The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Mar firangi ko!’

  The call accosted them before they had gone more than a hundred yards from the house. Jack didn’t wait to see where it had come from. He kept his head down, increasing the length of his stride as he led Aamira in the opposite direction to the square where he had seen the grey-bearded buggy driver being chased.

  ‘Mar firangi ko!’

  The shout came again. This time it was followed by the sound of running feet. Jack pulled Aamira hard as they changed direction, darting down the nearest alley. It took them away from where she had said they needed to go, but it could not be helped. They would have to double round and try another path.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Jack had recognised the phrase. He had heard the mob yelling it as they chased down the man in the buggy. Jack hissed the question through gritted teeth. His breath was already coming in tortured gasps as he tried to force the suffocating air into his lungs. It was like trying to breathe in an oven, the air scalding his throat as he sucked it down.

  ‘Kill the foreigner!’ Aamira panted the reply. She had her skirts bunched in her free hand as she raced after him. The arm he held was fully extended as she struggled to keep up with his fast pace.

  ‘Shit!’ Jack spat out the single word. He had no breath for any more questions.

  They skidded around another corner and ran on, pounding through the back streets. Their luck was holding, but he knew it could not last. Still he led them on, galloping down the next street and then the next, dragging Aamira after him, moving as quickly as he dared.

  They careered to a halt at a junction where four streets came together. Jack dropped her hand and twisted around in a frustrated circle. ‘Which way now?’ He snapped the question, his breath ragged.

  ‘You idiot!’ The words came out in between the gasps as she tried to regain her own breath. ‘I thought you knew where you were going.’

  ‘How the hell would I know that?’ Jack spoke in little more than a sob.

  ‘Well, you were leading.’ Aamira walked in a tight circle, her hands on her hips. ‘I thought that meant you knew where to go.’

  ‘I’ve never been here before!’

  ‘Then why lead?’

  Aamira’s breathing was slowly returning to normal. She was recovering faster than Jack, who was forced to bend double, his hands pressed to his knees as he struggled to breathe.

  She strode forward. A quick glance at the choice of streets confirmed in her mind where they were. She turned back, waiting for Jack to recover.

  ‘Ready now?’

  Jack forced his abused body to stand straight. The centre of his forehead throbbed, the legacy of the double head butt. But he could recover later, when they were safe. He nodded, and Aamira reached forward and took his hand.

  ‘Then follow me, you fool.’

  She pulled him hard, leading with confidence. His lungs burnt and his shaking legs felt certain to give way, but he could do nothing save follow her as best he could, amazed at the speed and ease with which she covered the ground. They rushed around a corner, then another, moving too fast to know if they were running to safety or hurtling towards a violent collision with the mob. They ran hard, pounding through the empty streets, every aching stride taking them closer to the nearest gate and the chance to escape the madness that had taken hold of Delhi.

  A crowd of people appeared at the end of the street they were galloping along. It took no more than a single second for the closest figures to spot the Englishman and his companion before the voices screamed in anger and the mob surged towards them, an array of weapons ready to taste firangi blood.

  Jack did not hesitate. He pulled Aamira backwards, turning her around so they could run back the way they had come. He heard a moan come from the mob as their quarry turned and fled. He heard nothing more as he ran, his ears filled with the roar of his own breath. A brick smashed into the ground close to his boots as the mob released its frustration at their sudden flight.

  They turned a corner and nearly ran into the back of a second crowd.

  Jack skidded to an abrupt halt. This mob was mainly made up of men wearing dirty kurtas and stained dhotis. They stood in a circle, their attention focused on something hidden in their midst. Their voices bellowed in unison. It was a visceral cry, a deep, pounding chant, the same word shouted over and over to create a primeval sound that set every nerve in his body on edge.

  ‘Maro! Maro!’

  He heard Aamira cry out in horror as she saw what was attracting such vile attention. Through a gap in the ring of men he spotted what looked like a pile of abandoned clothes lying on the ground. He turned away, taking Aamira with him, his thoughts focused only on their escape.

  The mob had not seen them. They were lost in frenzy, the bundle of clothing the target for their rage. The men closest to it lashed out, smashing cudgels, lathis, even a broken table leg into it. Behind them the crowd screamed in twisted ecstasy as they watched the weapons smash down time after time into the pathetic huddle at their feet.

  Jack was pulling at Aamira, but she fought back, screaming in incoherent rage, twisting him back around so that he faced the wild crowd once more.

  That was when he saw it.

  Nothing he had ever witnessed had prepared him for that moment. He felt the gorge rise in his throat, the sheer desperate horror sending a shudder of revulsion surging through him. The face of a young white woman was looking towards him. It was streaked with blood, barely a patch of pale skin left uncovered. The woman was dead, but her blue eyes stared straight at Jack. They stayed locked on him even as her head rocked from side to side as the mob continued to beat at her ruined flesh, their rage not satiated by her brutal death. The silent accusation in those eyes taunted him, demanding that he act.

  Blood flew high as the lathis thumped down again and again, the wooden clubs coming away smothered with gore. Still the crowd bayed, screaming in hatred. As more blows rained down, the dead woman was thrown on to her back, revealing the final horror. She had been trying to shelter her daughter, but now the tiny body was revealed. Her efforts had been in vain. The child was dead.

  Jack stared in shock as he saw a heavy lathi thump into the little girl’s tender flesh. The same repulsive chant doubled in volume as the mob found a fresh target for their rage. Dozens of clubs smashed down as one, the men wielding them baring their teeth as they strained to batter the tiny body into oblivion, the crowd screaming in perverse delight.

  Jack tugged his revolver free, his hands shaking with rage. He was moving without thought, the strength of feeling like nothing he had ever experienced, even in the darkest moments of battle. The talwar flashed as he drew it, the naked steel rasping as it left the leather scabbard.

  ‘Jack!’ Aamira screamed his name, her voice distorted by sobs.

  He heard nothing. He opened fire as he stalked forward. The crash of the handgun was loud in the confined space of the narrow street. The first heavy bullet punched the closest man from his feet, the spinning ball tearing through his neck in a shower of blood.

  Jack controlled the recoil and brought the gun down once more. He continued to walk forward, his pace steady. He fired again and then again, each bullet killing one of the hateful mob who belatedly turned to face him, those at the front suddenly aware of the vengeful killer pacing towards them.

  The awful chant died away, the voices stilled as Jack’s fourth and fifth bullets tore into the crowd. All found targets, killing first a man and then a woman who had been screaming in blood lust as she helped batter the mother and her child to death.

  The revolver was empty and Jack let it fall from his hand. He started to run, crying out as he increased his speed, his revulsion released. He charged, the talwar braced and ready to kill.

  The mob fled. In their haste, they scrabbled at one another, their hatred lost in a flood of terror at the lone firangi who had appeared to exact revenge.

  Jack tore into them. His talwar slashed forw
ard, cutting through the turbaned head of the nearest. The man fell, and he leapt over the lifeless corpse, already flaying his sword at another. The blade sang as it stung the air before thumping into the man’s side, the tight, swirling script along its length lost beneath a sudden torrent of blood. He pulled the blade away and threw himself into the heart of the fleeing mob.

  His mind was lost; an all-consuming rage seared through his veins. He went wild, flaying and hacking with his sword, shrieking as he killed and killed. More men fell to his blade, the fast-moving steel slicing through flesh, the weapon used without thought of mercy.

  A man with flecks of grey in his beard turned and battered his bloody lathi back at Jack. It was a desperate attempt, the desire to escape giving the murderer enough courage to face the firangi. Jack’s talwar swatted aside the man’s blow as if it were nothing. A single heartbeat later and the man’s throat was gone, snatched away by the lightning-quick blade.

  Jack stepped on corpses, thinking of nothing but the next victim for his sword. There were none. He had exacted a dreadful revenge. The crowd that had killed the woman and her child were all dead. He stood in a puddle of their blood, the bodies of his victims carpeting the ground around him. He turned, his emotions still running wild, his own blood hammering in his ears so he could hear nothing save the roar of his heart. He wanted to kill again.

  Aamira had fallen to her knees beside the victims of the crowd’s dreadful attack. Her skirts were soaked with blood as she cradled the child’s head in her lap, but she seemed not to notice. She was rocking back and forth, as if singing peaceful lullabies to soothe the little girl to her rest.

  Jack’s madness left him. He shuddered, his whole body shaking with the horror of the moment. With slow, deliberate steps he walked towards Aamira, his heart clenched with disgust at what had happened.

  Aamira got slowly to her feet, laying the child gently back on the ground. Jack felt tears running down his face, cutting a path through the blood of his enemies that had splattered across him as he fought.

  He heard the roar of the mob that had been chasing them. They could not be far away, and he turned towards them, the battle rage starting to course through him once again.

  ‘Jack! No!’ Aamira came to his side and grabbed his arm. She pulled him back, but he was stronger, and he shook off her hands and stalked forward. All he wanted to do was fight. To take his talwar and kill the soulless beings who could bellow with joy at the sight of a dead child.

  ‘Jack!’ Aamira leapt at him, sobbing as she used all her strength to twist him round.

  He saw her distress and stopped. As he turned to face her, he caught sight of the child. Her blonde hair was sodden with blood, the congealed mess already starting to blacken. It was as if his heart stopped beating. He had seen so much death, had experienced the full horror of the slaughter of battle. Yet he had never seen anything that came close to matching the staring eyes of the dead child.

  Aamira placed her hands on his face, turning him to her, forcing his gaze away from the dreadful sight. ‘Jack! We’re going.’

  There was an edge to her voice. A commanding tone he had not heard before. He let himself be led, his rage lost in the warmth of her touch. He stumbled after her like a toddling child rushing to keep pace with its mother.

  She pulled him off the street, into a dark passage that ran alongside the nearest kothi. She hauled him into the shadows, hiding them both in the darkness.

  Jack heard the chasing mob reach the carnage they had just left. He listened to the roar of approval as they discovered the bodies of the woman and her child. Aamira placed her hands back to his face, cradling him and holding him fast. She stood on tiptoe and smothered his lips with her own. There was nothing tender in the kiss, their touch containing neither love nor lust. He pulled her to him, the need to be close to another living being both urgent and demanding. He felt her damp skin against his, her tears streaming down her face to mingle with his own. He did not let her go, continuing the kiss, sharing the anguish and deadening the misery in the warmth of her embrace.

  The devil’s wind had reached Delhi and it had unleashed something dreadful that neither understood. They clung to each other lest their souls somehow be lost in the tempest.

  Jack stuck his head round the corner of the dank alley. They had been hiding there for what seemed like hours, listening to the pandemonium of a city gone mad.

  The dusty street was empty save for the bodies of the dead. The ground was decorated with blood, now black and congealed, and the torn pages of books billowed in the breeze. Not a single house was untouched, the gruesome bloodlust forgotten in a wave of looting and theft as the citizens of Delhi engaged in an orgy of destruction.

  Jack had no idea why.

  He turned and called Aamira forward. He saw the dirt encrusted on her face, streaked with pale stretches where her tears had cut a path through the grime. He took her hand and held it tight.

  He hefted his revolver in his free hand. He had left their hiding place a while earlier, risking his life to retrieve his fallen weapon. His hands had been shaking as he went through the ritual of reloading the five chambers, but the familiar routine had reassured him, a trace of normality amidst the chaos.

  He led her away from their hiding place cautiously. He did not look at the bodies, or at the bloodstained ground beneath his boots. His eyes scanned the street, watchful for danger.

  ‘Soldiers!’ Aamira’s voice broke the silence. Her relief was obvious.

  She had every right to feel reassured. Up ahead, three streets came together to form a small open space, and Jack saw a column of sepoys standing in the ordered ranks of a formed body of men. The sight of the regular company troops and their bright red jackets was wonderfully familiar. He had seen men like these in battle. They were doughty fighters. Even in the maelstrom of the worst encounter, he would not hesitate to have them on his flank. He knew that the sepoys would make short work of the bands of murderers and cut-throats who had revelled in the bloody riot.

  ‘Thank God.’ Aamira exhaled, sensing that they had found salvation. She made to step forward, her arm already raised to hail the closest sepoys. Jack held her back, first stopping her, then forcing against the wall and back into the shadows.

  She opened her mouth, but he hushed her with a single finger placed on his lips. One look at the expression on his face assured her of his seriousness, and she shrank back into the gloom, any thought of deliverance dying as the horror returned.

  ‘Something’s not right.’ He hissed the words as he studied the ranks of red-coated soldiers. They were not wearing their regulation uniform trousers, but there was nothing odd in that alone. The native soldiers would often swap the heavy dark blue trousers for the more comfortable dhotis that the soldiers in front of them were wearing, especially when on a working party. Nor was the absence of the regulation leather stocks a matter for concern. Most battalion commanders would allow their men to forgo wearing the uncomfortable and constricting collar that forced their chins high and into what their masters at Horse Guards considered a suitable martial pose. Yet still Jack sensed something was wrong.

  The sepoys began to move, starting off without a visible command, the men chattering to their fellows without pause. They ambled away, the ranks staying together but with a lack of military discipline that no respecting havildar or subadar would ever allow.

  Jack looked for the men’s officers but could see none present, either white or native. The sepoys appeared to be alone. He counted the ranks and calculated that he was looking at more than three complete companies. He was too far away to be able to work out which regiment they belonged to, but he was certain that such a large body of men would never be left without even a single officer to command them.

  A huge cheer erupted from the ranks. A second group of sepoys had arrived, and their appearance reinforced Jack’s suspicions that they were not the formed, disciplined body needed to put down the bedlam that had gripped Delhi.

&n
bsp; The newly arrived sepoys thrust a pathetic huddle of men, women and children in front of them. These were no firangi, but natives who looked no different from any in the crowds Jack had seen the previous night. The captives were forced to march at bayonet point, and even from where he watched from the shadows, he could see blood on many of those who had been captured by the very men who should have been protecting them.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Aamira pressed against his side. Her hoarse whisper quivered as she spoke, the fear taking her firmly back into its merciless grip. ‘They live here. How can they treat them so?’

  Jack said nothing. He could not answer her.

  A tall sepoy prowled around the group of prisoners, who huddled together, clinging to one another as they faced their fate. He was clearly mocking them, his shouted curses and insults carrying to where Jack and Aamira watched in silence.

  The sepoy reached forward and pulled a man out by his neck. The unfortunate prisoner struggled, but the sepoy merely laughed and threw him to the ground. Then, to the guffaws and cheers of his fellows, he reached forward and tugged the man’s trousers away, revealing his bare buttocks.

  Jack heard the shouts of encouragement as the tall sepoy pulled the bayonet from his belt. The seventeen inches of steel glinted in the sun as the sepoy thrust it downwards, ramming it into the helpless man’s backside.

  The scream that followed barely sounded human. Yet even such a desperate cry was drowned out by the wave of cruel laughter that greeted his inhuman treatment.

  The tall sepoy reached down and fumbled around the man’s neck, ignoring the feet that thrashed in the dust, and tore something away. With a theatrical gesture of triumph he held aloft the man’s crucifix, brandishing it at his fellows, his face contorted with fury. Then he turned, raging at the huddle of terrified prisoners, who shrank away from him, pressing closer together as if they could somehow escape the inevitable.

  Screaming insults, the tall sepoy threw the crucifix to the ground and crushed it beneath his sandalled foot. Then, with a roar, the rest of the sepoys closed on the citizens of Delhi who had been foolish enough to convert to Christianity.