morgan quietly.

  ‘Sir: you four…’ Martin had cottoned on, ‘…fire a round each into the ground.’ The order was followed immediately by shots from the soldiers, who understood Morgan’s ruse precisely.

  ‘Get your men moving then, Corp’l Martin,’ Morgan hoped that the fleeing prisoners would have the sense to stay in cover until Kemp was far away, ‘for Himself wants the hide off the Rhani.’

  ‘One of their nags is hurt, Commandant.’ Cornet Breen, still smarting from his earlier failure, was keen to regain some credit. At first he’d seen just the odd spot of blood amongst the earth churned by their quarry’s hoof’s, but as the pace of the relentless chase had increased, so the spots had become splashes. Now there were florin-sized, sticky gobs of gore every few paces. ‘And they’ve got no spares.’

  ‘You’re right, Breen; she’ll keep going overnight and as long as we don’t lose her in the dark we’ll have her by morning, for she’s got to slow down. Pass the word for the farrier, if you please.’

  They’d continued the chase as quickly as they could after the failed ambush, Kemp rounding his people up, issuing fresh orders and directions, and pushing on as rapidly as possible, but the Rhani had taken every advantage and put as much distance between herself and her pursuers as she could.

  Morgan looked at Kemp as they trotted side by side. Little sleep and sparse food and water seemed to suit the man, despite his being the oldest person in the column by far. Most of the others were wilting under the merciless sun and the pace that the commandant was setting; more than twenty hours of chasing and fighting without a pause would test the finest of horse-soldiers.

  ‘Sir, you blew for me.’ Martin, slurring his speech as ever, reined in beside Kemp and saluted.

  ‘I’d be obliged, Corp’l Martin, for your thoughts on our mounts and their weaknesses.’ Kemp had been impressed with Martin’s quiet skills over the last few hectic days and nights.

  ‘Sir, all the mounts is tired and Private Fenn’s has got a split developing in his nearside rear hoof.’ Martin was even more attentive than he’d realised, thought Morgan. ‘But I can shift him to one of the bat-ponies if there’s no great chase a-coming, though you’ll not get more than another night’s march out of most of ’em, sir, if you continue spanking along like this.’

  ‘We’ve done well to get this far with only a couple of thrown shoes, thanks to you, Corp’l Martin.’ Kemp was genuinely pleased with Martin’s husbandry. ‘Shift Fenn, and I guarantee you that we’ll halt to rest and mend if we’ve not overtaken the Rhani by mid-morning. Meanwhile, keep your eye on every nag, for we’ve a hard night ahead of us.’

  And a hard night it was. There was little moon by which to follow the blood and hoof trail and Kemp ordered fifteen minutes’ trot in every hour rather than the fast walk that had been the norm during every other night-march. They’d paused to water the horses shortly after midnight in the cover of a grove of barren fruit trees, but they had to stop again almost as soon as the chase resumed after a man was found to be missing. Corporal Martin, to his intense embarrassment, had to admit to leaving one of his soldiers behind: Private Ford had dismounted and fallen fast asleep, not even stirring once the column moved out. He was only roused when a boot was applied to his softer parts. But that was the only distraction. The periods of trotting seemed to come more and more often to Morgan as every man – except Kemp, of course – strained to stay awake and alert in the saddle.

  Dinners and hunts, deeds and misdeeds from the Sikh wars, Billy Morgan’s doings and great horses they had known helped to pass the time as Kemp and Morgan walked and trotted their horses at the front of the column. This was the old Kemp, the fine soldier and good companion, though Morgan still expected some sally from the commandant about Mary and her loyalty. But, perhaps because of Lance-Corporal Pegg’s insistence on riding within earshot of the officers’ conversation, he was spared.

  Other than for Kemp’s regular, ‘Trot-march…pass the word,’ the pair talked of nothing but Billy Morgan and mutual friends, bringing Glassdrumman to life whilst they traversed mud and dust, grit and pebbles, through swamp, brush and glade, always accompanied by the steady tide of sweat beneath their belts, the click and hum of insects and the smell of damp saddle leather. Every hour, one of the two scouts who rode a few hundred paces in front of the main column would be replaced but, other than that, there was nothing to distract them from the tedium and the tiredness. Just as first light approached, Morgan noticed that even Kemp began to flag. His prattle dried up as the deep blue of the night gave way to the dove-grey of dawn, and the glittering stars began to fade.

  ‘Walk-march…pass the word,’ was given, the column slowed with a, ‘Thank fuck for that,’ mouthed by Pegg but echoed, Morgan had no doubt, by every man in the saddle as a torpor settled over each weary soldier and horse.

  It’s still bloody dark in here, thought Morgan as the track led them into a dense grove of broad-leaved trees. This would be a grand place for a quick halt and a drop of water before the sun gets up. Morgan had let himself drop behind Kemp. He spurred Emerald forward.

  ‘Commandant, don’t you think—’ But just as Kemp turned a sleepy eye towards Morgan, the shadows were lit by a volley of flame, and the din of cicadas drowned by crashing gunfire only a few paces away from them.

  Yells and screams came from their rear as the ambush hit hard at the centre of their column where the troopers and baggage ponies were most tightly grouped. Morgan just had time to peer behind him, to see hussars and others being tumbled from their saddles whilst exhausted horses fell over, shot, or bucked and jibbed in terror. Then Pegg charged alongside him, slapping Emerald’s bottom as hard as he could, driving her into a gallop to get away from the chaos, hurt and noise.

  ‘Come on, sir, get yer se’n out of ’ere.’ Pegg’s horse was going as hard as Morgan’s own petrified mare now was. ‘It ain’t healthy. Get after the commandant, move yerself, sir!’ And Pegg was right. The last place that Morgan needed to be was wheeling back into the cacophony of bangs and screams behind him. The commandant’s instinct was – as usual – right: he was hunched low in the saddle, arcing swiftly through the dark scrub away from the ambush party, hoping to loop round their flank and counterattack – no matter how few horsemen he had with him.

  ‘Bloody woman, sharper than I thought. The scouts should have seen those bastards whilst they was waiting for us – and I should have been ready for something like this.’ Other than for the odd pop of the hussars’ pistols, the gunfire had all but ceased now. NCOs’ brazen voices were trying to reorganise the shattered party. ‘Now those buggers will try to sneak away before our people can regroup. Their horses will be held somewhere over there, I’d wager.’ As they circled back on themselves as fast as the clinging branches of thorn and scrub would allow them, Kemp pointed with his pistol barrel towards denser bushes some yards back from the track up which thy had just trotted. ‘If we can shoot their nags…’

  Morgan had come to much the same conclusion, but as they edged past a dark, dense stand of brush, a gout of flame seared itself onto his eyeballs, a pistol boomed just feet away and the commandant clutched at his shoulder with a half-formed curse as his charger tried to bolt away from the noise.

  ‘Get at ’em, Corp’l Pegg,’ roared Morgan, digging his spurs in hard and firing his own pistol blindly into the bush. ‘Come on, man.’

  As Emerald collided with a bigger horse, another flash and bang erupted almost in Morgan’s face. The yellow streak of flame lit the scene for a fraction of a seco
nd.

  ‘Dunniah, you bastard!’ yelped Kemp, grabbing at his wound and trying to control his frightened horse.

  Morgan glimpsed the bearded, red-coated horseman clutching a heavy, double-barrelled pistol that, had it not been for the impact of the two mounts, would probably have gone off right against his chest. Now the Indian scrambled to stay in the saddle as the ball hummed harmlessly away into the edging dawn, his horse anchored by a cat’s cradle of reins to another pony upon which sat, as far as Morgan could see in the semidark, two children, who were bawling at the tops of their voices. The more Morgan urged his horse forward, the more the three animals became entwined. Before he knew what was happening, he was thigh to thigh, saddle to saddle with his attacker, and both men had dropped their pistols, grabbing and gripping one another, trying with desperate strength to wrestle the other to the ground.

  Morgan felt the breath being squeezed from him by strong limbs that now had his head in a fierce lock. Rasping, curry breath enveloped him as he tried to pull his arms back far enough to get a decent punch at his assailant. But Dunniah saw his advantage; the more space he gave the Feringhee, the more dangerous an opponent he would be, so he held on tight to the white man’s neck as the horses whinnied and the children screamed about him.

  Try as he might, Morgan could not get himself free.

  It’s just like being at the bottom of a rugby scrum when the bloody thing collapses, he thought inconsequentially as his lungs shook at his ribs in protest. This is no way to go.

  Then: ‘Get off of my officer, yer dirty, fuckin’ Pandy.’ Fluent Wirksworth was being growled as punches perfected in the Bear and Billet found their mark. ‘You ’eathen bastard,’ completed the refrain as Pegg and his horse joined the mad merry-go-round of grunting men, tangled horses and shrieking boys.

  Pegg’s onslaught took effect. Under a flurry of blows, the bruised mutineer let go of Morgan and kicked his horse far enough away from those of his two attackers to allow him to draw his tulwar.