The explosion went on and on. An enormous black cloud billowed upwards, the swirling smoke flashing as more blasts rippled out to tear huge red holes in the plume. The attacking sepoys did not stand a chance. Against such power their bodies were as nothing. Dozens were torn apart by the brutal force of the massive detonation, limbs ripped from bodies that were shredded by the flying debris. Still more were thrown from their feet, the surging power of the blast driving them into the ground, crushing the air from their lungs, singeing and burning the fabric of their clothes. Others were crushed beneath the falling masonry and buried under the rubble.
Not one man was left standing.
Jack felt himself flying through the air. He tried to cling to Aamira but he could do nothing against the power of the explosion. He hit the ground hard, skidding and sliding as the force of the blast tossed him like a tiny rowing boat caught in a tempest. He smacked hard into the base of a wall, the brutal impact slamming through his body. He was deafened, the roar of the explosion lost in a sudden silence. He choked, his mouth full of dust, his lungs burning as he sucked in scorching air. He could do nothing, his body battered repeatedly as shock after shock thudded through the ground. He lay and waited for death.
The explosions stopped.
He could not move. He tried to breathe, but the air was clogged with dust and he coughed, choking on the filth. He buried his head in the crook of his arm, but he still could not breathe. He knew that he had to get to clean air or he would die where he lay. The will to live surged through him and he fought his way to his feet.
He lurched into motion, fighting through the dense cloud that smothered the remains of the magazine. He could hear nothing, and the pain in his head pounded hard enough to split his skull. His throat was glued shut, and he retched as he tried to swallow. He staggered on, then stumbled, his feet kicking against the fallen barrel of a cannon. He tottered away, just about keeping his balance, and scraped at his eyes, clawing away the dirt that crusted his face, then tripped again, stumbling over a man’s naked torso. The arms, legs and head were missing, the remains barely recognisable as human under the thick layer of dust that coated every inch of flesh.
His vision started to clear. He saw a few other figures stumbling to their feet, yet he felt no sense of danger, the handful of sepoys who had survived the blast no longer a threat. They were all now just survivors, all notion of the battle lost in the immense destruction.
The walls of the magazine had been thrown to the ground, the tall towers now little more than foot-high stumps. The main buildings had simply ceased to exist, a deep smouldering crater all that was left of the massive collection of ammunition and powder.
Jack staggered on. He looked from side to side, a slow, painful sweep of the ground as he searched for Aamira. It did not take him long to find her.
She lay on her side, her body curled into a ball. She looked as if she had been cast from ash, her whole body buried under a thick casing of dust. He fell to his knees at her side, his heart seized in a remorseless grip. Slowly, hesitantly he reached forward, his fingers moving with the gentleness of a new parent reaching out to check their sleeping child without wishing to disturb.
He felt the first stirrings of a familiar grief. It banished the emotion from his soul, leaving nothing but blackness. He carefully brushed at Aamira’s cheek, pushing away the foul layer of grime, searching for the warmth of flesh beneath. He knew he would find none. He was certain that any trace of life would be long gone, just as it had been all those years before when he had knelt at the side of the girl he had loved and hoped to marry. His hand trembled as he touched her, expecting the final confirmation that he had failed utterly yet again.
A single eye opened. It looked at him in incomprehension, the glazed stare of the barely conscious. Jack felt his heart leap, a surge of relief that banished the darkness.
‘Aamira.’ He spoke her name. The word sounded muffled and strange, but he saw her eyes focus, her senses returning as she heard him call to her.
He eased her up, moving her slowly and with great care, at any second expecting her to call out in pain. Her mouth started to move, forming sounds he could not hear. She clung to him, holding him tight as she sat up. Her body was racked with a bout of coughing as she freed her lungs of the noxious dust that had nearly smothered her.
A sepoy walked past no more than two feet from where Jack tended to Aamira. His uniform had been torn to ribbons, revealing blood-smeared flesh underneath. Minutes before, the two men would have been clawing at one another, the desperate need to kill or be killed driving them to fight. Now the appalling destruction made such a base emotion seem inconsequential. Against the monstrous explosion, nothing mattered.
Jack pulled Aamira to her feet, watching her anxiously for signs of pain. She swayed, staggering against him, but at least appeared to be whole.
He said nothing. He took her hand and turned to lead her away. Together they picked their way through the debris. The ground was littered with wreckage, fragments of wall and tile interspersed with the gory remains of the men caught by the dreadful power of the blast. He looked for the bodies of Willoughby and the rest of the defenders of the magazine. He saw no one, and could only think that they too had died, either from the wounds they had taken when the sepoys had opened fire, or from the explosion. He had only known the odd collection of officers for a few hours, yet he felt their loss keenly.
His eyes also roved the heaps of rubble for a glimpse of his talwar, the precious blade that had seen him through so many fights. Amidst so much death and destruction, the loss of the sword meant little, and he quickly gave up the search, his battered body moving steadily onwards, leading them to safety.
There was no longer any need to plan their escape. The walls of the magazine had been completely destroyed by the detonation. It did not take them long to pick a path through the wreckage and into a dark side street. Jack’s battered senses were slowly starting to return. With them came the fear. They were still trapped in a city gripped by madness. The destruction of the magazine and the carnage it had inflicted on the marauding sepoys had saved them, but they were still in danger.
The streets around the magazine were deserted. It was as if the explosion had scoured the madness from that part of the city, and they were able to make their way to the great wall that surrounded Delhi. They did not speak, both too dazed and exhausted to waste their breath. At last they reached the long slope that led to the rampart.
‘The gate?’ Aamira tugged hard on Jack’s hand, the urgent whispered question a sign that her own sense of danger was returning.
‘No.’ Jack craved rest, his abused body protesting with every step. He did not know how many wounds he carried, how many bayonets had pierced his skin, how many rocks had battered and bruised his flesh. He did not care. All that mattered was getting out of the city.
‘Then where are we going?’
‘There.’ Wearily he pointed. There was only one safe route out of the city. They would jump from the wall.
Aamira was too tired to argue. She let him lead her to the edge. He peered over the top. He could see the ground, but he was in no state to gauge the distance to the earthen escarpment below. Twenty feet? Thirty? He did not know, but he was certain that it was far enough to risk breaking a leg or an ankle.
He turned, scanning the ramparts for signs of danger, searching for a better way out. Behind him, huge plumes of smoke billowed over the rooftops, the bright red flashes of raging fires crackling at their base. The sound of gunfire echoed around them, sometimes no more than single shots, but then the noise would swell and grow as several muskets fired at once. Then there were the screams. The dreadful shrieks of men and women being murdered, the inhuman sounds catching at his already finely stretched nerves.
They had run out of options.
‘I’ll go first. Wait for me.’ He fixed Aamira’s eyes with his own. Despite all they had endured, he could still see the spark of life they contained. ‘I’ll c
atch you.’ He smiled, the movement cracking the thick layer of grime that crusted his skin.
Aamira smiled in return. ‘You had better.’
Jack wanted to say more, but there would be time for that later, when they were safe. He turned and pulled himself on to the battlements. The wind caught him as he stood there, the fast-moving air cold on his face. He bent as low as he could, taking a firm hold on the cool stone. He could feel the rough surface catching at the skin of his hands, but he allowed himself to drop, holding his weight for a moment before letting go, his stomach lurching to fill his mouth. He hit the ground hard.
His strength gave out, his battered muscles unable to stand up to the force of the landing. He crumpled into the ground like a sack of horseshit, the air driven from his lungs.
He sensed movement and tried to force himself up. He was too slow, and could do nothing as he saw the billowing flash of Aamira’s dress. She landed with a thump, a short shriek of pain announcing her arrival.
‘Aamira?’ His voice cracked as he called to her, the dust and filth still caked in his mouth.
‘I’m all right.’ To his relief, she answered him quickly.
He crawled across to her. She lay on her back, sucking in huge lungfuls of air as she fought away the pain of her own heavy landing.
‘We have to go.’
They helped each other to their feet and staggered arm in arm towards the road that led out of the city. They could see traffic streaming along it. Carriages raced away, the terrified faces of the occupants pressed to the windows. Horses galloped hard in their wake, nearly every mount carrying two or more frightened men or women, many with children clutched hard to them. The less fortunate had to escape on foot, small groups of survivors banding together as they forced the pace in an effort to leave the chaos behind. Some refugees ran for their lives as if the devil himself was chasing after them.
Jack once more took charge, leading Aamira by the hand. They would head towards Alipore, a town no more than a dozen miles away that he had heard of on their journey. He hoped to find British troops there; it was sure to be a stepping stone for any relief column coming to restore order in Delhi.
He glanced over his shoulder, taking one final look at the city that had nearly killed him. Delhi was ablaze, the sound of musket fire and the louder crashes of field artillery adding to the sense of chaos. The slaughter of the innocents was carrying on unchecked, the British overlords and their loyal servants forced to run for the lives.
The devil’s wind was blowing hard, rousing a tempest that was tearing the land apart. No one could know when it would stop.
Alipore, June 1857
Jack emerged from the shaded veranda and watched as the column of irregular cavalry rode into Alipore. The sun had started to set but the air was still warm. The searing heat had rendered most of the day unbearable, and it was only now, in the cooler temperatures of the evening, that the town had begun to come alive once again.
‘Who are they?’ Aamira appeared at his shoulder and stared at the body of cavalry. Her eyes were still dark-shadowed, but she was recovering some of her former vitality.
They had hidden in a tiny village around twenty miles from Delhi for more than three weeks before making their way to Alipore, drawn by the rumour of an advancing British column. They had arrived the previous day, journeying through a foul night when the rain had fallen in a continuous deluge. Soaked and tired, they had sought shelter with one of Aamira’s distant relations as they waited for the British column to arrive.
Since escaping Delhi, they had seen little sign of the great mutiny that was tearing the country apart. The small Hindu village where they had hidden had been awash with stories of the slaughter of the white men and their women and children as the native troops mutinied against their former masters. Jack had done his best to ignore the tales, certain that each was exaggerated many times as it was told and retold. He had bided his time, paying handsomely for his safety, waiting for the chance to talk to some regular British troops. Finally the opportunity had appeared, and he looked forward to being able to discover as much as possible about the terrible series of events that had befallen the country.
‘I am not sure. I do not recognise the uniform.’ Jack squinted at the column. The dark-faced riders wore drab-coloured jackets that he had not seen before. There was no doubt that it was a fancy turnout. The sawars sported scarlet pagdis and shoulder sashes, with high black boots and white breeches. Black leather pouch belts ran from their left shoulders to their right hips, and they all carried carbines alongside straight cavalry sabres. A single white officer rode in front of the troopers, his bright white sola topee decorated with a scarlet pagdi matching that wound tightly around the heads of his men.
Jack stepped forward, raising his hand in greeting, feeling relief at the sight of a disciplined column of Company cavalry. Even though they were still relatively close to Delhi, they had not so much as glimpsed a single mutineer in the weeks since their escape. They had been able to recover their strength, letting their injuries heal. It had been a slow process. The scars from the bayonet wounds Jack had taken in the fight at the magazine were still red and raw, even though they were nearly a month old.
Neither had the horror of all they had seen yet faded. Jack was haunted by the image of the child butchered by the mob. He saw her face in his dreams. In his nightmares she was still alive, and she begged him to save her even as her body was pulped by the heavy lathi. He woke most mornings bathed in sweat and exhausted. Aamira understood, holding him when he cried out in his sleep, talking to him when he was awake, trying to share the burden despite her own torment. Each had tried to heal the other, the bitter memories binding them together.
Jack caught the attention of the British officer, who immediately spurred across to join him. The blonde-haired man had a pale, smooth face with a heavy moustache, and he wore a pair of tinted spectacles to protect his eyes from the glare of the sun. It was an odd affectation that Jack had not seen before. As he approached, his hand rose in a languid fashion to remove the spectacles, and he greeted Jack with a warm and charming smile.
‘Goodness me, I did not expect to find anyone here ahead of us.’ He slid from his horse before walking towards Jack, his hand thrust out in greeting. ‘William Hodson.’
Jack shook his hand. ‘Jack Lark. I am pleased to see you.’
‘I’ll bet you are, old fellow.’ Hodson looked him up and down. ‘Well, you are in one piece, which is a damn sight better than many of the chaps I’ve met on my way here. You’ve done well to survive this long. Have you been here the entire time?’
Jack shook his head. He was watching Hodson carefully. For all the friendliness of the greeting, the officer was clearly appraising him. He sensed he would do well to tread carefully. ‘We came from Delhi.’
The smile left Hodson’s face. ‘My dear fellow, I had no idea. Were you there when the 3rd Bengal Lights rode in?’
‘We both were.’
For the first time, Hodson noticed Aamira standing in the shadows behind Jack. ‘My apologies, ma’am, I did not see you there.’ A stiff formality came over him as he realised he was in the presence of a lady. He bent at the waist, bowing in Aamira’s direction. ‘You must have endured a great deal. I can only applaud you for having made good your escape.’
‘It was not easy.’ Jack saw the way Hodson’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Aamira: like a hunter spotting his first glimpse of a tiger in the undergrowth. He made a note to make sure Aamira was not left in the confident officer’s grasp.
‘I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may? For my sins, I am General Barnard’s intelligence officer, and I fancy you have some useful information for me.’
Jack’s hackles rose at the announcement of Hodson’s role. He had come across intelligence officers before. The last time, his life had changed course almost immediately. He did not want to risk such a thing happening again.
Hodson did not appear to notice his reaction. He ca
rried on, clearly keen to learn more of Jack and Aamira’s story. ‘So very few escaped Delhi. Your tale could be of great importance to the success of the campaign.’
Jack was trying to take in all the information. To hear Hodson talk of a campaign was news indeed. ‘I am not familiar with General Barnard. He is in command?’
‘He commands the Delhi Field Force. Poor old General Anson fell sick and died, so Barnard has been tasked with the relief of the city.’
‘That won’t be simple.’ Jack became serious as he understood the column’s objective. ‘Delhi will be a tough nut to crack.’
Hodson scowled. ‘We are aware of that, old fellow. The siege train has already left Phillaur and should be with us in the next few days, and General Wilson’s brigade will join us here. They have already bested over ten thousand mutineers and captured all their guns in the process, so I daresay there will be quite enough of us to give the damn pandies a good thrashing.’ He turned to face Aamira. ‘My apologies for my language, ma’am. I am just a coarse soldier, but I should know better.’
It was Jack’s turn to scowl as Hodson turned on the charm. ‘Perhaps you should retire inside, my dear.’ He made sure to turn his face away from Hodson and flashed Aamira a warning look as he made the suggestion. ‘You still need to rest.’ He knew she would rather stay, but he wanted Hodson to talk freely, something he sensed the vain officer was unlikely to do with a beautiful woman listening to his every word.
‘I think I shall.’ Aamira understood Jack well enough. She smiled at Hodson. ‘You must excuse me, Mr Hodson. I find I tire so very easily.’
Jack did his best not to snort at her fine display, but Hodson was clearly entranced. ‘Of course, how thoughtless of me to keep you standing here in this damn heat. Please.’ He bowed at the waist for a second time and gesticulated for Aamira to leave.
The Lone Warrior Page 13