The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to the nearest sawar. He saw the flash of white teeth as the cavalryman smiled wolfishly to see the new officer enter the fray.

  The shouting was louder now, the harsh barks and orders of Hodson’s men adding to the chaos. Jack strode towards the nearest house, his hand twitching instinctively towards the borrowed revolver holstered at his hip. He arrived just as two of Hodson’s men came out, dragging a half-naked grey-haired man between them. The unfortunate villager’s wife followed, her pitiful wails and screeches falling on the deaf ears of men long accustomed to the horror of war. She leapt at the back of one of them, her nails racking against his uniform coat. The man turned, his fist moving fast, and punched the old woman to the ground before grabbing hold of her husband once more and frogmarching him forward. The old woman lay sprawled in the dust, her hands clutching her bloodied face, her body racked with spasms of horror.

  The man twisted in their grip, fighting against his fate, his mouth working furiously as he bellowed in fear. The two tall soldiers dragged him away, their grim faces betraying no sign of emotion. Still the man fought, throwing himself violently forward. His tormenters let him go, pushing him down so that he fell face first into the dust. Hodson’s men were armed with carbines, a shorter version of the rifles used by the infantry. As the man hit the ground, they shrugged the weapons from their shoulders. The heavy rifle butts made for effective clubs, and they beat the man where he lay in the dirt, blood caked to his face and staining the simple dhoti wrapped around his waist.

  The two soldiers slung their carbines back on to their shoulders and heaved the unfortunate villager to his feet. He was barely conscious, and they were forced to drag him, his bare feet leaving twin trails in the dust. They dumped him with an abject-looking group of his fellow villagers who had been herded together by other of Hodson’s men. Many of the captured men shouted, their wild gesticulations ignored by the stony-faced soldiers who guarded them with loaded carbines held ready to fire. A few desperate souls tried to leave, but they were clubbed mercilessly to the ground, the heavy butts of the weapons used with cruel purpose. Resistance was punished instantly, the fierce Sikhs who had rallied to Hodson’s new command caring nothing for the pitiful entreaties of the Hindu villagers.

  Hodson remained on horseback, aloof from proceedings but watchful, his eyes scrutinising every villager brought out. He did not flinch as his men administered the beatings, his expression calm and composed even as the first blood was spilt under the pale moonlight.

  Jack strode to Hodson’s side. He was confused, unable to understand the emotions simmering inside him. He was a soldier. He did not shirk from killing, from fighting an enemy on the field of battle. But he had never seen such brutality directed towards civilians.

  ‘That man can barely walk. Are you sure he is a mutineer?’ He had to shout to be heard over the chaos.

  Hodson glared down at him. ‘Mind your tongue, sir.’ His voice rasped, his temper rising quickly. ‘I do not recall asking for your advice.’

  Jack swallowed hard. He still did not understand what he felt. ‘He is an old man. What threat is he?’

  ‘He is not too old to rape the women we found in a ditch not five hundred yards from this spot just yesterday.’ Hodson’s anger was immediate. ‘He is not too old to slit their throats when his foul urges had been satiated. My men have identified him as one of the perpetrators and I have judged him to be guilty. He will be punished.’

  Jack recoiled, the foul accusation striking him with as much force as if Hodson had lashed out with his boot. He thought of Aamira, of the fate he knew she would have suffered had they not managed to escape; he remembered the girl and her mother, a cold and brutal murder in a dirty back street. He stepped away, and Hodson rode forward purposefully towards the pathetic huddle of humanity that turned to stare in his direction, their last entreaties dying away as they looked up at the hard eyes of the mounted white officer who loomed over them.

  Hodson said nothing. He stared at the dozen or so villagers his men had gathered, the moonlight reflecting in their terrified gazes. If he felt any emotion, it was not displayed on his face as he regarded the wretched souls.

  ‘String them up.’

  The order was given in the urbane tone of an officer long used to being obeyed. He twisted in the saddle, looking hard at Jack. The verdict had been given. The men would be killed. There was no trial. No court. There was just death.

  Hodson rode away from the group of men he had condemned to be hanged. He paid no attention to the shouts and curses as his men went about their business. He reined in next to Jack, his face set in a look of iron determination.

  ‘Never question me again, is that clear?’

  Jack could not speak. He nodded, his jaw clenched tight. He had chosen to return to the British and rejoin their ranks. There was no room for doubt. The country was being ripped apart in a storm of blood that could only end in the complete and utter destruction of one of the factions. It was not war as he had known it. The two sides did not all wear uniforms, the simple delineation of one army against another forgotten in a never-ending battle where anyone could be an ally or an enemy.

  The screams and shouts of the villagers started to die away. Hodson’s men had produced a dozen nooses from their saddlebags. With remorseless efficiency they wrapped the heavy rope around the necks of the men sentenced to death, their hands deft as they went about the familiar task. There were not enough trees for each of the condemned to die alone, so they were strung up on any branch sturdy enough to hold the weight of more than one man, their final bellows and protests snuffed out as they were hauled into the air. Soon only the wails of the women could be heard, their cries of grief rising and falling as the last of the men kicked and fought against the cruel burn of the rope before finally falling still, their lives extinguished.

  Jack turned away and walked back to his borrowed mount. He could only pray that his soul would survive the conflict, the bitter struggle that could allow old men to be put to death on the vague suspicion of wrongdoing.

  General Barnard’s column marched into Alipore in the small hours of the morning.

  The column looked unlike any other Jack had seen. The British regiments were not wearing the proud red coats that were so familiar to him. In their place the soldiers marched in their shirtsleeves, the heat enough to cause men to drop from the ranks even in the hours of darkness. Gone too were the splendid high black shakos, which had been replaced by forage caps with a cotton curtain to protect the back of the neck, while their grey trousers were rolled up at the ankle. The soldiers had learnt to do all they could to survive the exhausting cross-country marches.

  Jack knew little of General Barnard, the officer now in command of the force grandly titled the Delhi Field Force. Hodson had told him that Barnard had served in the Crimea and had only arrived in India a few months earlier. He had been thrust into command when Hodson’s former commanding officer, General Anson, had died from cholera. Barnard had been handed the objective of relieving Delhi and putting an end to both the mutiny and the final incarnation of the Mughal Empire. It would be no easy feat. The British army was dreadfully outnumbered. With all the native regiments either in open mutiny or under suspicion, he was forced to rely on the handful of European regiments he had been able to muster. It left him dreadfully short of manpower, and Jack knew that the British regiments alone would be hard pressed to even reach Delhi, let alone retake it.

  Yet it had to be done. The whole of Bengal had risen against their white masters. If the mutiny spread into the other presidencies of Madras and Bombay, or to the newly conquered Punjab, there would be no hope of saving the country. The canker had to be rooted out quickly. Barnard had the hopes, and the fate, of every British soul in the country on his shoulders.

  ‘So it begins.’ Aamira stood at Jack’s shoulder as he watched the column marching through Alipore. He had been told that the force stretched back for miles. Hundreds of came
ls, oxen and elephants were needed to haul the supplies the British column would require if it were to achieve its objective. Following them came thousands of camp followers, the men, women and children who eked out a living on the pennies the soldiers spent to make their lives more bearable in the unforgiving and brutal climate. Dhobi-walas, syces, bhistis, dirzis, mehtars, houris and more, all tethered to the white-faced men who would fight those who had dared to rebel, their loyalty to the rupees in the firangis’ pockets rather than to any lofty ideals.

  Jack’s hand fell to the sword that one of Hodson’s men had brought him that evening. It had arrived with a note, a tersely written missive that ordered him to spend the following day putting his equipment in order and preparing for the march that would shortly follow. The sword was one of Hodson’s own. It was a fine blade, well made and sharp, but it felt like a cheap imitation compared to the fabulous one he had lost. It was hard to lament the loss of a simple sword when so many had lost their lives, but he now regretted not searching harder for the blade that had served him so well and for so long.

  ‘When will you go?’ Aamira asked the question quietly, her hand on Jack’s forearm.

  ‘When the main column marches. They will wait here until the siege train and Wilson’s brigade arrive. Then the march on Delhi will begin.’

  ‘And you will send for me?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’ He took hold of her hand. They had spoken at length about what would happen next. With Jack expecting to return to Alipore with Hodson, there was no safer place for Aamira than to remain with her cousin. ‘I promise.’

  Aamira smiled. She leant her head against his arm. ‘Then I will trust to that.’

  Jack smiled as he felt her weight press against him. He felt his responsibility towards her keenly, but he sensed something more growing between them. He had begun to cherish the feeling of belonging to someone again. Yet he was aware of the price that came with it. He was no longer free to do as he pleased. He had to make his decisions knowing that another trusted and relied on him. He did not regret his choice, but the thought was daunting.

  ‘Why did you not ride with Hodson?’

  Jack snorted at Aamira’s innocent question. ‘He is punishing me by not permitting me to join him as he rides to see what lies ahead. It is his way of delivering a rebuke for daring to question what he was doing.’

  ‘At least you get to spend some time with me.’

  ‘Then how can I be anything but pleased?’ Jack pushed his disappointment away. There would be time enough to be a soldier once more. He would savour the moment and prepare for the days to come when he would once more be alone and playing the role of an officer of irregular cavalry.

  ‘Will the army be able to retake the city?’ Aamira’s face lifted, her gaze searching Jack’s. He saw the grey, puffy storm clouds that still circled her eyes. He knew she did not sleep well. Whenever he woke, his own rest broken by the nightmares that he would not talk about in the daylight hours, she was always awake, sitting beside him, her gentle caress easing away his panic and his fear.

  ‘We will try.’ He sighed. ‘I cannot think it will be easy.’ He looked down at her, his honesty crushing the light in her face. ‘It will take time. The mutineers still outnumber us. I do not know Barnard’s plan, but he has too few men for a proper siege.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ There was a hint of frustration in her voice, her anxiety making her scratchy.

  ‘Who knows? At worst we will be beaten back and forced to wait whilst we build up a stronger force. At best we will storm straight in and beat the bastards in the first fight.’ Jack sighed. ‘Or perhaps it will be neither of those things. Perhaps we will just sit outside and look at the bloody place; nothing would surprise me any more.’ He had seen enough grand strategy to know that little of it made sense. He had once been privy to the world of generals, and he had learnt that they knew little more than the men they commanded. However, on campaign, generals were like gods. They held thousands of men’s lives at their fingertips. It was their orders that would decide who would die and who would live. Their power was absolute. Their ability was not.

  He pulled Aamira close, but he felt her body stiffen. ‘What’s wrong?’ She was good at hiding her emotions, the training of being a hostess at the Circle allowing her to face the world with a smile no matter how she might feel. Yet he was beginning to be able to read the thoughts behind the beautiful mask, and he sensed her distress.

  He expected her to reveal her concern. Instead she simply smiled.

  ‘It is nothing. I just want you to come back safe to me.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He pressed her, certain he had not penetrated to her real thoughts. He was learning that Aamira had many protective outer layers. Despite all they had gone through, he did not think he was coming close to seeing the true soul that hid inside.

  ‘I am worried about my mother.’ Her voice was tiny, a confession finally made.

  Jack opened his mouth to offer the instinctive reassurance that she would be safe, that no dreadful fate could have befallen her. But the image of the murdered woman and child crept into his mind. Aamira had witnessed too much to be fobbed off with a glib reply.

  ‘The army is forming. We will take the fight to Delhi. We will get it back.’ He forced the certainty into his voice.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  He felt her shudder. He sensed her frustration, her concern fraying at her temper. But she kept it in, a deep sigh the only sign of her emotion.

  He pulled her close. There was nothing more he could say.

  Jack tossed his new sola topee on to the heavy sideboard in the entrance to Aamira’s cousin’s house and cursed. He was drenched in sweat and he stank. It had been a trying day as he wasted hours running around the British column attempting to find all the equipment he would need. The few clerks in the commissariat were overworked and had little time for a junior officer of irregular cavalry. He was still short on most of the necessities that he would need to replace all that he had lost in Delhi. The shiny white helmet was the only object he had managed to take away with him, and that had only been because he had stolen it from a young lieutenant who had carelessly left it outside his billet. Other than that, he had nothing but demands to return later.

  ‘And what is wrong with you?’ Aamira appeared, the gentle question asked as soon as she spied the scowl on his sweaty and flushed face.

  ‘This bloody army, that’s what wrong.’ He growled the words before stomping back outside to the shaded veranda that ran around the simple house. He plonked himself down on a fretwork bench and reached down to tug his boots from his feet.

  Aamira walked to his side and sat on a carved teak stool nearby.

  ‘You may want to sit someplace else, love. I stink like a damn navvy.’ Jack gasped with relief as he removed the first boot, only to grimace with distaste as he smelt the rancid odour it released.

  Even Aamira’s highly trained face twitched at the ripe air, but she still slapped his hand away and took a firm hold on the second boot before tugging it free.

  ‘I have smelt worse.’ She laid the boot on the ground but could not prevent her finger from slipping under her nose to block out the offensive stench.

  ‘You are a good liar.’

  ‘So will you tell me what has put you in such a foul temper?’

  Jack felt his black mood shifting. He still enjoyed hearing Aamira speak. The English words took on a very different sound on her tongue.

  ‘I have not been able to find everything I need. Hodson will expect me to be ready, but I have wasted half the bloody day shuttling back and forth between a dozen clerks. This is a fighting column, but you would never know it from all the bloody pen-pushers around the place.’

  ‘So what have you found?’ As ever, Aamira was cool.

  ‘Just that damn helmet. And I have the sword Hodson sent me. They have promised me a full uniform, but God alone knows when that will be ready. And who knows when I wil
l ever get my own horse. They have hundreds of the bloody things but they reckon they are all allocated. As Hodson’s regiment is new, no one has any record of it. You can’t even get the bloody choky in this sodding army without the right bloody chit signed by God knows how many officers.’

  Jack leant back and closed his eyes as he railed against the bureaucracy of the army. Even in the field, and in the midst of a mutiny, little could be accomplished without the correctly completed paperwork. Generals might plan a campaign with meticulous detail and soldiers might fight in the bloodiest of battles but it was the clerks and their precious paper that truly ran the army.

  ‘Let me see what I can do. My cousin has many friends in this town. He will know how to get what you need.’

  ‘Truly?’ Jack hated the sound of relief in his voice. It stung his pride to ask for help, but he needed to be ready when Hodson returned from his reconnaissance. He wanted to do well, to prove his worth to his new commander. It would hardly be a promising start if he could not even turn up with the correct equipment.

  ‘Truly.’

  He opened his eyes and saw the smirk on Aamira’s face. His mood had not improved enough to bear being mocked, and he shut them once again, turning his face away.

  ‘You are tired. I will leave you. I will tell you the news later on.’ Aamira’s voice teased Jack.

  He opened his eyes. He was always desperate for news, a fact she knew very well.

  ‘You can tell me now.’

  ‘You are not in a good temper. I shall come back when you have had a chance to rest and improve your humour.’ She made to leave.

  ‘Tell me now, woman!’ Jack’s voice rose but he could not hold on to his anger, and he chuckled.

  Aamira sat back down. She lifted one of his stinking, sweaty feet on to her lap and began a delicate massage that had him groaning in pleasure at the sensation.

  ‘The second column will arrive tomorrow. General . . .’ She paused, uncertain of the name.