Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Right, see this. Albert will grab that other bugger as it passes next time,’ Kemp opined. ‘Canny little sod.’

  And to Morgan’s disappointment he was right. Victoria was more energetic and bigger, but less skilful. As she lunged and overshot again, Albert grabbed one of her legs with his left pincer and then, quick as light, sank his other one into Her Majesty’s thorax. Morgan watched transfixed as the horny, black carapace dented and crumpled under the claw and a drop of clear liquid oozed from the wound.

  ‘Go on, my son, crown ’er; that’ll teach ’er to keep yer short of yer greens,’ some waggish hussar observed, to the amusement of the crowd, and Albert obeyed. First he pulled his opponent slightly towards him, her legs leaving tiny furrows in the dust, then he drove his sting expertly between the joints of two, shiny segments. In seconds all the fight had gone from the Queen. Her forelegs stiffened in a last ecstasy, then the body settled on the ground as Albert stung her again and again, his tail flicking in a series of lethal darts. Slowly, Victoria’s own tail, coloured thread and all, went limp; death had arrived.

  ‘Hmm…not bad, seen better. Just shy of two minutes.’ Kemp snapped the cover of his watch shut. ‘Right, Rissaldar, to the victor the spoils.’

  This encomium could only add laurels to the commandant’s Caesarean image, Morgan thought, for rather than taking the winner and subjecting him to a ring of fire, the poisonous little insect received quite a different reward: the rissaldar simply put the sole of his riding boot firmly on his tough shell, crushing the life out of him. Morgan seemed to be the only man in the audience who noticed. Everybody else was scrabbling for their winnings.

  ‘I feel just about right, now.’ Kemp was walking with the aid of a stick along the baked earth of what passed for a main road in the village of Seepree. ‘Smith’s brigade should be with us any day now, don’t you think, Morgan?’

  ‘You may think you’re well enough, Commandant, but we nearly lost you after that last tangle with Herself,’ replied Morgan.

  This was only the third time that Kemp had felt able to stump around one or two sentry posts in the burnt-out village that lay on the main Jhansi to Gwalior road. The mutineers had fallen on it and its inhabitants in early April – at about the same time that Kemp and his men had been dealt such a stinging blow by Lakshmi Bai – and razed the place. Now all that was left of it was a series of blackened shells of buildings, collapsed roofs and shallow graves where the local people had buried those whom the rebels had deemed to be loyal to the British. But even now, at the start of June, the situation was still so unstable and the village’s position on the main road so important that it had to be garrisoned.

  ‘You mustn’t open that wound, you know.’ Morgan was uneasy with the scar on Kemp’s abdomen. ‘That dagger went deep, and you had blood in your piss for an age afterwards.’

  Even as the party was trying to recover from the ambush – now seven weeks ago – a strong troop of 1st Bombay Lancers had passed close by whilst harassing the fugitives after Jhansi had fallen. Morgan, with two dead hussars and six wounded (including the gravely ill Kemp) had ordered them to detach some of their spare horses and after three difficult days in which the commandant and one of the irregulars had slipped in and out of consciousness, they had eventually arrived back at Jhansi. Morgan had had to report to General Rose.

  ‘Tell me again what the chief said.’ Morgan had gone through the conversation between himself and Rose for Kemp’s benefit many times already.

  ‘Well, as I’ve already told you, Commandant, the general was full of congratulations for what you’d achieved. He said he quite understood why Brigadier-General Smith spoke so highly of you.’

  ‘Get on with you. He didn’t really say that, did he?’

  Kemp’s faux modesty had become a little wearing, thought Morgan.

  ‘Yes, he did. He told his staff that if any man was going to able to rid him of that turbulent woman it was Commandant Dick Kemp; how you’d come within an ace of achieving it; how he was sorry to hear about your wounds; how he hoped that the case of claret he was sending you would set you up rightly; and how a wee bit of rest at Seepree would be just what you and all of us needed. I’ve told you all this a dozen times, sir.’ Morgan had, but he found himself both repelled yet intrigued by the vanity of the old war-horse and he was amused by Kemp’s childlike delight in the compliments.

  The onward journey of forty miles or so south-west to Seepree had really worried Morgan, though. The worst hurt irregular had recovered well, as had all the other wounded who travelled in bullock carts, except Kemp. Dr Billings, who had been attached to them, had even called a halt the second day out of Jhansi, clearly fearing for Kemp’s life when his nonsensical rants had stopped and he had lapsed into a sweaty coma. But, after two ounces of blood had been drawn from him with leeches, the commandant had rallied and the little column had lurched on until it reached its charred and desolate destination.

  ‘Well, we’ve had enough bloody rest now. Everyone thought that when Kalpi fell to our lads a couple of weeks ago that the whole thing would fizzle out.’ Kemp, once he’d recovered sufficiently to appreciate the isolation and ugliness of Seepree, had quickly begun to chafe. ‘But once the Gwalior troops defied their own maharajah and went over to the rest of the Pandies, it was bloody obvious that Rose would have to see the thing through to the bitter end. He couldn’t just ignore the Rhani when she was putting some spunk – ha, if you see what I mean – into all the other useless princelings, and pretend that she’d bugger off somewhere obscure and we’d all live happily ever after. No, there’s a deal more fighting to be done yet.’

  A deal more fighting, Morgan pondered. I’ve seen more of that than I want to, and I can never delight in it like Kemp does, but once you’re in amongst them, once you’re trading shots or blows with the Pandies, it’s so much easier than it once was.

  Morgan remembered how he’d dreaded the prospect of battle at first – not so much the idea of death or injury, but the prospect of letting his men down. Now, he knew that he could do it – his balls still tightened every bit as much as they did back in the Crimea – but he knew that the men depended upon him to lead and set an example. And that expectation was a powerful thing. He could no more shy away from a fight whilst his soldiers were watching, yet he could never relish danger like this madman Kemp.

  The advantage of being on the main road was that every galloper and aide who passed could be interrogated. One such, a young lieutenant of Native Cavalry from Rose’s staff, had been lured into Kemp’s convalescent web just over a week ago and, with the help of some of his master’s claret, had been thoroughly interrogated. So it was that they had found out about a further defeat of Tantya Tope at Kalpi in May and how, at first, many had thought that the enemy had little further fight left in him. But then, the Gwalior troops had mutinied against their own Maharaja Scindiah and marched off – with the six brass guns presented to the Maharaja by John Company – to throw in their lot in with Tantya Tope and the Rhani. Then, the slightly foxed subaltern had told them, ‘The whole damned parcel is now marching on the impenetrable fortress of Gwalior.’

  ‘Do you know Gwalior, Commandant?’ asked Morgan as they approached a sentry position manned by a dismounted 8th Hussar.

  ‘Aye, it’s a grand-looking place, but it’ll be a devil’s bastard to attack. It sits on a great plug of rock sticking out from the surroundin’ plain and the walls are sheer. It makes Kotah – and even Jhansi – look like a pimple on your arse; Rose will need to use every bit of guile he can to stop Lakshmi Bai and her confederates from making a stand there that would cost us dear in both time and blood. A deliberate attack must involve heavy casualties, so he’ll try to avoid it – and that’s where we’ll come in, I guarantee it, and that’s where we’ll not only catch that woman, but we’ll get that sod Dunniah.’ Once Kemp’s mind reverted to the subject of bloody revenge upon those who had wronged him, all his ills seemed to be forgotten.

  ‘Yes, Co
mmandant, but he’s obviously expecting a right good fight – that’s why he’s blown for General Smith’s brigade and the Ninety-fifth,’ replied Morgan, for word had reached them almost immediately when Smith had been ordered to start the long march to Seepree.

  ‘Perhaps, but he’ll hope not to have to lay siege to a town like that. Mark my words, he’ll have special work for us to do again and I, for one, will be damn glad not only to get away from here, but also to even the score with that heathen woman and her godforsaken followers.’ Kemp rubbed at the scar beneath his armpit.

  You’re a capital soldier, Dick Kemp but you’re bored with life, you bloody old lunatic, and I’m not yet bored with mine, thought Morgan. It was dangerous enough trying to find Mary and the boy and not getting chopped when you were fully fit, I don’t want to have to do the same whilst nursemaiding you. I’d be damned glad to be safely tucked up with the Regiment – but then who will get Mary and Sam back in one piece?

  The last few weeks had been intolerable as Morgan had thought about the glimpses that he had had of Mary and his boy time and again; now he tried to thrust them out of his mind.

  ‘Now, Pollard,’ Kemp greeted the sentry, who kept his back to the officers – no salute, undistracted, stolidly watching his arcs of responsibility, just as the manual said – ‘how are you? Heard anything from Bristol?’

  He may be a lunatic, but he’s damn good with the troops, thought Morgan. It’s all I can do to remember the names of the hussars’ non-commissioned officers, let alone the privates and where they come from.

  ‘Sir; the missus has had the babbi an’ called ’er Jane, sir. Din’t ask me, just named ’er; what d’you make of that, sir?’ Private Pollard continued to stare out of the sandbagged sentry post, carbine in the crook of his arm.

  ‘It’s a fine name, Pollard,’ Kemp replied genially. ‘Just be glad that they’re both fit and well.’

  ‘Aye, sir, but Jane. I wouldn’t call a dog that, sir, I wouldn’t,’ Private Pollard maundered on, his eyes never leaving the distant wood line that he had been charged to observe.

  ‘Watch your arcs, Pollard, and dream of the loot that you’ll be able to take when we catch up with the Rhani.’ Kemp, Morgan realised, was mentioning all the troops’ most important touchstones – family, home and undreamed-of wealth. ‘You’ll be able to sign off, buy a nice ale house in Clifton or somewhere, and bore any poor bastard who’ll let you with tales from brother Pandy,’ Kemp chuckled.

  And it worked. Private Pollard had been flattered by the officers’ attention, reminded of his most cherished possessions and ambitions and, at the same time, fired up for the strife that lay ahead. Morgan was just turning this neat little device over in his mind when, once they were out of earshot of the sentry, Kemp returned to the attack that he’d been expecting for some time now.

  ‘So, Morgan, there it is. Smith will be with us any time soon. I’ll be told to go and have another go at capturing that harlot and that’ll leave me in a right, bloody quandary, so it will.’ Kemp had stopped and turned to face Morgan.

  ‘You’re right, Commandant. You know that you need more time to get over those knocks properly—’ But Morgan wasn’t allowed to finish.

  ‘Balls…I’m as fit as a butcher’s dog – you know I am. No, my problem is you, young brevet major hero-of-Sevastopol, son of my best friend, Morgan. You’re the boy who lets fucking Pandies run free, who encourages the men to shirk their duty by not putting this scum to the sword – don’t think I don’t know that you told Corp’l Martin to let those four rebels go at that ruined temple when we was hard on Lakshmi Bai’s tail back in April,’ Kemp said coldly. ‘No, don’t interrupt me, boy, and you’re the feller who’s so infatu-bloody-ated with a piece of skirt that he can’t see the truth of what’s happened to the lass.’

  ‘But, Commandant—’ Morgan tried to protest.

  ‘No, lad, hold your tongue. I know what the girl means to you – and that lad of yours is a spirited little sod; he gave me a right pummelling when we met up in that wood that day – you wouldn’t be risking your career and inheritance if she wasn’t important to you, but you must see where her loyalty and future now lie. For whatever reason she’s plumped for a native way of life. It happens so often with the lower orders, especially the Taegues who come out here and get swayed by all the religious hocus-pocus – all those damn statues and graven images are pretty well what Rome gives ’em anyway. She’s gone across just like my own boys murdered Neeta and her people: you must try to understand it. You’ve lost her as surely as if she’d perished back in Jhansi with that brave bore of a husband of hers last June. If I’m wrong, why does she fuck off with the Rhani even when she can see that you’re there to save her?’

  ‘Commandant, we talked about this in Deesa; you’re right about my feelings for Mary and my son – I realise how much is at stake and how odd it must seem to anyone else…’ Morgan did his best to hide his own doubts.

  ‘No, lad, just remember what I did. I loved and married a native woman – and I don’t care if she was Eurasian, she was a native as far as “Polite” society saw her – and raised children by her who could never be seen in Ireland or take their place in the society in which I grew up, so don’t think I don’t have some understanding of your tupping a Catholic chamber maid but remember, when it came to it, you married one of your own rank and creed – and quite right too.’

  Morgan was stunned into silence by Kemp’s insight. It was too easy to write him off as a hate-filled murderer: that he might be, but when his blood had cooled, he was intelligent and intuitive, thought Morgan.

  ‘But the fact remains that if you’re to be by my side whilst we run the Rhani to ground, you must remove the goddamn blinkers that tell you that Mary-bloody-Keenan is still a faithful subject of Miss Vicky – she ain’t. Twice now we’ve seen her stirrup to stirrup with Herself; I’ve even felt her blows. So, make your mind up, young Morgan. You’re either with me or you’re not. We can’t ride stirrup to stirrup on our next jaunt if you’re still thinking that Mary Keenan’s outright treachery is just a misplaced expression of motherhood; dear God, the thought makes my tits burl.’

  ‘But you’re putting me in an impossible position, Commandant.’ Morgan was thoroughly discomforted. ‘Whether what you say is right or not, someone needs to save Mary either from herself or from the Rhani, and nobody can do that except me. I’ve known the lass for years now – she’s part of home – and whilst I’ve wronged her and her late husband, I love her still. So, whether you like it not, whether you trust me or not, I shall be there.’

  ‘No, lad, I’ve every faith in Captain Anthony Morgan of the Ninety-Fifth,’ Kemp fixed him with one of those looks that made him squirm, ‘but I worry about that other feller, young Tony who cares more for quim than for his duty. I don’t need him beside me in a fight.’

  Morgan was about to boil over with anger, but before he could think of any sensible riposte, there was the crash of boots as Lance-Corporal Pegg came to attention besides the officers, his hand quivering at the band of his cap.

  ‘’Scuse me, gennelmen.’ Corporal Pegg now had a scaly strip of skin running over the bridge of his nose to remind him of his last encounter with the Rhani’s troops. ‘Mr Breen’s compliments, sirs, but a galloper’s just arrived from that bugger Smith’s – beg pardon, sirs – General Smith’s brigade to say as how he’s marching through the day an’ ’e’ll be ’ere by nightfall and wants a full account of the situation.’

  ‘Sit yourself down, sir, have a swally o’ this…’ Colour-Serjeant McGucken passed a precious bottle of pale ale to Morgan as they sat in the ruins of one of Seepree’s burnt-out bungalows that had been allocated to the 95th. ‘One of the sutlers brought us a whole lot a couple of days back.’

  Smith’s brigade had arrived only a few hours ago after five days on the march. The 10th Bombay had been the vanguard, followed by the 95th, then the guns and Engineers with the baggage train and its menagerie of animals being protected by th
e cavalry. Where the village had been eerily scorched and quiet, it now burst with life and noise, even after darkness had fallen.

  ‘Thank you Colour-Sar’nt.’ Morgan poured the golden liquid carefully into a glass. ‘This is a rare treat.’ He sipped appreciatively at a drink that had evaded all of them even here on the main trunk road.

  ‘Pleasure, sir. But look at you, quite the card in your mufti, ain’t you?’ McGucken’s amusement at Morgan’s khaki pyjamas had been immoderate when they first saw each other. His scarlet shell jacket and regimental trousers had all but fallen apart after the last few weeks, so, once they had reached Seepree, he’d bought four suits – two for himself and two for Corporal Pegg – from a passing contractor and slipped into the irregular mode without any backward glances.

  ‘Perhaps it’s a little daring for Her Majesty’s Ninety-Fifth Foot, but hark at you lot: the men look more like gypsies than soldiers. I’m surprised at you, Colour-Sar’nt.’ The barb went home as Morgan knew it would, even though it was meant to be good-natured. For long-serving regimental non-commissioned officers, the sight of the men in their weatherbeaten kit, sun-faded coats and worn out boots was genuinely painful.

  McGucken almost took the bait, but just pulled himself back from the brink chuckling, ‘And there’s not a damn thing me or any of the NCOs can do about it. As I keep sayin’ to Cap’n Carmichael, as long as the weapons is bright and clean an’ there’s shot in the lads’ pouches, we can manage, even if we do look like a mad woman’s shit.’

  Certainly, the troops’ appearance had quite shocked Morgan when they’d swung into camp. The horsemen weren’t in such bad order, but the 10th BNI and his own regiment were simply threadbare, many of the men having thin native slippers on their feet, their issue boots having obviously worn through.