Dust and Steel

by Patrick Mercer

  And I need to keep myself between you, Mary and Sam – always supposing they’re both still drawing breath. Morgan’s belly was suddenly tight with fear at the thought of Kemp wanting to question Mary.

  ‘Morgan and I have been sent to snatch Damodar; Dunniah will, I’m sure, be a more than willing guide for us, won’t you, you devious sod?’ said Kemp, giving the Indian’s broken arm a gratuitous squeeze.

  ‘Do you know the fort at all well, Commandant?’ asked McGowan, staring up at the vast block of sandstone that loured out of the night sky. ‘It looks like a whore of a place to get into.’

  ‘Aye, it is, and it’s the whoreson inside I’m looking for,’ Kemp replied sourly. ‘You saw whilst it was still light how the clever bloody Moghuls perched the fort right up there on the top of that rock – well, I ain’t been inside since the Forties, but there was only one way to get inside in those days and I don’t suppose it’s changed. There’s a ramp affair cut out of solid rock, which twists and turns its way up to the outer walls on the far side – we can’t see it from here – then there’s a pair of immense wooden gates at the Hathia Paur – the only entrance – with sentry towers set above, which used to be guarded night and day. Once you’re through that, the buildings sprawl all over the plateau – temples, two gaudy little palaces, then the keep proper within, which the Maharajah’s troops used to live in, in a series of scruffy barracks, with their own kitchens, stables and the like. Some of the architecture was pretty grand, as far as I can remember; all sorts of elaborate carvings of Hindu gods, elephants and what-not, and some cleverly built shikharas. ’Spect all that’s been knocked about by our gunfire, though.’

  ‘Why do you suppose that the Pandies haven’t chosen to defend the fort this time then, Commandant?’ asked McGowan.

  ‘Well, the trouble with Gwalior is that if you think it’s a bitch of a place to get into, it’s equally difficult to get out of. Once you’ve locked yourself up inside the gates, all you can do is wait for the siege to start. Modern artillery would leather the place like the old siege elephants and ballistas never could, and the Rhani and Tantya Tope were wise enough birds to know that they would never win against our troops in a slugging match; they had to be able to manoeuvre. That’s why she elected to fight well forward and tried to buy herself time to prepare the town and the heights around it for a stubborn defence.’

  ‘Didn’t bloody work, though, did it?’ asked McGowan with a slight sneer.

  ‘No it didn’t, thanks to our nailing the little slut yesterday morning. Then the likes of Brevet Major Morgan here and your jawans following up good and hard. Now all we’ve got to do is get into the place and find Damodar.’

  Kemp made it sound like a formality, thought Morgan.

  ‘Well, have a care as you skirt round the town, sir,’ said McGowan. ‘There’s still plenty of rebels about, and I last saw the Third Europeans heading over to link up with General Rose’s troops in the direction that you’ll have to take.’

  ‘Third Europeans?’ Lance-Corporal Pegg’s ears pricked up. ‘What, that bloody mob what we saw at Jhansi?’

  ‘I expect so, Corp’l Pegg,’ replied McGowan with a smile. ‘And if you think they were a mob then, you should see them with a double issue of rum inside of them; I pity any man, woman, child or sheep that gets in their way. I’d give them a wide berth, if I were you.’

  ‘I’m obliged to you, Captain McGowan, but I guess those lads will have a fair idea of where Pandy is and where he isn’t.’ Kemp gathered his reins. ‘Come on, Morgan, and you, Dunniah, you bastard, jildi-rao. We’d better find out as much as we can from the Europeans. If we can find one who’s sober, that is.’ And Kemp trotted off into the town with his little command following, guided by the shouts and rifle fire of the 3rd Europeans, who had their hands full with the horrid business of revenge.

  The town below the fortress was lit by flames. As Kemp and Morgan picked their way carefully amongst the shanties and mean mud bungalows, the fires flickered and swayed, causing shadows to race about their path as the wind caught the pyres and sent spark-filled clouds of smoke corkscrewing down the alleys.

  ‘Who comes there?’

  A drink-roughened voice challenged the horsemen as they rounded a corner. Its owner, a thickset European in a smoke-stained smock, seemed to stagger slightly as he raised his rifle to an unsteady aim.

  ‘Commandant Kemp, Captain Morgan and three.’ Kemp spoke quite clearly and confidently to the sentry as the noise of breaking glass and a female shriek came from a nearby building. ‘And who are you, my lad? You can lower your weapon.’

  Another high-pitched cry of alarm came from somewhere close at hand.

  ‘Private Joshua Neame, sir, Third Bombay Europeans.’ Neame tried to bring his rifle to the shoulder and attempt a salute, but he lost his balance in the process.

  ‘You’re drunk, sir. Where is your corporal?’ Kemp demanded.

  I suppose the commandant has seen more towns sacked than I have, and I guess he knows just how dangerous men like Neame here can be when they’ve taken drink, thought Morgan, though I can’t help but think that interfering with these rogues is damn risky.

  ‘What the fuck’s it got to do with you? You’re not my officer,’ slurred Neame, who must have instantly regretted his boldness, for no sooner had he said it than Kemp was off his horse, knocking the drunken soldier’s rifle to the ground and grabbing the offender by the collar.

  ‘It’s got everything to do with me, you little turd. Just take me to your NCO unless you want a ball through your skull.’ Kemp had pulled his pistol from his belt and was now propelling the unfortunate Private Neame towards the battered buildings with short jabs of its muzzle.

  ‘Hold our horses, Corp’l Pegg; I shall have to go with the commandant.’ Morgan, too, had slid from the saddle, but as Kemp bustled a resistant Neame towards the building, a great shriek and the noise of breaking china sent him dashing in front of the pair, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he ran.

  ‘What in God’s name are you about, man?’ Morgan had barged through a dimly lit doorway into the interior of a hovel that was warm with the smell of too many bodies. An animal-fat candle guttered on a crude shelf inside the little room, where two soldiers were digging at the floor with shovels whilst a corporal held a painfully thin native girl by the hair. He was questioning her in pidgin Hindi, whilst she quailed back at him, blood dribbling down the front of her chin and onto her sari from her nostrils and her torn earlobes.

  ‘Get your hands off that woman at once, Corporal,’ Morgan took the scene in quickly: an Indian man lay dead in the corner whilst the three Europeans dug for where they believed he had buried his valuables, ‘or I’ll—’

  ‘Or you’ll bloody what…sir?’ the corporal asked menacingly, still holding the girl, whilst the two others rose from their digging, drawing their shovels back menacingly.

  ‘I’ll…’ Morgan realised that he’d overreached himself and that the half-drunk soldiers were in a desperately ugly frame of mind. Indian troops might be cowed by a show of confidence, but these men were bent on loot and vengeance. Clearly, they had extracted some information from the owner of the house before they had felled him, then violently stripped the woman of her jewellery, and the three of them would make short work of him if they chose to.

  ‘Or you’ll have me to fucking well answer to, you scum.’ With a crash from behind Morgan, Commandant Kemp arrived, preceded by a helpless Private Neame, who was flung into the middle of the room, upsetting the corporal and the other soldiers, who were left staring into the muzzle of the big man’s pistol. ‘How dare you threaten a Queen’s officer. Put that bint down, Corporal, and stand to attention when I’m speaking to you.’

  The man’s sheer force of character dominated the Europeans, thought Morgan. Where he himself had failed to make any impression on them at all, Kemp’s whirlwind arrival and fearless confidence had bested them; now they all stood braced unsteadily to attention, as Kemp lowered his pisto
l.

  ‘That’s more like it.’ The candle flickered, throwing gigantic shadows on the mud walls. ‘Now, what do you lot know of how Pandy’s defending the fort? Is the approach guarded at all, can you tell me?’

  The soldiers had relaxed now the tension had gone from the confrontation, though the girl still sobbed as she dabbed at her wounds.

  ‘Well, your honour,’ the corporal spoke in a thick brogue, ‘our officers have ordered us to keep away from the place. The battle’s moving on…’ Morgan had come to the same conclusion, for the noise of Rose’s horse artillery was receding as the pursuit continued to the north-west of Gwalior, ‘…an’ we’ve been told to clear the town o’ any rebels an’ wait till daylight before any moves are made against the fortress.’

  ‘And this is your idea of clearing rebels, is it, Corporal?’ Kemp asked almost conversationally. ‘Robbing honest folk and thrashing wee girls?’

  ‘Just fucking Pandies getting their dues, if you asks me, your honour,’ the corporal answered.

  ‘Aye, you may have a point,’ Kemp replied with a slight grin, ‘but tell me anything more you know about the fort.’

  ‘Not much more to say, your honour. There’s a bit of smoke a-drifting from it – the guns was firing on it for a while an’ probably started some fires – an’ we killed a few Pandies carryin’ wounded up the approach road with long-range rifle-fire just before last light. Cap’n Broome – our company commander – reckoned they might be some o’ the Rhani’s bodyguard, judging by their clothes, he did.’ Kemp looked at Morgan as the corporal delivered this last piece of intelligence. ‘Why are you askin’, sir? If you’d be wanting to get into the place, I’d say get yourselves into native clobber; you could pass it off in the dark, so you could.’

  Kemp’ll love that notion, thought Morgan, remembering how the papers had made so much of Mr Kavanagh’s exploits around Lucknow as he fooled the mutineers by disguising himself as one of them. It’ll be all right for him – he’s already half native – but Pegg and myself trying to look like Brahmins – it’ll be the death of us.

  ‘Grand idea, Corporal,’ said Kemp, gleefully. ‘Strip that corpse, Morgan.’

  ‘An’ there’s a pile of old clothes here, if you wants them, your honour,’ said the corporal, all resentment now gone.

  ‘Aye, good man, thank you.’ Kemp had also forgotten the nastiness of just a few minutes ago. He was full of the new stratagem, and even the battered Private Neame now ignored the indignity of being manhandled by strange officers and was nosing around the hole in the floor where the riches were supposed to be buried. ‘Carry on then, lads,’ said Kemp as he stooped to grab some clothing.

  ‘Carry on, Commandant?’ blurted Morgan. ‘We can’t leave that poor woman here to be…well, defamed.’

  ‘What? Oh, you are a sensitive creature, aren’t you? Well, if it helps to ease your conscience…’ clearly, Kemp hadn’t the slightest interest in the girl’s fate, ‘…I hope you don’t mind if I rub a little balm into this officer’s guilt-ridden soul, Corporal?’

  ‘Not at all, your honour. Help yourself,’ replied the NCO. ‘—But there’s much better quim around, if that’s what you’re wanting.’

  ‘Bring her with us then, Morgan,’ Kemp added. ‘She’ll help you to make Pegg look less obvious.’

  Morgan grabbed the girl by the wrist. At first she resisted, then, when she could see that he meant her no harm, she followed quietly enough. Meanwhile, the shovels started to scrape again at the floor inside the house, whilst Kemp led the way back to the horses and the rest of the party, his whole mind alive, planning the next stage of his quest.

  That was an ugly few minutes, that was, thought Morgan. Now those louts are back doing what they do best, and this mad bugger – he looked at Kemp’s broad, retreating back and the bundle of clothes in his arms – couldn’t be happier. Mary, my love, he looked up at the dark mass of the fortress that loomed above them, I hope this is all going to be worth it and you’ve stayed true to your salt.

  ‘These bloody stink, they do.’ Lance-Corporal Pegg sniffed at his new clothes but, despite the loose robe and the skull cap, he couldn’t be anything other than himself. The tanned flesh, brown eyes and wispy beard might just have passed muster in the dark of the night, but his whole stance, the whole set of his shoulders and chin was irrevocably barrack-square. ‘And so does she.’

  Morgan looked at the man and the snivelling girl, who was sitting on the saddle in front of Pegg, and was reminded more of a bad regimental nativity play rather than a serious ploy to deceive their enemies.

  ‘Hold your tongue, Corp’l Pegg,’ whispered Morgan, ‘unless you can moan in Hindustani.’

  The occasional artillery round still whistled over the fortress from the direction of the retreating rebels and peals of musketry were clearly audible in the distance, but apart from shouts from the town below them and the crackle of fires, all was remarkably quiet. So quiet that Morgan found himself nodding in the saddle once or twice, almost overcome by the uproar of the last day and a half; then he remembered where he was and all lassitude disappeared.

  The little group walked their horses as slowly as they could along the steep road that hairpinned its way up towards the fort, the hoofs of their horses scraping the setts and, Morgan was sure, alerting every rebel for miles around. Morgan and Kemp rode at the rear, Pegg and his companion in the middle, whilst Dunniah and Rissaldar Batuk led the cavalcade, the veteran of countless fights and scrapes keeping a pistol discreetly trained on the mutineer.

  ‘Those Europeans did a fair bit of work before they found the grog, from the look of these stiffs,’ muttered Kemp to Morgan as the moon caught bundles of cloth and the odd dead bullock and camel that littered the sides of the road.

  ‘Aye. You don’t suppose we ought to wait for the main force to assault in daylight tomorrow, do you, Commandant?’ Morgan hated to sound hesitant in front of Kemp, but as they drew nearer and nearer to the fort he realised how perilous their task must be and how impulsive Kemp had been in suggesting it.

  ‘No, we need to find Damodar dead or alive just as we did his mother. Once Smith leads his troops in here there’ll be chaos, rape and mass bloody murder – exactly the conditions for the rebels to spirit the little sod away. No, we’ve got to grab hold of him and show the Pandies that their cause is lost, and the best way of doing that is with a small band of men and a great deal of brass neck…hush, hark at that.’

  They were twenty paces short of the Hathia Paur archway, its gates jammed open by a military cart whose oxen lay dead in their traces, when a subdued challenge came from the stone-faced bastions above it, along with the click of musket hammers being drawn back.

  The horsemen came to an instant halt, Rissaldar Batuk replying quietly before looking sharply at Dunniah, who sat silently in his saddle.

  ‘What are they saying, Commandant?’ Morgan whispered at the back of the group.

  Kemp didn’t reply for a while; he sat stock-still waiting for Dunniah to complete the ruse. Eventually, the rebel spoke to the sentries in clear Hindi and Kemp translated quietly for Morgan and Pegg.

  ‘Well, the Rissaldar made the sentries believe that we are all that’s left of the Rhani’s patrol and told them that she was dead. Then they said that they didn’t recognise us – that’s when Dunniah spoke up, with Batuk’s pistol firmly in his ribs, I’d guess. That seemed to convince them and they’re coming down to check us. It appears that what’s left of the rebels inside the fort are expecting the Feringhees to attack tomorrow and we’ll be a useful addition to their numbers. Quiet now, for here they come.’

  Morgan saw three sepoys in the stained uniforms of the Rhani’s personal forces come padding through the gate. They were all mature, bearded and turbaned men walking quietly on slippered feet, carrying clean, well-oiled muskets, each sepoy with a short sword and bayonet at his side. The leader had a muttered conversation with Dunniah and the rissaldar before telling the other two men to inch one of the great doo
rs away from the jammed cart, making just enough room for the party to pass in single file.

  ‘Just keep that girl in front of your face, Corp’l Pegg,’ said Morgan. ‘Don’t say a thing if they challenge you, and keep an eye on that bloody Dunniah.’

  Pegg nodded, reached around the young woman and urged his horse on, just as the rissaldar walked his charger through the narrow gap, talking all the while to the sentries whilst a sullen Dunniah followed. Pegg and his passenger were next to enter the dark archway that echoed to the horses’ hoofs, the sentries paying little attention to either, merely waving them past. It was Morgan’s turn next but, just as the sentries were beginning to study him, Kemp decided to distract them with a babble of Hindi.

  As Morgan edged his horse forward, he heard a quiet question from the commandant, a reply from the men, a laugh – a laugh that was just a little too loud – from Kemp and then what sounded like a puzzled enquiry from the soldiers. There was a pause, angry, rasping words and then, quite suddenly, the gloominess was split with a flash and the confined space echoed with a deafening bang.

  ‘Ride, man, ride!’ yelled Kemp from behind Morgan, barging his horse into his and firing another cacophonous round from his pistol at the sentries. ‘They’ve seen through us.’

  Then it was all clattering hoofs on the worn cobbles, the smell of sweat and fear, Morgan slapping at the rump of Pegg’s horse in front and a sudden bursting out of the darkness of the archway into the open space of the fort’s interior. Just to his front, the remains of a low building smoked gently with a miniature temple rising high and narrow just behind it. As they cantered past, Morgan had time to notice the rich carvings around its lintels before two musket balls sang past them, causing all of the riders to spur on, crouching flat over their horses’ manes.