The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘When do we attack?’ Jack asked the only question that he cared about.

  ‘That’s my fellow, straight to the heart of the matter. Alas, we show no sign of attacking. We are expecting the arrival of Nicholson and his column any day now. Perhaps when they are here we will be able to commend an attack to General Wilson. Until then, we will have to fight on as we are. The damn pandies show no inclination to put an end to their interminable attacks. We must be patient, but I promise we shall win through. We may be facing a stern test, but God will not forsake us. We shall be victorious.’

  Jack heard the words but paid the rhetoric little heed. He would force his body back to health. He vowed he would be ready for the assault, whenever it came.

  ‘Hello there. I hope you do not mind me interrupting you like this, but I do not think we have met.’

  Jack started as the voice of a rather short young subaltern disturbed him from his rest. He was sitting outside his tent, dozing in the cooler air of early evening. He looked up. The fresh-faced lieutenant was clearly in two minds about disturbing the scarred officer who looked as frayed and fragile as his battered khaki uniform. He himself was dressed in a clean uniform that had yet to become soiled with constant wear. His forage cap was covered with a white curtain of cloth to protect the back of the neck, with the chinstrap looped back over the crown, and he wore an immaculate undress single-breasted shell jacket in scarlet with his rank embroidered in gold thread on the collar.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Jack’s voice was scratchy. The youngster’s zeal made him feel sick.

  ‘Roberts. Frederick Roberts. I work for the Quartermaster General.’ The young officer stood awkwardly in front of Jack.

  Jack winced as he forced himself reluctantly to his feet, the motion pulling at the half-healed flesh on his side. He offered his hand. ‘Lark. Hodson’s Horse.’

  ‘One of Hodson’s men!’ Roberts seemed delighted at the news and shook Jack’s hand with obvious enthusiasm. ‘No wonder I hadn’t met you. You fellows are barely ever here. You always seem to be off on some reconnaissance or other. But better that than sitting here. I shall absolutely have to pick your brain on everything that you have seen.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything. I’ve been with the wounded.’

  ‘Ah! Now that makes sense. I thought you looked a little peaky.’ Roberts smiled with a boyish charm that was quite lost on Jack. ‘I caught a bullet myself. They still have me on the sick list and won’t take me off it, damn them. Still, that shouldn’t stop a chap working, now should it.’

  Jack scowled. He had known many eager young officers. He had once taken one under his wing. He had learnt never to do so again.

  ‘What news do you have?’ Like every officer marooned on the ridge, Jack was keen to hear anything of the wider world. It was that desire alone that had been enough to force him to his feet. Roberts worked for the Quartermaster General and so would likely spend a great deal of his time with the staff officers in charge of running the siege. That made him a likely candidate to know the latest intelligence.

  ‘Only the worst kind, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Tell me as we walk.’ Jack could not bear standing still a moment longer.

  ‘Of course.’ Roberts was forced into a hurried trot as he sought to catch up with Jack, who had marched off without warning. ‘So the mutiny continues to spread. Most of the North-West Frontier has turned against us, and there have been mutinies in Oudh, Rajputana and the Punjab. It was like a set of tumbling dominos. Benares, Cawnpore, Jhansi, Allahabad, Jullundur, Nowgong, Gwalior. I could go on. I’m afraid the situation is looking rather bleak.’

  ‘I heard about Cawnpore.’ Jack felt little as the young officer listed the names of the towns and cities that had mutinied. He cared only for Delhi, and for his own role in the assault. If one ever came.

  ‘It was a beastly affair.’ Young Fred Roberts seemed genuinely moved. ‘Poor Major General Wheeler. After surviving that siege for so long, only to fall victim to a ghastly piece of treachery. Why, Nana Sahib is a modern-day Judas, agreeing safe passage down the Ganges for the remains of the garrison only to murder them at Satichaura Ghat. When I think of those poor women and children. Nearly two hundred all told, butchered without a qualm. These pandies truly are a despicable set of cowards.’ His tale broke off abruptly as he choked on his emotion.

  ‘What of Sawadh?’

  ‘It rose up too. The maharajah cast his lot in with the Rani of Jhansi.’

  Jack grunted in way of a reply. He had hoped that the Maharajah of Sawadh would have stayed out of the revolt. Jack had been in the kingdom when the maharajah had risen up against his British overlords and had seen the consequences of the man’s ambition. He had hoped the experience would have taught the maharajah a lesson, but it appeared that time had healed the ruler’s wounds enough for him to join in the struggle that had gripped the land.

  ‘At least we have a strong position here.’

  Jack snorted. He felt the need to goad the younger officer into something other than the bland tripe so many seemed keen to spout. ‘We are sitting on our arses when we should be attacking.’

  The young man’s face creased into a scowl. ‘You may have something there. There are many who voice that opinion.’

  ‘So I am not the only sane one here.’ Jack grimaced. His wounds were hurting, but he could not bear the idea of sitting down again for the moment. ‘It’s a wonder we haven’t been thrown off this blighted ridge.’

  ‘Look, I know a fellow shouldn’t croak, but I happen to agree with you.’ Roberts’s scowl deepened as he offered the critical opinion. ‘If it wasn’t for the Gujars and the jihadis I rather think we would have been pushed on to our backsides a long time before now. The enemy ranks are divided. They spend as much time fighting each other as they do fighting us.’ He sighed. ‘I shall never understand this place. I was born in this country, yet I can no more claim to understand it than my mother can claim to understand the rules for being out leg before wicket!’

  Jack grimaced. He did not understand cricket, or most officers’ obsession with it. ‘What of our numbers?’

  ‘A column of reinforcements arrived a few weeks ago. That puts us at six thousand all told, although nearly half of those are listed as sick. The damn pandies are receiving thousands more men every few days. Our forces grow, but theirs grow several-fold more. At least we can expect General Nicholson to arrive shortly with his column. I am sure things will change when he gets here.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Jack could not imagine what one more general could add to the party. The Delhi Field Force had got through several commanders already and yet it was not one step closer to launching an assault.

  ‘I am certain of it.’ Roberts seemed a little put out by Jack’s caustic reaction. ‘General Nicholson is a special man, trained by Sir Henry himself. He will take things in hand.’ His belief in the man was clearly heartfelt and certain. ‘Nicholson will make something happen. He always does.’

  Jack stopped. He turned and looked back at the city. ‘I hope you’re right. It is high time we put a stop to this farce.’

  ‘I say, are you quite all right?’ Roberts was looking at him with concern.

  ‘No. Not really.’ Jack could not meet the younger officer’s eye. Every time he looked at Delhi, he felt nothing short of despair. He was so close, yet he might as well have been a thousand miles away.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Roberts was clearly concerned at the condition of his new companion. Jack had to give him credit for not seeking to make an escape.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I would.’

  ‘Capital. Perhaps we should raise a toast to the siege coming to an end?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack forced his body into motion as Roberts indicated for them to carry on walking. ‘I can drink to that.’

  It was a good toast, one that matched Jack’s mood. He wanted it to end. One way or another, he just wanted it to be over.

  Nicholson’s column arrived shortly before brea
kfast. The day was doubly notable, as it was the first on which the enemy failed to launch any attacks, leaving the latest British reinforcements to arrive unmolested.

  The column brought just over one and a half thousand men. Under Nicholson’s command was a field battery of European artillery, the 52nd Light Infantry, a wing of the 61st Foot, the 2nd Punjab Infantry, a wing of the 1st Baluch Regiment, two hundred Multani horse and four hundred military police. It was a sizeable force but not one that would tip the balance of numbers anywhere close to favouring the British. It would take more than the arrival of the column to convince General Wilson that he was in a position to launch an assault.

  Jack had been summoned to Hodson’s side to welcome the new arrivals. He had contemplated ignoring the order, but something in Fred Roberts’s appreciation of the new general had made him curious. If Nicholson possessed the wherewithal to force General Wilson’s hand and inspire an assault on Delhi, then Jack wanted to greet the fellow with open arms.

  It was not hard to spot the newly arrived general. Even though Jack had no idea what the fabled Nicholson looked like, there was no mistaking the commanding figure who rode in the vanguard of the column. At his side was a huge black-whiskered Pathan bodyguard, and behind him were two hundred and fifty frontier horsemen mounted on short, fiery ponies that looked ready to take on the entire rebel army on their own.

  ‘Why, Hodson, you old devil!’ Nicholson possessed a huge voice, and he bellowed a greeting at Jack’s commander.

  ‘Nicholson.’ Hodson lifted his hand. Jack looked at his commander sharply, hearing something in his voice that revealed a dislike for the newly arrived officer.

  ‘I had heard you were here.’ Nicholson rode closer. There was ice in his reply. Clearly there was little love lost between the two officers.

  Jack had the opportunity to study the man the army had talked about almost non-stop for weeks. Nicholson cut a distinguished and commanding figure. He was tall and powerfully built, with a massive chest and long, muscular limbs. He wore a full black beard and his eyes were hard.

  ‘It was hot work getting here.’ The general launched himself from the saddle and walked towards Hodson, his hand extended in welcome. But there was no hiding the distrust in his eyes.

  ‘It has been rather hot work here too.’ Hodson tried to stand tall as he shook Nicholson’s hand. But there was no hiding the difference in the two men’s physical stature. Hodson was slight and pale, a boy compared to the man who had arrived to shake off the army’s torpor.

  ‘Nicholson.’

  Jack started as he realised Nicholson was offering his hand. He gave his own name, matching the tall officer’s clipped, curt style.

  ‘We haven’t met before, I think.’ Nicholson was staring at him, the man’s animated eyes boring into his skull. Jack returned the gaze calmly. No officer, no matter how imposing, could penetrate the shell he had built around himself. All that mattered was getting the army to fight. He hoped that young Fred Roberts was right, and Nicholson would tip the balance in favour of an attack.

  ‘You are serving with the flamingos?’

  Jack’s brow furrowed; he didn’t understand the remark.

  ‘The flamingos. Hodson’s Horse, to give them their proper name.’ Nicholson let go of Jack’s hand, having held it for an uncomfortably long period, before turning to clap Hodson on the shoulder.

  Hodson looked as though he was chewing on a turd. ‘I had not heard my men called that.’

  Nicholson threw back his head and bellowed a short, harsh laugh. ‘I fancy that is just one of the many things you had better get used to now that I am here.’

  ‘It may surprise you to hear this, Nicholson, but we have things in hand here.’

  ‘That does not appear to be the case.’ Nicholson was cutting. ‘You sit here on your damn backsides watching the town you were sent here to recapture. The old women who lead us have no ambition, and it appears their officers are equally lacking.’

  ‘Now look here, Nicholson. We are very aware of what has to be done.’ Hodson was turning puce at the accusatory tone in Nicholson’s voice. ‘I myself am leading a column out this very night to destroy an enemy encampment at Rohtak. Do not think we are all content to sit here and do nothing.’

  Nicholson snorted, his opinion of Hodson’s claim expressed eloquently. He said nothing more as he turned on his heel and stomped away.

  ‘When do we leave?’ Jack posed the question as they watched Nicholson lead his irregulars away.

  ‘I shall leave with the last of the light. You will remain here. You are not yet ready for action.’

  ‘I am more than ready.’ Jack’s brow furrowed at his commander’s tone.

  ‘I deem you not to be. I am ordering you to stay behind.’ Hodson moved closer, his breath washing over Jack’s ear as he spoke in a harsh whisper. ‘I will not allow you to steal my thunder this time, Lark. I am on to you.’ He pulled back and spoke in a more normal tone. ‘I think you are better suited to an administrative role for the moment, until you are fully recovered. If that means you cannot join in the glory of the action, that is a cross I am afraid you must bear with as much fortitude as you can.’

  Jack understood. Hodson had not forgiven him. Despite the polite veneer, his commanding officer had not forgotten his actions when they had last fought together. Hodson might smile and say the right things, but he had marked Jack’s card and would not change his opinion.

  Jack felt his hopes of leading the attack into Delhi wither. If he wanted to get to Aamira, he would need to find another way.

  Jack stood and watched the column leave the cantonment. Hodson led the way, the men of the regiment that bore his name riding behind him. In the late evening sunlight the men’s scarlet pagdis were the colour of old blood, a grim omen for the task they were undertaking. The column rode to fight. Hodson planned to land a telling blow on the enemy, and to make certain of victory, he had reinforced his own command with one hundred men from the Guides cavalry and twenty-five more from the Jhind Horse. Jack was not one of them.

  ‘There they go. The damn plungers.’

  Jack turned to discover that General Nicholson had walked to stand at his side.

  ‘The plungers? We appear to have as many names as we have recruits.’

  Nicholson laughed at Jack’s wry reply. ‘Even you must admit they look a damn queer bunch. They are a force of thugs and fools mounted on obstinate stud horses that are more suited to pulling wagons than they are to a cavalry charge. I think plungers an apt name for a force such as they.’

  ‘Perhaps we should wait and see how they fight.’ Jack was calm in the face of Nicholson’s barbed tongue. Talking to a general did not perturb him. Once men had called him by the same title. It had meant little then, and Jack was discovering that he did not care for such labels. ‘I have found it to be the true measure of a troop. The finest-looking soldiers do not always make the best fighters.’

  Nicholson scowled at being gainsaid. ‘We shall see.’ He looked at Jack as if assessing him. ‘I have known Hodson for some time. Since our days with Sir Henry.’

  Jack was interested. Hodson had said something about Nicholson being a protégée of Henry Lawrence, but had not mentioned that he himself had served under him too.

  ‘So you are friends?’ He asked the loaded question knowing full well it was not the case.

  ‘I would not say that.’ Nicholson scowled at the notion.

  ‘But you know each other well.’

  ‘Well enough.’ Nicholson looked at Jack sharply. ‘You are loyal to him?’

  Jack’s face was guarded. ‘Why should I be otherwise?’

  Nicholson snorted. ‘That man. No matter what he does, he manages to shine like the damn moon.’ He shook his head. ‘He is a constant source of amazement to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack’s instincts were flaring. He had his own doubts about Hodson, but he had believed he was alone. Hodson was the generals’ darling, trusted to independent command and
allowed to raise a troop in his own name. Jack had never heard another officer shed even the slightest doubt on his ability.

  Nicholson was glaring at him. ‘I am not a common dhobi-wala. I do not engage in tittle-tattle.’

  ‘And I am no damn gossip. If you have something to say, then say it.’ Jack would not let it go. But Nicholson turned away, refusing to be drawn.

  ‘I fought at Badli-Ki-Serai,’ Jack’s voice was hard as he continued. ‘Hodson went missing. He reappeared after the battle was won to goad a wounded pandy. I have my own concerns about my commander, sir, so I would be grateful if you would speak your mind.’

  Nicholson turned. His face betrayed a mix of emotion. ‘Very well. You should know the manner of the man you serve. Hodson has a chequered past. There were allegations of wrongdoing when he was in command of the Guides; irregular accounting with regimental funds if I understand it correctly. He was acquitted, of course, but I heard it was no false accusation. The man barely had a penny to his name yet suddenly came into wealth, and he was damned prickly about where he got it when I asked him about it.’

  ‘If he was acquitted, then there can have been no evidence.’

  ‘He is no man’s fool. Hodson is clever, I’ll give him that. But I would not have him on my flank in battle.’

  ‘It sounds like nothing more than gossip.’ Jack was disappointed. Hodson might well be sharp with money, but it mattered little to Jack, who was no retiring virgin himself when it came to finding a way to source ready cash. All that mattered was how Hodson fought: whether he was likely to take a leading role in the assault on Delhi or whether he would find a way to shirk the battle.

  ‘Have you heard of the affair with Bisharat Ali?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Hodson and his men captured a party of mutineers from the 1st Punjab Cavalry. One was a fellow named Bisharat Ali, who had served with Hodson before. Hodson killed him, gunning him down before he had a chance to speak. I believe the man knew something about him, something he did not want revealed. Hodson is ruthless. He seeks glory, but not at the expense of an inch of his precious hide.’ Nicholson’s mouth turned down at the corners as he finished speaking, as if spreading such malicious tales had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.