Jack felt no shame at what he had become. He tried to summon an image of Aamira, conjuring the light in her eyes. He couldn’t do it. Her face remained hidden to him, the image locked away in his mind. Instead he saw only the grim, blood-splattered face of Nicholson.
‘I am in your debt.’ Nicholson sounded sombre.
Jack did not reply immediately. He glanced once last time at the slaughtered enemy column. He had not drawn his sword, or fired a single shot from his revolver, yet he had killed many men that day, proving his worth without even having to fight.
‘You can pay me back. Let me lead the assault on Delhi.’ His voice was flat, all emotion once more banished from his battered soul.
Nicholson nodded. His face was grim, yet he accepted the demand without a murmur.
Jack would have his wish.
There was no welcome to greet the filthy column when it rode back into the encampment behind the ridge outside Delhi. They had bivouacked on the field of battle, the long, cold night passed without food and with the bodies of the dead for company. Their own losses had been light, with only two officers and twenty-three men killed. Another seventy-one had been wounded, and the exhausted column tried to find rest while listening to their cries as the handful of battalion surgeons plied their bloody trade on those unlucky enough to have been hit.
They returned to a subdued encampment. The enemy left in the city had launched a series of heavy attacks in the belief that the ridge would be lightly defended with so many men dispatched in the column they had seen leaving the British lines. Losses had been negligible, but the day had been long and only a handful of officers had the energy to ride out to greet Nicholson and his men.
Jack could not summon the strength to join the party who circled around Nicholson like flies on a dung heap, their desire to be with the hero of the hour all too obvious in their hearty greetings and loud applause. One officer alone hung back, his expression betraying his distaste at the scene. He saw Jack, and his pale face creased into something that resembled a smile before he spurred over.
‘You are quite the hero, Jack. I must offer you my congratulations.’
Jack walked his horse forward, thinking only of clearing the path for the men in the column, who trudged past their mounted officers without a flicker of interest, their only thought to reach the camp and fall out.
‘The enemy did not stand.’ His voice rasped as he spoke for the first time in hours. He wanted nothing more than food, drink and sleep.
‘Did I not say the very same.’ Hodson came closer. He looked at Jack, taking in the grime and the exhaustion. ‘I see you were fit enough for active duty.’ His voice was clipped and cold.
‘I am. I always was.’
‘Then perhaps it is time to rejoin my command. You are still wearing my uniform.’
‘I have no other clothes.’
Hodson sniffed with clear distaste. His own uniform was immaculate; it was one of several he possessed. Jack had just the one. He wore the uniform of Hodson’s Horse out of need, not choice.
‘I shall raise the matter with Nicholson. If he desires it, then perhaps you can continue in his service. I do not think I have a need for you any longer. I have managed very well without you.’
Jack grunted, amused by Hodson’s tone. ‘Of course. You are the hero of Rohtak.’
Hodson’s face displayed his pride. ‘I have heard that title applied to my name.’ He looked across at Nicholson, who was roaring with laughter and slapping the back of one of the crowd of officers that surrounded him. ‘Although it appears others will go to any lengths to try to match my exploits. I hope your dear friend the general is as happy when he hears the news.’
Jack sighed. He did not have the energy to waste on Hodson. ‘What news?’ His reply was waspish.
Hodson could not hide his smile. ‘Sir Henry Lawrence is dead. Nicholson will be quite distraught. Sir Henry was like a father to him.’
Jack could not be saddened by the loss of a man he did not know. He had witnessed at first hand just how these political officers ruled in the name of the Queen. He had seen little to recommend them.
‘I am sorry to hear that.’ He wanted to end the conversation.
‘Are you? I do not think you have it in you to mourn, Jack. You are the coldest fish I have ever known.’ Hodson was looking Jack in the eye as he gave his verdict on his former subordinate’s character. ‘And what does one more death matter? Nigh on half the men here are dying. We can barely muster two and a half thousand now. Every day of delay is a day closer to defeat.’ He watched Jack’s face for a reaction. From his peevish expression, he saw nothing to his liking.
Hodson sighed with disappointment and turned away. He looked back at Nicholson and smiled. The bonhomie of the greeting had been replaced by bitter silence. The general now held his face in his hands, his distress obvious.
‘Ah! I see someone has delivered the glad tidings. What a shame the heroic return has to be greeted in such a way.’ Hodson turned to face Jack one last time. ‘Be careful that you choose the right man. This matter of your service is not yet closed. I shall speak to Nicholson, then let you know of my decision.’
He said nothing more, spurring his horse away so that he could belatedly join the huddle around Nicholson now that it was a circle of grief rather than one of celebration.
Jack urged his own horse into motion, rejoining the column of infantry that had flowed past non-stop whilst he had been forced into the unwanted conversation. He paid Hodson’s dire doom-saying no heed. He had what he wanted. He glanced at the huge city away to the south. The assault would come soon enough. He had earned the promise from Nicholson that he would be in the first wave. It was the only thing left to him that mattered.
Jack stared at the ammunition park. He had never seen such might assembled in one place. The siege train had finally arrived, the enemy’s attempt to prevent it reaching the ridge thwarted by Nicholson and his men. And it was enormous.
The train had been some eight miles long, a grand procession of elephants, bullock carts, camels and horses. It had brought with it thirty-two heavy howitzers and mortars, along with four hundred European infantry, the Belooch battalion and a large body of Sikh cavalry. Finally the battered, sick and exhausted men on the ridge possessed the means to reduce the walls of Delhi to so much rubble.
The mood in the camp had changed overnight. The silent despair that had wrapped its cloying hands around the throat of the British had been replaced by the gentle caress of hope. Everyone knew the heavy siege weapons would mean change. The long stalemate was about to be broken.
The six hundred and fifty-three hackery carts that had formed part of the siege train had been packed full of ammunition, the shrapnel shells, roundshot and canister that the artillerymen would need to batter a way into Delhi. With the piles of ammunition came great mountains of gabions, fascines, gun platforms, wooden frames for magazines, sandbags, entrenching tools and scaling ladders. The siege was surging to completion, the intent of the British laid out in the neat lines of equipment.
‘And so it begins.’
Jack turned and offered a thin-lipped smile. He was spending more and more time with Nicholson, even though he was still officially under Hodson’s command. The two officers had come to see the massive park that was the talk of the cantonment.
‘What will they do first?’ Jack wanted to know. His patience was stretched thin by the purgatory of waiting.
‘First will come the batteries. We have enough Punjabi sappers here to dig as many as we need. Baird-Smith has the plan ready. He knows his business.’
‘Baird-Smith?’ Jack did not recognise the name. It was hard to keep track of who was in charge of what. On the ridge outside Delhi, promotion happened fast.
‘He commands the engineers. He arrived here in early July. I know him. He is a good man. His first task will be to attack the Mori and Kashmir bastions. It will be bloody work, I am sure. The enemy has guns that will be able to hit our batterie
s. But once we have silenced those two bastions, we will be able to turn our fire on the wall itself.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we attack.’ Nicholson did not look at Jack as he spoke. He was staring into the distance, as if seeing the assault that was to come. ‘Do you still want to lead?’
‘Yes.’ Jack had never wanted anything as much. Since the battle at the canal, he had thought of little else.
‘Then you shall. I give you my word.’ For the first time, Nicholson looked at Jack. ‘Will you tell me what drives you?’
‘No.’ Jack’s reply was curt.
‘The Lord can forgive. He can wash away your sins. Only he can offer you absolution.’
Jack winced. He had never been a godly man. To his mind, the afterlife was something for the rich to dwell upon. The poor were too busy trying to survive to spend long worrying about their souls.
‘You would do well to think of your future. The one that matters.’
‘I’ll think on it.’ Jack was evasive, uncomfortable under Nicholson’s gaze.
‘Would you pray with me?’
‘Sir?’ Jack did not know what to say.
‘Come, let us pray together.’ Nicholson reached forward and pulled at Jack’s sleeve, forcing him to his knees. He gave no sign of heeding the stares that were directed their way.
Jack could think of no way to escape. So he knelt with his general, bowing his head as the man the whole camp looked to for deliverance prayed for his soul.
‘Delhi must be taken, and it is absolutely essential that this should be done at once. If Wilson hesitates any longer, I intend to propose at today’s meeting that he should be suspended.’ Nicholson paused his pacing and faced the two officers who waited with him as he prepared to attend General Wilson’s council of war.
Fred Roberts squirmed under his commander’s gaze before lifting his chin, rallying well despite his misgivings. ‘With Brigadier Chamberlain wounded, that would place you in command, sir.’
Nicholson’s brow furrowed. Jack did not doubt the general knew that salient fact, yet he was beginning to get to know Nicholson’s mannerisms. In some ways he was like Hodson. Both men enjoyed the drama of the moment, and neither could resist playing the role of reluctant hero.
‘I have not overlooked that fact. I shall make it perfectly clear that, under the circumstances, I could not possibly accept the command myself, and I shall propose that it be given to Campbell of the 52nd. I am prepared to serve under him for the time being, so no one can accuse me of being influenced by personal motives.’
Jack did his best not to snort aloud. Nicholson knew exactly what he was about.
The general spotted the poorly concealed reaction. ‘So you doubt my motives, Jack?’
Jack felt no fear at facing the imposing man. ‘I do. You leave yourself open to criticism. There are men here who would seize upon any chance to blacken your reputation. You need not give them such ready ammunition.’
Nicholson raised his hand and scratched at his beard as he thought on Jack’s advice. ‘They will say what they please, no matter my actions. I must do what I believe needs to be done. My own reputation means nothing against the greater need of our mission here.’
Jack blanched at the sanctimonious phrasing. ‘You will need to watch your back.’
To Jack’s surprise, Nicholson guffawed at the pessimistic advice. ‘I must! I will do as you say. But it is a challenge, I admit.’
‘I think it would be wise to heed Jack’s advice, sir.’ Fred Roberts’s young face was creased with concern for his master’s reputation. ‘Perhaps you do need protection.’
‘No one will try to come at me in the dark.’ Nicholson chuckled at Roberts’s distress. ‘I cannot think of any man willing to risk encountering Muhammad Hayat Khan.’
Jack nodded in agreement. Nicholson was referring to his Pathan bodyguard. It would be a fool who would risk a fight with the formidable warrior who had sworn his life to defend the British general.
‘But perhaps you are right that I need protection of a different sort. A witness, as it were, to ensure that I am not laid open to accusations of wrongdoing.’
‘A capital idea, sir.’ Roberts seized on the suggestion. ‘You need an aide-de-camp, but someone not from your own command. Someone independent.’
Nicholson looked at Jack. ‘Perhaps an officer from my rival’s command would suit the role very well. What say you, Jack? Will you leave Hodson and come with me to safeguard my reputation?’
Jack could not have cared less about maintaining Nicholson’s saintly image. But he did care about making sure he was in the front rank of the assault on Delhi. ‘I accept.’
Nicholson had his protection. And Jack had his place.
‘There will be no relief, sir. We are quite alone. We must strike.’ Nicholson slapped his right hand into his open palm to emphasise his point. ‘Cawnpore has fallen, Agra is besieged and Sir Henry is dead. Havelock has been forced to suspend his attempt to reach Lucknow, which remains under siege. It is down to us. The country, nay the whole empire, is watching us. We cannot fail.’
‘You speak well, General Nicholson. Indeed you do.’ General Archdale Wilson, the commander of the battered British army, pulled at his sparse grey beard. He was a thin man in his mid fifties with a smattering of smallpox scars on his cheeks. Next to Nicholson, he looked old and tired.
Jack sat on a camp chair on the periphery of the conversation. He had remained at Nicholson’s tersely worded request when the other aides had been dismissed. It showed how highly Nicholson was regarded that no one dared gainsay his demand.
He recognised most of the officers who sat around the campaign table in Wilson’s command tent and who now made up the council of war. Captain Daly was there, the commander of the Corps of Guides, who had fought like devils in the weeks since they had arrived on the ridge. At Daly’s side was one of Wilson’s advisers, Lieutenant Colonel Baird-Smith, the commander of the engineers, whom Nicholson had spoken of in such favourable terms. The engineer officer looked sick. Jack had been told that he had been wounded weeks before, and it seemed likely it would carry him off before long. Barely half a dozen other officers were there, but together those present would decide the fate of the city they had been besieging for months.
Jack was surprised not to see Hodson in the gathering. All the surviving senior officers were present. He sensed Nicholson’s hand in Hodson’s exclusion. As the second most senior officer on the ridge, Nicholson’s word carried great weight, yet he could not order an assault. Only General Wilson could give the command that would see the British forces attempt to take the city.
‘I cannot believe we have the numbers.’ Wilson’s face looked as grey as his beard. His face sagged, the weight of the responsibility heavy. ‘So many are sick.’
Jack had to bite his tongue. This was the same discussion he had witnessed all those weeks before, when General Barnard had faced the walls of Delhi for the first time. So many had died in the intervening weeks and months, yet still the generals prevaricated and delayed.
Nicholson got to his feet, no longer able to maintain his facade of calm. ‘It is down to us. We must attack before we are all dead. Three thousand souls lie in the hospital, with more falling sick each day. How long must we endure? Must we wait until there is nothing left on this ridge but bleached bones? Sir, I urge you. Give the order. Let Baird-Smith make us a breach and let us attack.’
Wilson looked at Nicholson. To Jack he appeared like nothing more than a frightened old man, his rheumy eyes glazed with the fear of committing his men to an assault that might fail.
‘I shall not be a party to any more delay.’ Nicholson spoke again, his tone like ice. He laid the threat naked on the table.
‘Now, there is no need for such language, even from you, Nicholson.’ Brigadier Chamberlain spoke for the first time. His uniform jacket was left open, revealing the swathe of bandages that covered the wound he had taken a few days previously. He was officia
lly on the sick list, but he had been summoned to attend the meeting even though he no longer had any duties, his position as one of Wilson’s closest advisers requiring his attendance. ‘This is a council of war. It is not Parliament. We must remain united in this endeavour.’ The effort of standing up to Nicholson appeared to take its effect on the man, and he slumped back into his chair as he succumbed to a bout of coughing that had him reaching for a handkerchief to cover his face.
Nicholson’s distaste was obvious, but whether it was at the man’s illness or his choice of words, Jack could not tell.
‘We could wait for more men. There will be more sent from England.’ Major Norman, Chamberlain’s replacement as adjutant general, spoke for the first time. But there was little conviction in his words.
‘There will be no more men.’ Nicholson was cruel in his denial. ‘Not for many months.’
‘Perhaps.’ Norman’s reply was tetchy. He was responsible for the day-to-day administration of the troops on the ridge and was the only officer present who truly knew just how many men were available for any assault. He leant forward and snatched a ledger from the campaign table. ‘On paper we number eleven thousand. But of those, two thousand come with the Maharajah of Jammu and so are of an unknown quality.’
‘How many are listed sick?’ Wilson’s voice was scratchy as he posed the question.
‘Nigh on three thousand, sir.’ Norman was respectful. ‘General Nicholson was correct on that account. Some regiments are badly affected. The 52nd are down to two hundred and forty-two men listed as fit for duty. They arrived only a few weeks ago with six hundred.’
‘And what of the enemy? What are their numbers?’ Wilson stared hard at Norman.
‘Hodson has them at thirty-six thousand. I believe that to be an exaggeration. I would state their numbers to be closer to thirty.’ Norman did not flinch from giving the daunting tally.
Wilson shook his head slowly and sat back, contemplating the numbers. ‘It is not enough. More men will come from the south.’
The Lone Warrior Page 27