by CL Skelton
‘Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ replied Andrew. He turned to Captain Higgins. ‘Did you find her name?’
‘’Fraid not. Those are the first words I’ve heard her speak. Perhaps if you tried?’
Andrew hesitated for a moment and then went over to her. ‘I’m Andrew Maclaren, ma’am.’
‘How do you do, Mr Maclaren.’ She spoke without looking at him and again there was that eerie formality and the low, even voice. It seemed to Andrew that the hands ‒ which apart from the face were all that was visible of her outside the blanket ‒ tightened and trembled slightly.
Andrew tried again. ‘We are going to try and find you some clothes, and then we will see what we can do about getting you out of here.’
‘The other officer already told me, but really, I have a very ample wardrobe of my own,’ she replied calmly. Then, still without looking at him, she turned away and walked unconcernedly back into the tent.
In the dusty square, a white marquee had been erected next to the general’s tent. The fall from the canvas roof had been rolled up and covered with mosquito netting. It was divided by a canvas curtain into two rooms, in the larger of which the Indian servants were preparing for dinner ‒ simple by regimental standards, but none the less it would be the best meal they had had for nearly a week. Freshly squeezed fruit juices to start, and a roasted saddle of mutton whose succulent smell came from somewhere in the rear.
A long table, improvised but hidden by a starched white linen cloth, dominated the room. On it was the general’s silver, including a pair of ornate four-branched candelabra, all of this having been brought in by the supply train and arranged in military precision on the table. The claret, port, and madeira stood in their jugs and crystal decanters on a sideboard constructed from the general’s packing cases. These cases were exquisitely carved of Indian rosewood and had been used to transport the general’s dinnerware. The four stewards, immaculate in their white jackets, turbans, gold shoulder straps, white gloves, and gleaming brass regimental buttons, were all Sikhs, a sect who had remained loyal throughout the whole period of the mutiny, and were under the command of the general’s personal servant, a mountain of a man with bright eyes and gleaming teeth shining through and over a shining black beard. Not that they were only servants; every one of them was a fighting man and all of them had taken part in the engagement less than twenty-four hours ago, though looking at them now it would have been hard to guess.
The other portion of the marquee had been set aside as an anteroom. The guests, a select body, consisted of Colonel Hamilton, Major Barrington, the brigade major, Major Sutcliffe, who had commanded the artillery, and Andrew, who had already arrived; the surgeon, Captain Higgins, and the mysterious lady were expected momentarily. They were all resplendent in full dress, Andrew and Hamilton wearing the kilt and red tunics with braided Inverness skirts, Barrington in the blue-and-gold frock coat of the Bengal Lancers, and Sutcliffe in red tunic and the tight blue trousers of the artillery. It was a colourful sight made incongruous by the scene outside in the square, where the men were clustered in little groups around campfires roasting on sticks their pieces of the two oxen that had been slaughtered that noon.
Sergeant Gundah Singh, the general’s servant, had detailed one of his men to hand around drinks as soon as the guests had started to arrive, and the conversation, helped by the whisky-and-sodas, was beginning to flow.
‘Thank God the mule train got here intact,’ said Major Barrington to Andrew. ‘Can’t bear to fight and eat in the same clothes. Having that woman you found to dine with us, I hear. Bit odd, what?’ he grunted. ‘Can’t say I approve of women in a regimental mess.’
‘It’s not quite a regimental mess, it’s the general’s dining room,’ replied Andrew.
‘Wonder if she’ll retire when the port goes around?’ asked Sutcliffe.
‘I expect the general’ll make her an honorary man for the occasion,’ said Barrington, and they all laughed.
Andrew tried to change the subject. He did not want to make jokes or small talk about the day’s happenings, least of all about the girl he had found. ‘The men seem to be enjoying themselves,’ he said, and they gathered around him looking out into the square.
There was some singing coming from the other side as the men tucked into their ample food supply. For the first time in nearly a week they were filling their bellies with good fresh meat and the vegetables that had been lying around for the taking. They were drinking, too. Andrew was pretty certain that the cellar where he had found the girl had been revisited. But over the rough, bawdy soldiers’ songs he could hear the sound of the piper playing a lament. It was quite emotional and he thought of the men who had fallen that day, and he thought of home.
‘How do they do it?’ he said quietly.
Barrington was standing at his elbow. ‘They’ve got their boots off now, they’re relaxing and wriggling their toes. They’re very basic. The British soldier is the scrapings of the jails and gutters of the country. There isn’t one in twenty who joins the army because he wants to. But once he has enlisted, the army does something to him. It makes him a man.’
‘It isn’t even one in twenty,’ said Sutcliffe, who had a passion for statistics. ‘When I was an ensign, I did a little exercise. I took a hundred men and found out why they had joined.’
‘What was the result?’ asked Hamilton.
‘Sixty-six were out of work and hungry. Two were, or had been, gentlemen. Thirteen were looking for an easy life; they were disappointed. Nine were criminals or wanted by the police. Another nine had joined to spite either parents or girl friends. And only one really wanted to be a soldier.’
‘You may be right,’ General Havelock said, coming in unannounced. ‘But they’re all soldiers now. They’ll most of them get drunk tonight. Can’t say I approve, but if it’s what they want, they’ve earned it. There’s about a hundred men in that square and another seven hundred scattered around the town, and they’re tired and battle-weary. But at six tomorrow morning they’ll be on parade, cleaned up and ready for another hellish march. And when the fighting comes, there is no one in the world I would rather have at my side than those men out there. Hrrumph.’ The general had embarrassed himself. ‘Chota peg, steward. By the way, where’s the lady?’
‘The surgeon’s bringing her over, sir,’ said Andrew.
‘Ah, well, there’s time yet. Ten minutes before we sit down. Do any of you know her name?’
There was a general murmur of no, and Havelock turned to Andrew. ‘Maclaren, you are to leave for Allahabad at first light tomorrow. We’ve managed to find you a boat, and I can spare you four men. Perhaps Colonel Hamilton will oblige with four of his jocks.’
‘I thought we were marching on Lucknow, sir.’
‘We are. You are not. Can’t take a blasted woman with us. You found her, so you can take her to Allahabad. It’s reasonably safe now between here and there and you should make good time on the river. After dinner you can organize your stores for the trip, and make sure that you can provide some sort of privacy for the lady, if you take my meaning.’
As the general finished speaking, Sergeant Gundah Singh came into the anteroom. ‘The doctor sahib is here, sir, with the memsahib.’
‘Ah, good,’ replied Havelock.
She came into the flickering candlelight wearing the sort of plain linen dress that might have been worn by a maid or a nanny. Her fair hair, now clean and sparkling in the light, had been parted in the centre and hung in soft, shimmering ringlets down to the white yoke of her dress. As they rose to greet her, she smiled slightly and inclined her head a little, allowing the ringlets to fall forward and then immediately back into place. Not one of that company would have questioned the fact that they were in the presence of a lady. And then Andrew saw it. It was so out of place that he almost laughed: her feet were bare.
She spoke as calmly and assuredly as if she were in a London withdrawing room. ‘I am sorry if I have kept you waiting, gentlemen, but I was unable t
o find either Mamma or Pappa. However, I have no qualms at assuming their consent to my dining in such gallant company.’
There was an awkward silence for a moment, and the men looked from one to another. Havelock cleared his throat. ‘Ahem, can I offer you a glass of sherry wine, ma’am?’
‘Thank you, no.’
‘In that case, if you have no objection we shall go in. I fear you will find our dinner a little spartan; soldier’s fare, you know, ma’am. May I?’
Politely she laid her hand on his and together they went into the dining tent. After seating her on his right and saying grace, Havelock rang a small silver handbell and the stewards started to serve the first course.
Throughout the meal, Andrew kept glancing at her. She obviously had no memory of what had happened. He kept thinking of her parents, her Mamma and Pappa. Outside, he knew, the burial parties would still be working at their gruesome task, perhaps at that very moment consigning to the earth the mutilated remains of what had been her mother. As for her father, unless he had been one of the four survivors from the massacre on the river, it was equally certain that he, too, was dead. These were known facts, but what had happened to this girl? How much had she seen? How long had she been in that cellar?
After dinner when they retired to the anteroom, Havelock talked to the surgeon for a while and then came over to Andrew. He drew him to one side.
‘You’re going to have to try and talk to her on your trip to Allahabad. The doc doesn’t seem to have found out anything. He thinks that she is probably the daughter of an East Indian Company official, but that’s a guess. He doesn’t know who she is or where she comes from, or anything about her. The only thing that we can be sure of is that she was living with her parents and that they are both dead. But it might even be worse than that. Doc thinks she might have been raped.’
‘Oh, God!’ Andrew was shaken. ‘How sure is he, sir?’
‘He’s not. Just says that it’s possible. She can’t remember anything; shock, and all of that sort of stuff. See what you can find out on the trip, but don’t press matters. When you get her to the Resident, he can handle that. They’ll make arrangements to have her shipped home. She’s obviously a lady and must have relatives somewhere. The adjutant’s arranging quarters for her, and he’ll post a guard over her tonight. You had better be off and get your men and stores organized, and then turn in yourself.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘It’s nearly nine and that lot’ll take you a couple of hours. Good luck, lad.’
Andrew went over to the girl. ‘I have to say goodnight now, Miss ‒ er ‒’
‘You seem to have a very short memory, Mr Maclaren. My name is Westburn. Maud Westburn.’
And with that, she turned and left him standing with all the assurance of a hostess in her own withdrawing room in her town house in London.
Chapter Two
Andrew was up before five the next morning and had walked the half mile or so from Havelock’s headquarters down to the river to have a look at his boat. He regarded the river with some distaste. It was July, and at that time of year it was a series of muddy pools and shoals which wound their way reluctantly through the one hundred and twenty miles of parched countryside southeast to Allahabad, waiting for the monsoon, which would turn it into an eager, raging torrent. He walked across the caked and cracked mud of the riverbed down to the water’s edge, where he found the craft.
It was not hard to find. It was the only one which seemed to be in one piece. It had a pointed bow, but that apart, it looked more like a punt. Flat-bottomed, it was about twenty-four feet long with four to five of beam. A crude mast had been rigged and a lateen sail lay across the thwarts. Andrew was no sailor, but he realized at once that his boat had one great advantage. In that dry and parched time of the year, a boat that would draw only inches of water would stand a much better chance of navigating the shallow river than a more conventional craft.
One thing did strike him as incongruous. Here he was a regular officer in the army, and his first command was a boat.
He had put as much as he could of his personal possessions into the pack of a soldier who had died the previous day. It was necessary to travel light. Apart from the pack, his broadsword, and his revolver, he had abandoned the rest of his belongings.
At the boat, he found a young private from the 78th standing guard. The craft already contained three Enfields and an assortment of packs of gear.
‘I’m Lieutenant Maclaren, 148th,’ he said. ‘Are you coming with me?’
‘Private Grigor, sorr,’ was the reply from the rosy-cheeked youth who could not have been more than nineteen. ‘Yes, sorr.’
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Four, sorr. Corporal MacKay and two other privates.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Weel, sorr, they put their own stuff in the boat and they’ve gone off to get the stores. Colonel Hamilton’s arranged the food for the trip.’
‘Right, Grigor,’ he said. ‘You can put my pack into the boat and I’ll go and see if I can find the lady. We want to be off as soon as we can.’
He was about to leave when a thought struck him and he turned back to Grigor. ‘By the way, do any of you know how to handle this thing?’
‘Och, aye, sorr, Corporal MacKay kens fine. He’s put two long poles and four oars on board. He says he might need the poles to push us off the shoals.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Andrew.
He picked his way back towards headquarters through the turmoil of troops, now awakened, some having breakfast from tin plates and others striking camp and preparing to move out.
He found the small ridge tent which had been reserved for Miss Westburn in the square. Outside, a burly sergeant with huge muttonchop whiskers was standing guard.
‘Ser’nt Evans, sir, artillery. The lady’s ready.’ He spoke with a soft Welsh accent. ‘She keeps asking for her ayah. Seems to think that she’s coming with her.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Andrew.
‘Is the lady all right, sir?’
‘I wish I knew, sergeant,’ replied Andrew.
At that moment, Maud Westburn came out of the tent. She was wearing the dress she had worn at dinner the previous night, but from somewhere she had obtained a pair of soft leather button boots and a pith helmet.
‘Good morning, Mr Maclaren,’ she said. ‘I would like to point out that my quarters were quite unsatisfactory.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Miss Westburn,’ replied Andrew. ‘But I am afraid it was the best that we could manage.’
She still spoke in the same low, formal, natural tone, which sounded as incongruous now as it had done the night before.
‘I shall be ready as soon as my ayah arrives,’ she announced. ‘Would you mind waiting?’
Andrew exchanged a glance with the sergeant, who shrugged his shoulders and raised his black eyebrows.
‘Your ayah is meeting us at the boat,’ Andrew lied.
‘How very foolish of her. Has she dealt with my luggage? And I shall need proper travelling clothes.’
‘Everything is down at the boat,’ said Andrew. ‘I’m sorry, but we thought that you would like to get as much sleep as possible before we set off, so we packed and loaded everything.’
‘This is rather inconvenient. But I suppose that there is nothing that can be done about it now?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Andrew.
‘Then we may as well leave. Goodbye, sergeant, and thank you.’
‘Goodbye, ma’am,’ said Sergeant Evans, trying to keep up the play-acting. He turned to Andrew. ‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I’d better report back to my battery.’
‘Of course, sergeant,’ replied Andrew, and the man saluted and left. ‘Can we go now?’ he asked.
‘One moment, Mr Maclaren,’ she said, and went back into the tent and came out again carrying a small valise. ‘I don’t recognize this, but it does contain some toilet articles which I will need. Do you think I should bring it? Or
will my own be at the boat?’
‘I think you had better bring it with you. Here, let me carry it for you.’
‘Thank you, but I am quite capable,’ she said. ‘And now, as you seem to be in somewhat of a hurry, we had better leave.’
‘This way, Miss Westburn,’ said Andrew, not wishing to risk saying more.
Together they headed for the river through the organized confusion of an army preparing to march. The wounded had been moved out, the dead had been buried, and the survivors were sweating it out again as the sun rose in the east and the temperature started to climb. They arrived at the boat where the four soldiers were waiting for them. When she saw the boat, Miss Westburn gazed at it with an expression of disbelief.
‘Is that it?’ She was obviously appalled.
‘I am sorry, but it is the best we can manage,’ said Andrew.
‘And who are these gentlemen?’
‘These are your crew,’ said Andrew. He searched out the corporal. ‘This is Corporal Mackay, who is an expert sailor.’
‘Guid day, miss,’ said MacKay, a small man, bronzed and weather-beaten by years of service in the East. He was obviously surprised at being presented as a naval expert. ‘Privates Grigor, MacDonald, and Murray, Miss.’
‘How do you do, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘And now, Mr Maclaren, where is my mamma? And where is my ayah?’
Andrew was in trouble. Here was a young lady who had undoubtedly never set foot outside her home unchaperoned, and he was asking her to get into an open boat with five soldiers for what would be at least a three-day journey through possibly hostile country.
‘They are coming on the next boat,’ he said. ‘They particularly asked that you should come with us.’
He held his breath as, for a moment, she hesitated. And then to his utter surprise, she seemed to accept his statement, and stepped into the bow of the craft where some tattered cushions had been arranged to give her some little comfort. He followed her on board and told Corporal MacKay to cast off and get them into midstream.
MacKay ordered MacDonald and Murray to the oars, while Grigor busied himself attaching the rope, which ran through a pulley at the top of the mast to the centre of the gaff of the lateen sail.