‘How’s he been?’ Morgan had waited to ask until he’d got McGucken on his own. The servants were too busy getting the officers and senior NCOs’ food ready to listen too closely, whilst Ensigns Fawcett and Wilkinson and Colour-Sergeant Whaley had yet to appear.
‘Honestly, sir?’
Morgan nodded.
‘’E’s been a fuckin’ bastard, ’e ’as. ’E’s been halfway decent to ’is own boys from Number One Company, but since the colonel formed double companies after Kotah, a Grenadier’s only got to fart an’ ’e jumps down ’is throat, ’e does.’ McGucken was instinctively loyal and would never have spoken like this in front of the men, but he knew Morgan well – perhaps too well – and they had both suffered under Carmichael when he’d acted as their company commander in the Crimea.
‘No, sir, there’s been all sorts of problems. First ’e wanted to shoot the ram that you told Sullivan to get at Kotah – said it was yet another mouth to feed. ’E was right, but the men had got awfi fond of the thing an’ you know how soft they can be with animals. Anyway, the colonel got wind of it and took Derby – that’s what they’re calling him now – to Battalion Headquarters as the mascot for the whole Regiment. I think the commanding officer only did it to scunner Carmichael.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to hear about our tame sheep; what else has he done?’ asked Morgan.
‘You can probably guess what happened when the brigadier-general visited during our pause at Goonah. McGarry was at the centre of it, sir,’ the colour-sergeant continued.
‘Ah, some act of grossly discourteous ventriloquism, I imagine – haven’t you managed to stop him doing that yet, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Morgan guessed.
‘Aye, sir…I mean no, sir: he’s a wee hero to the men and he fights like a bloody lion when he’s sober. We’d just come to the present an’ Cap’n Carmichael had stepped forward to report to the general when an officer-like voice calls out from somewhere, “Learnt how to stay in the saddle yet, General?”. You know how good he is at it and there was no trace of his own accent, there wasn’t. Well, sir, everyone laughed – even the commanding officer was having trouble keeping a straight face – except for our company commander, who turned on young Stout, who was in the rear rank just a few paces away, and tells Corp’l Bennett to take his name and assures the general that he’ll be flogged. Now, if you’d done that the troops would have known that it was all a sham – something just to shut the general up – but Stout starts calling the odds there an’ then: “It weren’t me, sir, honest.” Cap’n Carmichael tells me to arrest the lad on the spot, the troops start a-mutterin’ an’ I thought he’d tell me to blow a couple from the muzzles o’ guns next, so bloody angry was he. Anyway, I’d just fallen in a couple of the NCOs to grab Stout, when McGarry steps forward as bold as you like and says, “No, sir, I said it, not Stout, and I’ll say it again if Himself wants; stick the lash on me, not Dan Stout.”’ McGucken shook his head.
‘Well, did he flog McGarry?’ Morgan didn’t know whether to be entertained by the discomfiture of the general, impressed by McGarry’s sang-froid, or horrified by a scene that should never have happened in a company that was happy and well led.
‘He did, sir. McGarry got ten of the finest, courtesy of Drummer Robinson,’ McGucken could see the well-muscled musician laying on even now, ‘and when he finished, the big, daft Mick spat the stop from his mouth, flexed his shoulders – bloody as they were – and just laughed. Sounds quite funny now, sir, but it’s left a bad taste in the lads’ mouths and there’s a number of ’em who are just pushin’ McGarry on to make Cap’n Carmichael look even more stupid. You’d best get back as soon as you can.’ McGucken topped up his officer’s glass.
TEN
Kotah-Ki-Serai
The ram looked up from the patch of balding grass where he’d been tethered, blinked his grey eyes at Morgan, shook his head to rid himself of flies and then returned to a sparse feast. Morgan saw how the sun shone off the animal’s freshly oiled, curling horns and that a leather water bottle sling had been fashioned into a collar. The dull brass bell that had been around the creature’s neck at Kotah had now been polished to a bright gleam. He patted the bony head, was acknowledged by nothing more than a flick of the ears, and then turned his attention to the two sentries who had crashed to the ‘present’ outside the three tents that were serving, here at Seepree, as Battalion Headquarters.
‘Carry on, please, lads.’
Morgan returned the salute and the soldiers brought their rifles to the ‘order’ before, on a sibilant, ‘Tss…tss,’ the pair stood at ease, their feet stamping at precisely the same time as the senior soldier hissed ‘silent’ sentry orders, just as if they were back on the barrack yard.
Both men had done their best to turn their shabbiness into something approaching smartness for this duty, but the threadbare state of their clothing and the thin, cracked leather of their boots couldn’t be ignored. Morgan was about to try a little easy banter with the men – despite both privates’ wooden regimental expressions – when the thump of hoofs on the road distracted him.
‘Ah, Morgan, I’m obliged to you.’ The sentries went through their minuet again, whilst Morgan brought his hand level with the peak of his cap as Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Hume and his adjutant trotted up. ‘I won’t detain you long.’ The commanding officer looked thinner than when Morgan had last seen him at Kotah in April, almost two months ago, browner, immeasurably more worn and creased, yet none of the energy or sparkle had deserted the man.
‘Carry on, please, you two,’ Hume said to the sentries. ‘Good work, Saunders; have you had to borrow those boots?’
‘I ’ave, sir, but Franklin ’ere ’asn’t: ’ee just sits on ’is arse all day, sir,’ the senior soldier replied, whilst stamping into the drill-book stance of ‘stand easy.’
‘Well done anyway. You’re both a credit to Number Four and I trust that we’ll get new boots before the week is done,’ Hume smiled back at the troops.
He’s just like Kemp; how does he know the name of that man? wondered Morgan. He’s got over five hundred men under his command and he speaks to that lad as if he’s his own son. And look at the way that Saunders is trying not to grin with delight – that’s made the man’s day, it has.
‘Come on in; I fear that everything here is a bit temporary.’ Hume led the way through the big ridge tent that served as the orderly room – he waved the clerks to sit down as he passed through – to the smaller bell of canvas that was his own quarters. ‘Have a seat; I need some porter – will you?’ But without waiting for a reply, Hume reached into a bucket of once-cold water, pulled out two bottles of India ale and poured them carefully into Russian silver beakers, souvenirs of a different struggle.
‘Now, I’ve spoken to Commandant Kemp; I’ve heard all about your last few weeks and a pretty warm time you had until you let Himself get poked about. I did warn you, didn’t I?’ Hume half-smiled at Morgan and took a deep pull at his drink.
‘You did, sir; it was exactly as you said it would be,’ Morgan watched as Hume raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement, ‘and I’d like to commend Lance-Corporal Pegg, and Farrier-Corporal Martin of the Eighth Hussars for conspicuous service—’
‘Yes, yes, that’s important but it’ll have to wait,’ Hume interrupted him. ‘I don’t know what you see in that lout from Derbyshire, but I’ve written him up for something after what he did in Rowa, just as you asked; now we’ll have to wait on the pleasure of milords to see what bauble they give him – if any. Anyway, I’m glad I’ve got you back; there’s work to be done.’
Morgan’s stomach tightened. So he was to be brought back to regimental duty, as one half of him wished and the other half feared.
‘Yes, you’ll recall that Massey was grabbed by the brigadier-general to be his brigade-major after Bainbrigge – God rest him – was killed?’
Morgan nodded as he savoured a mouthful of ale.
‘Well, we’ve had to leave him behind with a dose of ague,
and provide another officer to take his place. That was not a difficult choice – I’ve sent your friend Richard Carmichael to be the general’s boot-black and – I can say this to you…’ Hume swivelled his eyes at Morgan, ‘…the young gentleman couldn’t get away to the safety of Brigade Headquarters fast enough. Just had time to mutter something about his previous staff experience being invaluable, not a word about the men, about McGucken or Whaley, nothing about the two subalterns who’ve both been bricks – just snatched up his dunnage and was away.’
Morgan didn’t know what to say. The colonel was being unusually candid about another officer; Morgan knew the contempt in which Hume held Carmichael, but he couldn’t weigh in against him, for that would sound quite wrong. So, he settled for the British Army’s portmanteau answer, a noncommittal, ‘Sir…’ and waited for more.
‘Now, I’ve done a deal with the brigade commander – Carmichael to his staff, you back to the Regiment – and any more hare-brained schemes to spike the Rhani can be the preserve of the good Commandant Kemp – and the good Commandant Kemp alone. Mind you, the poor man looks more like a bloody colander than soldier after you let the Pandies have their way with him. You’ll have to tell me the mad-arsed details of what happened later. It’s enough to say that General Smith’s delighted with what Kemp’s little band of cutthroats managed to achieve – and that’s not a great deal as far as I can understand – and you’ve retrieved a bit of your reputation in his eyes, though I cannot see why.’
At first, Morgan was baffled by this. Then he realised that the commandant – God bless him – must have been using his considerable sway to help him. Kemp must know how appalled Morgan had been by wholesale murder and his disdain for mercy, but for an officer of the commandant’s stamp, the bonds of tribe and creed were everything.
‘Sir, thank you. Am I to take over both the Grenadiers and Number One?’ Morgan thrilled at the idea of a double command.
‘You are; let’s just see what their returns look like.’ And with that, Hume sauntered across to the stifling orderly room tent and asked for the leather-bound book that contained the carefully inked details of each company’s strength and readiness for duty.
‘Yes, more or less as I thought…’ Hume grasped the bottom of his beard as he held the book into the direct light of the sun, ‘…one hundred and two bayonets, seven corporals, four sergeants, two colour-sar’nts and four drummers mustered as fit for duty, and only seven sick. That sick list is a wonderful achievement by McGucken and Whaley. You know, the men were falling like skittles on the route up, mainly fever, but some of the day marches were appalling in the sun. We’ve had four men die outright from sunstroke and I was worried about McGarry after he was flogged. And that’s another thing Morgan, I won’t hold with punishments of that sort in this climate without your consulting me first.’ It was clear that on matters like this, Hume would brook no argument. ‘There’s a place for the cat but it’s a damned rare place in this regiment; we shouldn’t need to beat the men like oxen and I won’t have it.’
Morgan was grateful to McGucken for having told him about the McGarry incident, for he hadn’t realised that Carmichael’s arbitrary punishment had upset Hume so badly.
‘No, sir, if the men need to be brought to order, there’s better ways of doing it than that,’ Morgan agreed.
‘And it’s bad enough that we’re stuck in the middle of all this needless brutality anyway, without our inflicting more suffering on the poor, bloody men,’ added Hume. ‘Don’t you wonder how we got mixed up in all this murderous nonsense in the first place?’
Morgan had never seen Hume like this; he was used only to the dedicated, kindly but professional commanding officer, not this reflective, slightly morose one.
‘I do, sir. I never could reconcile how we were able to blow those characters from guns in front of their comrades when we landed in Bombay and then expect the rest of the Regiment to behave loyally – yet they have. And being alongside Commandant Kemp’s an education too, sir. You never know quite who’s on his side, who’s in his pay, what caste they are, what tribe, what religion or heaven knows what,’ Morgan replied.
‘I know, it’s a bloody maze, ain’t it? I sometimes think we should pack up shop and just let these John Company wallahs sort out their own mess. I’m sure India’s a grand place for chasing game, guzzling grog and lording it over the natives – just let me get back to rainy, foggy England and—’ But before Hume could finish his gloomy thoughts, a deep, rolling bleat came from just outside the doorway of the tent and caught both their attention.
‘I gather that the ram that we took has had a bit of promotion, sir,’ said Morgan.
‘Aye, he’s a boy, ain’t he?’ Hume smiled broadly as he strode out of the shadow of the tent into the glare of the sun where the ram cropped at the grass. ‘The men did well getting you, didn’t they, Private Derby.’ Hume squatted down next to the animal and stroked his ears and chin as he might a dog. ‘And to think, Carmichael was going to have you sent to the knacker’s yard, wasn’t he?’ This was another bit of odd behaviour from Hume, thought Morgan. ‘No, you may be just a conceit, my lad, but you look grand at the head of the Regiment.’ Hume raised himself up and rubbed his hands together to clean them of the lanolin from the ram’s fleece. ‘So, go and get a firm grip of your command, Morgan, for Sir Hugh Rose is advancing with his troops from the east,’ Hume pointed in the opposite direction from where they stood, ‘and we march for Gwalior the day after tomorrow to try and close on the enemy from both sides at once.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Morgan saluted and turned to leave, just as Hume started a sham pushing match with Derby, whose tail flicked in time to the commanding officer’s delighted chuckles.
‘That was a good ’un, wan’t it, sir?’ Lance-Corporal Pegg, now returned to his command of half a dozen Grenadiers, was as tired as he could ever remember being, having stuttered and started over twelve miles of dust, mud and grass throughout the hours of darkness. Now the whole regiment – or the five hundred or so men that the sun, wounds and sickness had left fit to march – had arrived at a resting point which the map showed to be Kotah-Ki-Serai, been dressed off by companies and told to prepare breakfast.
‘I’ve had easier walks, I must admit.’ Ensign Fawcett had found the brigade’s long flog towards Gwalior every bit as irksome as the men. ‘Those bloody oxen need a shamrock every other pace, don’t they?’
‘A shamrock’s too gentle by ’alf, sir; the fuckers want shooting.’ Pegg, like all the others, had spent the night cajoling and prodding the baggage animals which, everyone was sure, were in the pay of the mutineers. ‘D’you want to look at the men’s feet now, or can we cook fust?’
‘No, boots off now, please.’
The men, overhearing the conversation, were already throwing themselves down in the lee of a sun-dried ridge, even as the first beams of light stretched out from behind the great fortress of Gwalior, sitting high on its rock pedestal two miles or more from them.
‘Get some of the cooked rice and dates you’re carrying down you, but don’t let the lads waste too much time brewing tea. Every minute of sleep will be valuable.’
‘Right, sir.’ Pegg noticed how the young officer had grown in confidence even in the few weeks that he’d been away with Morgan and Kemp. ‘Come on, you lot, get yer trotters in the air for Mr Fawcett to ’ave a stare at.’
Each soldier sat amongst a scatter of belts, bottles and bayonets, their rifles already quickly oiled, rags pulled over the locks against the dust, all linked together by their muzzles into orderly pyramids of three.
‘So, that big castle yonder is what they want us to take this time, is it, sir?’ Private Beeston sprawled on his back, his naked left foot extended, both hands linked below one knee so that his right foot might be seen by the officer more easily.
‘It is, Beeston; any complaints?’ asked Fawcett as he routinely eased the soldier’s big toe away from the next one in a search for blisters or jungle rot.
‘No, sir, so long as there’s some loot to be had – an’ a bit of that wouldn’t go far wrong, either,’ Beeston nodded at Cissy, the cook wallah, who was gliding around with a big animal-skin water bag, refilling the men’s wooden canteens.
‘No, you clown, any complaints about your boots, feet or your pox-ridden body in general?’ retorted Fawcett with mock exasperation.
The troops had all received new boots before the march began from Seepree, along with three fresh pairs of socks. They had tallowed the coarse wool and done their best to knead the new leather, but soreness and rubbed feet were inevitable.
‘Fine, sir. Too much service to be caught out by that sort of thing, sir.’ Beeston had instantly sown his two long-service stripes to the cuff of the pale canvas smock with which they had each been issued. ‘Not like this red-arse ’ere, sir.’
‘You’re all right, Beeston, but you’ve lost a bit of juice, ain’t you, Coughlin?’ Fawcett had noticed how the young. Dublin lad had been limping, but he hadn’t expected one of his socks to be quite so red and wet.
‘No, your honour, it’s nothing…’ Coughlin’s left heel was raw, a flap of blistered skin as big as a florin swilling blood, ‘…nothing that a dod o’ plaster won’t sort out.’
‘Hmm,…perhaps. Keep your boots off for the next couple of days – you’ve got slippers with you, ain’t you?’ Coughlin nodded. ‘And take every chance you can to ease the leather. If you’re not happy with the size of Coughlin’s boots, Corp’l Pegg, get ’em exchanged.’
‘Sir,’ said Lance-Corporal Pegg, scratching in a notebook.
‘Now, James, let’s have a—’ But just as Fawcett lifted another pink, scaly hoof into the light, there was a beastly hum, a horribly familiar shiver in the air, followed by a distant thump of a gun. As the enemy ball bustled over their heads, everyone was scandalised into action, barefoot men scampering gingerly to get their weapons, others pulling at socks and belts, whilst the air was full of fluent swearing.
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