The Lone Warrior

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack believed every word. It was the final confirmation he had needed. He had tethered his future to a fraud.

  ‘Your expression betrays you.’ Nicholson’s eyes had not left Jack’s face. ‘I am just confirming your suspicions.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The general’s brow furrowed. ‘At least you are honest. That is a rare trait, I have found. Yet you have bound yourself to a man you did not know.’

  ‘I have to get to Delhi. I thought Hodson would give me that chance. I was wrong.’ Jack spoke bitterly.

  Nicholson nodded. ‘I shall not press you to tell me why. I can see the desire in your eyes. Ambition is a fickle master. It forces a man into actions he can never foresee. May I give you a piece of advice?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Remember that you do not have to serve Hodson. His is a volunteer troop. You stay with him by your own volition.’

  Jack snorted. ‘I have no choice.’ He looked Nicholson hard in the eyes. ‘I must get into the city.’

  ‘Then leave Hodson. I’ll warrant he won’t be in the first wave, nor indeed the second or perhaps even the third. If you want to get into the city, you need another master.’

  ‘Who?’ Jack could not keep the longing from his voice, careless of revealing his desire to a stranger.

  ‘Me.’ Nicholson’s face was grave. ‘You can serve with me.’

  The enemy columns wound their way out of the Lahore and Ajmir gates. The air shimmered with heat haze, the image shifting and blurring as the assembled officers studied the rebel formations. The glare from the sun blinded any man careless with his telescope or field glasses, but at least their position on the ridge provided a grandstand view from where they could watch the coming and goings of the enemy with impunity.

  Jack pulled the ancient telescope from his eye and scrubbed at it furiously, using a fingernail to scrape away a speck of dirt. He had lost count of the enemy numbers, but he had been able to tally the fifteen guns that had left in the centre of one of the columns.

  ‘Now where do they think they are going?’

  Jack looked across in envy at the field glasses that Nicholson held tight against his face. They were not the latest model, but they were far superior to the battered old telescope Jack had conveniently forgotten to return to Hodson. Not for the first time, he regretted the loss of his possessions in the explosion at the Delhi magazine. He had replaced as many as he could. On the ridge, officers died at a prodigious rate. Each man’s effects were auctioned off, as much to ensure that those still alive had the equipment they needed as to provide some money for the family of the deceased. Jack had sourced a fine Dean and Adams revolver to replace the one that had let him down so badly, and he had purchased a new sword, the one Hodson had lent him lost in the same fight against the 3rd Bengal Lights. It was a good blade, but it stood no comparison to the talwar he had lost at the magazine. The two items had cost him a small fortune, the prices on the ridge vastly inflated despite the number of officers succumbing to the ever-present ravages of disease.

  ‘I would wager they are after the siege column.’ A tall, thin officer replied without taking his eyes from his own field glasses. ‘They cannot be blind to its approach.’

  ‘I think you have the right of it, Blane.’ Nicholson grunted in acknowledgement of the observation. Jack had been introduced to the officer at the general’s side only moments before. Captain Blane served in the ranks of the 52nd and was one of the officers who had arrived with Nicholson’s column.

  Jack, like all the officers on the ridge, knew how badly they needed the heavy guns in the siege train that had come down from the Punjab with Nicholson. If the enemy had learned of its approach, it was no surprise that they would seek to intercept it.

  ‘We cannot allow that to happen.’ Nicholson’s jaw clenched as he continued to count the numbers in the enemy columns that showed no sign of coming to an end.

  ‘Wilson may not agree.’ Blane offered the opinion in a low voice. They were not the only ones on the small knoll a short walk from the cantonment. It was a popular spot from which to observe the city they were ostensibly besieging, and the appearance of the rebel columns had brought dozens of other officers up on to the hill. ‘I do not think he will look favourably on sending out a strong column of his own. Not when our numbers are so thin.’

  ‘He let Hodson out. If the reports are to be believed, that damn man won a solid victory at Rohtak.’ The words seemed to stick in Nicholson’s craw. ‘Perhaps it is time for me to do the same.’

  Blane laughed and finally stopped his scrutiny of the enemy column. He saw Jack looking his way and winked. ‘You sound piqued by our friend’s achievement, sir. Should we not celebrate any victory over the pandies?’

  Nicholson’s jaw tensed. He ground his teeth as if he chewed on a fatty knuckle of meat. ‘Of course. The man did well.’ He dropped his field glasses from his face as he heard the chuckle from the man at his side. He saw Blane’s face and understood that he had been teased.

  ‘You bugger, you are goading me.’ He smiled, his handsome face creasing as he shared their mirth.

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ Blane stifled his laughter and returned to the task of counting the enemy. ‘But it is to your credit that you can praise the man.’

  Nicholson harrumphed loudly. ‘I hope you will still find the time to laugh at my expense when we are chasing those columns. Blane. You will be my brigade major, as young Roberts is still listed as being sick.’

  Blane’s expression changed as he contemplated his commander’s words. He panned his field glasses out to the east. ‘It won’t be easy going, sir. The roads are filthy after the rains. We will not be able to take many guns if we are to move fast. And the pandies will be expecting us to follow them. With the fields half flooded, we won’t have much room for manoeuvre.’

  ‘Yet it must be done.’ Nicholson had resumed his own scrutiny of the enemy columns. ‘We cannot allow the pandies to attack the siege column. We need those guns.’

  Jack did not have the heart to watch the columns any longer, so he turned his attention to Delhi itself. He had lost count of the hours he had spent on the knoll, searching the city through the pitted and scratched lens. Aamira was never far from his thoughts. He tormented himself imagining what had happened to her. In his blackest, bleakest moments he was sure she was dead, her fate sealed the moment he had allowed her to be taken. Yet he could not quench the flicker of hope that somehow she had survived, that somehow he would find her.

  ‘Jack?’

  He had not heard his name being called. He looked away from the city to see both officers staring at him.

  ‘Well, will you come?’ Nicholson’s brow was creased as he asked the question for what Jack supposed was the second time.

  ‘Yes.’ Jack answered on instinct. He knew the answer would sever his tie to Hodson, but he did not care.

  ‘I shall send Hodson a note to let him know that I have requested your services.’ Nicholson seemed to read Jack’s mind. He turned to Blane. ‘Then I shall find Wilson and get us some orders. I rather fancy it is time to show him and the rest of this army what we are about.’ He turned and fixed Jack with his piercing stare. ‘And I think that also applies to you, Mr Lark. I shall demonstrate my talent to General Wilson. You can do the same for me.’

  They departed within the hour. Wilson had been persuaded, and Nicholson marched at the head of three battalions of infantry, two squadrons of cavalry and three troops of horse artillery. Nigh on two and a half thousand men assembled to counter the enemy’s strike against the new siege column that was grinding its way with painful slowness to join the defenders on the ridge.

  Jack rode at Nicholson’s side. He had no fixed role other than to accompany the mercurial officer who was determined to demonstrate his ability to the generals content to be marooned on the ridge. Yet he was certain that his best chance of being in the first wave of the assault on Delhi lay in proving his ability to Nicholson. The idea did not sit badly
in his mind. He would fight hard and either win his new commander’s approval or die in the process. Either option would suit him.

  ‘This will not do. This will not do at all.’

  Nicholson was staring ahead. Jack followed his commander’s gaze and saw the closest troop of horse artillery making slow progress in the muddy excuse for a road.

  ‘Wilson insists I stick to the roads, but just look at them.’ Nicholson’s face was screwed tight with frustration as he railed against his orders. ‘We shall never catch the pandies at this rate.’ He glanced at Jack, then urged his horse to one side, forcing it from the road and into the rain-soaked field beside it. The animal immediately sank to its fetlocks, the soil reduced to so much slurry by the monsoon downpour that had battered Delhi and the surrounding area over the previous days.

  Nicholson sat motionless, staring into the distance for some moments, his horse sinking slowly, inch by inch, before he turned to Jack once again. ‘We will cut across country. It is the only way.’

  Jack read the look of determination on the man’s face. He would not offer a contrary opinion. If Nicholson ordered the column to turn from the road, then that was what they would do. It was not blind faith; he had long since learnt to treat his superior officers with a great deal of circumspection. But he saw something in Nicholson that was different. He was not simply following his orders, sticking to the plan that Wilson had concocted. He was reading the ground and making the best judgement he could. It was what defined the greatest officers, and Jack would back the decision with the last iota of his strength.

  The rain resumed before the first hour was out, beating against the heads of the column with such force that if felt as if the clouds were belching forth canister.

  ‘Pull, you sluggards! Damn your eyes, pull!’ Nicholson stood knee deep in the mud. He was bare-headed, and the rain had slicked his hair to his scalp. He roared the encouragement, bellowing at the men of the horse artillery who struggled to free one of their cannon from the marsh in which it had stuck fast.

  Jack cursed and spat out his frustration before pressing his shoulder to the wheel and heaving with all his might. His boots slipped in the oozing mud but slowly the light gun started to move.

  ‘That’s the way! Push on!’ Nicholson heaved on the traces of the lead horse in the gun train, slapping its rear as the team started to move forward once more.

  Jack slipped and was forced to use his hands to keep his footing. The putrid soil was cold under his frozen fingers, but he did not care. The treacherous conditions had to be endured if the column was to close on the enemy, who were sure to be making similar slow going in the appalling weather. The gun pulled away, leaving him marooned in the sea of mud.

  ‘Come on! This is no damn picnic!’ Nicholson roared at Jack as he trudged away, heading to another stalled gun team a short distance behind the one he had just helped to free.

  Jack could not remember a commanding officer who would pitch in and work alongside his men. His estimation of Nicholson was growing by the minute, and he was beginning to understand Fred Roberts’s opinion of the enigmatic man who had arrived with such a fantastical reputation. Nicholson was proving to be quite unlike Hodson, and Jack hoped he would do enough to earn a place at the man’s side.

  The column marched into the village of Mungalee shortly before ten in the morning. They were filthy, the mud caked to their soaking uniforms. The rain had not eased and still came down in torrents. Yet neither the mud nor the monsoon had dampened the men’s spirits, and despite their exhaustion, they arrived with their heads held high. As reward for their efforts, Nicholson ordered them to find what rest they could and make a damp breakfast before the column resumed its march at noon.

  ‘Goodness, I am exhausted.’ Captain Blane slumped to the ground next to the meagre fire that Jack had managed to get going by splitting open a handful of cartridges and using their powder to ignite a few sodden scraps of wood.

  ‘We all are.’ Despite his own fatigue, Jack decided to try to be friendly. ‘It had to be done.’

  Blane nodded in agreement. ‘I agree. We could not stick to the roads. They were just as bad, and the pandies would have known we were coming. This way we can attack them from a direction they will not expect.’

  Jack poked at the fire with a stick, trying to keep it alive as the powder burnt out. ‘The general seems to know what he is about.’

  ‘You could say that.’ Blane held out his hands towards the smoking heap. ‘I could tell you a dozen stories about him. Did you know that some of the natives started to worship him as some sort of damned god?’

  ‘Truly?’ Jack searched Blane’s face for a sign of mockery. There was none.

  ‘Truly.’ Blane started to laugh. ‘Nicholson had them bally well flogged for their blasphemy. Still, it could have been worse.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Let us just say that Nicholson is not afraid of issuing a sterner punishment, something I expect he learnt from good old Sir Henry Lawrence.’ Blane looked delighted to be able to recount the exploits of the man he served. ‘Did you hear the story about our faithless cooks?’

  ‘I did not.’ Jack was listening carefully. He hoped to pledge his allegiance to the quixotic Nicholson. He would know more of the man he was counting on to get him into Delhi.

  ‘We were at Jullunder.’ Blane leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘We were sitting in the tent waiting for dinner when Nicholson swans in as cool as you like and says, “I am sorry, gentlemen, to have kept you waiting for your dinner, but I have been hanging your cooks.” The man acted as if it was nothing.’ He sat back and chuckled. ‘I’m bloody glad he is on our side.’

  Jack watched Blane closely, suspecting he was being teased. ‘Why did he have them killed?’

  ‘They had poisoned the damn soup!’ Blane slapped his thigh, snorting with delight. ‘He saved our skins right enough. The man is a damned marvel.’

  Jack did not know what to make of the story. But one thing was certain. Nicholson was no ordinary officer. Jack had hitched his reins to either a madman or a genius. Only time would tell if he had done the right thing, or if he had committed the greatest folly of his life.

  The column marched at noon, still in torrential rain. Nicholson had ordered them to leave without noise of any kind, so the men of the 61st Foot, the 1st Bengal Fusiliers and the 2nd Punjab Infantry resumed the march with the sombre quiet of a funeral cortège, their drums and bugles silenced. It was no better for the men of the horse artillery or the cavalrymen from the 9th Lancers and the Corp of Guides, and for once there was none of the typical banter between the horsemen and the men who fought and marched on foot. The rain and the mud were proving to be a great leveller.

  The going was no better than that they had endured that morning. The column trudged on through swamp and marsh, at times forced to carry their ammunition on their heads as they slogged their way through water up to their waists. Yet there were few complaints, the men advancing like automatons, parts in a new-fangled machine that existed only to serve the whims of its controller.

  It was close to four in the afternoon when a whisper passed through the ranks. The enemy was ahead. The gruelling march was coming to an end. The column had done the near impossible, covering nearly twenty miles through the worst terrain possible. It was time to see if it had been worth the effort, and to discover if Nicholson had stolen a march on the enemy.

  Jack ran his eyes over the enemy position. He was finally back in the saddle, having spent the last hour working with the gunners to force their heaviest guns through the second swamp Nicholson had ordered them to cross. He stank, the lower half of his body soaked to the skin. His once white breeches were thick with mud and his khaki jacket had doubled in weight, such was the amount of water it had absorbed.

  The rain had finally eased and he was able to see ahead without having to peer through a murky gloom. Yet he might have wished not to be able to see the formidable enemy position that waited for
them. A rain-swollen branch of the Najafgarh canal ran along the western and northern edge of the enemy’s position. The Grand Trunk Road crossed the canal over a narrow humpback bridge. On its far side was an old Mughal caravanserai, a large stone-walled enclosure that offered a ready-made defensive position for the enemy advance guard, which had camped within its walls as it waited for the rest of its column to catch up. Three villages sat close to the serai, each occupied by more of the enemy, all secured with cannon to back up the infantry. The rebels did not expect an attack, but they were cautious, prepared to defend their position. The serai was loopholed with guns covering the bridge, with still more covering the approach along the Grand Trunk Road. Any advance along the road from the north would have to march into heavy fire.

  The defensive position was strong, and the mutineers knew it. They also believed that any British column sent after them would be forced to advance along the trunk road, the rain-soaked swamps made impassable by the monsoon. Safe behind their walls, the rebel soldiers made camp, pitching their tents and piling their arms as they made the most of the time they had to rest.

  But Nicholson’s column had slogged its way across country, and now they approached the rebel position from the west rather than the north. His men had paid the price, their mud-splattered uniforms and aching limbs the coin Nicholson had spent to avoid the rebels’ scouts and approach from a direction the enemy was not expecting.

  And the enemy was asleep.

  ‘You see, Jack! Do you see?’ Nicholson’s face betrayed his delight. ‘We have them, by God, we have them.’

  Jack did not share in the general’s elation. But he felt a grim determination to get the job done. This was a stepping stone, nothing more. A way for him to show his worth and so earn a place in the assault on Delhi.