He was moving before he gave thought to his actions.
The mounted officer was laughing. He clapped his hands with delight as he called to his men, encouraging them to the sport even though he would not participate in it himself. The laughter died when he saw Jack walking towards him with murder in his eyes.
Lieutenant William Hodson looked at the man he had once commanded, and whimpered in fear.
‘Jack!’ Hodson’s voice rose as Jack stalked towards him. He twisted in the saddle, looking for someone to come to his aid, but his men had abandoned him, leaving him to his own devices as they prepared to satiate their basest desires.
‘Stay where you are!’ He lifted a hand to ward Jack away. ‘That is an order.’
Jack increased his pace to a trot. He stumbled, his abused body struggling to respond to his command, but he found his footing and staggered on, his eyes never once leaving Hodson’s pale moon face.
‘Jack Lark!’ Hodson yelped Jack’s name, then took one last look around, hopeful that there would be someone to save him. Seeing no one, he turned his horse’s head and jammed his spurs into its side.
The animal sensed its rider’s fear. It had been worked hard since early that morning. Hodson had ridden with the cavalry column, and they had been under fire for most of the day. The first and second columns had failed to capture the Lahore Bastion, and its guns had exacted a dreadful toll on the mounted troops. The mare was exhausted, and it reared, lashing its hooves at the air, as it felt the sudden pain of the spur.
Hodson had been twisting in the saddle, his eyes roving the street for assistance. He had not been concentrating on his mount and his balance had been too far back. As the animal reared, Hodson fell backwards, tumbling out of the saddle with a shriek that was cut off abruptly as he hit the ground.
Jack was on him in a heartbeat. He stood over his former commander, his breath coming in tortured gasps. Hodson writhed on the ground, struggling to lever himself up.
‘Don’t you fucking move!’ Jack’s rage had him firmly in its grasp. He thrust his sword forward, holding the tip an inch from Hodson’s throat.
Hodson went still. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he sucked in air, the fall from his horse leaving him winded. Slowly and carefully he lowered himself back to the ground. The sword followed him, the tip pressing forward.
‘Get that thing away from me.’ He panted the words, his body racked by great heaving shudders as he tried to talk and force breath back into his lungs at the same time. His eyes never left the tip of Jack’s sword.
‘You’ll hang.’ He gulped, gagging on his fear. ‘Kill me and you’ll hang.’ The bluster gushed forth in a torrent.
‘So be it.’ Jack sneered as he looked down at the man underneath his sword. He pressed the blade forward, the tip scoring into Hodson’s throat and drawing blood.
‘No!’ Hodson screamed, his voice shrill. ‘Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me.’
His hands flapped at the sword, trying to push it away. But Jack held it still and eased more force into the blade, letting it pierce the delicate flesh at the base of Hodson’s throat.
Hodson’s hands fell to the ground, where they clawed at the dirt ‘Don’t kill me, I beg you.’ He wept, his fear leaking out of him.
Jack sensed men watching him. To kill Hodson would be to ordain his own death. But he no longer cared. He had lost everything and he could not go on. He could no longer be the killer he was expected to be, the follower of orders who thought nothing of the right and wrong of what he did.
He eased his weight forward. It was time to follow his conscience. The last indecision left his mind and he pushed the blade down.
‘Jack!’
A new voice called to him. He started, the blade lifting as he searched to find the person who could not be there. Hodson was forgotten, and Jack twisted on the spot, his head turning frantically in every direction.
Then he saw her.
‘You will hang, you blackguard!’ Hodson was scrabbling to his feet. He screeched at Jack, his humiliation driving him to confront his tormentor, no matter that blood still trickled from the wound on his neck.
Jack whirled on the spot. The sabre whispered through the air, the movement so quick that Hodson could not avoid it. He had turned his wrist so that the blade hit vertically, and it slammed against Hodson’s skull with the dull, flat sound of a hammer hitting wood. The blow felled him and he crumpled, falling to the ground as if every bone in his body had been turned to jelly.
Jack did not so much as glance at the man he had knocked insensible. He looked only at the girl he had thought to be lost. He had been utterly wrong.
He had found Aamira.
Jack ran to her. He no longer felt his body, the battering it had taken that day lost in the swirl of emotions that scourged through him.
‘Jack!’
This time the cry was cut off as a hand was clamped hard over her mouth. The tall soldier dressed in the khaki of Hodson’s troop pulled at her, his free hand taking hold of her hair as he hauled her along.
Jack did not shout. He did not order for her to be let go. He just ran.
The soldier saw him coming. The face under the scarlet pagdi scowled as he watched Jack approach, taking him as a rival for the girl. Holding Aamira tight, he slipped his hand to his belt and drew a knife.
Jack spotted the movement. He did not care about the threat, even as the stubby blade pointed towards him. His sabre was bloodied to the hilt. Barely an inch of steel was left unblemished, the blade dulled and pitted from the day’s fighting. Yet it was still sharp enough to kill a man.
He ignored the knife aimed at his belly. He lifted his sword and held it at eye level. He said nothing, but the threat was naked.
The soldier flinched as the blade rose towards his face. He stepped back, thrusting Aamira before him, his knife held out to ward the grim-faced officer away.
Jack stepped forward and took Aamira’s arm. He pulled her forward, his eyes never leaving the native soldier’s face. His sword did not move. He would not hesitate to fight, to cut down the man who stood in front of him.
The soldier understood. He kept backing away, then he dropped his knife and ran.
Finally Jack lowered the sabre that had killed so many men that day. It fell from his hand, the bloodied blade clattering to the ground. He reached for her then, a feeling of such relief surging through him that he nearly sank to his knees.
She batted his hands away and bent to snatch up her captor’s fallen knife. She lifted the blade, holding it in front of her with both hands.
Jack searched her face, trying to find the girl he had known.
‘Get away from me.’ The words came as little more than a snarl. The blade lowered so that it aimed at his groin.
‘Aamira.’ Jack spoke her name. He did not turn or shield himself from the blade that could disembowel him at a stroke.
She stared at him then. ‘I am not who I once was.’ When she spoke, her voice was flat and emotionless.
‘I don’t care.’ Jack choked on the words.
Aamira said nothing.
For a moment he thought she would come at him, the blade still held low and ready to strike. He would not stop her if she attacked, would not defend himself. If she wanted his death, she could have it.
She stared at him, her eyes dry and her face set hard. Then she let the blade go. It tumbled to the floor, hitting the ground with a dull thud, coming to rest next to the bloodied sabre.
They sat in the darkness, away from the flames and the killing. They were alone, hidden in the shadows of the great wall. The light of the stars flickered across their faces, yet both stared at the ground. Each was lost in their own thoughts, the weeks spent apart now a gulf between them.
Jack wanted to look at her, to drink in her image and refresh the faded picture that he had carried in his head for so long. Yet he could not bring himself to do it. The shame hung heavy around his neck and he struggled under the burden.
&nb
sp; Aamira sat with her arms wrapped tight around her knees, and now, at last, she peered over her barricade and studied his face. ‘The scar makes you look older.’
Jack’s hand lifted to his cheek. His fingers traced the thick weal of skin, the legacy of the blow he had taken in the fight when he had lost her.
Aamira reached forward. Her fingers eased his to one side and she touched the raised flesh. Her fingers flickered across his face, her touch as light as a gossamer veil. He shivered as if a ghost had walked across his grave.
‘I am sorry.’ He whispered the words. He had wasted days thinking what he would say if he found her. In the depths of battle he had been certain that she had been lost. The bitter grief had given him the strength to fight on, his fury sustaining him far past the point of exhaustion. Now he had found her and he could offer her nothing save for the pathetic blandishment of a child.
‘No.’ Aamira’s voice was cold. But it was firm. ‘Do not be sorry.’ Her hand drew back. ‘I told you. We do not choose our fate.’ She shrank away, her arms gripping tightly around her legs once again.
‘I tried to get to you. I tried—’
‘Hush.’ Aamira stopped him, the sound sharp.
Jack closed his eyes against the pain. But he had to know, and he opened them again and met her stare, refusing to look away. ‘I would know what happened.’
She looked at him for a long time. He could see the light of the stars reflected in her eyes. He searched them for the spark of life that had so captivated him from the first moment he had seen her all those months before. It was gone. Her eyes were blank.
‘They beat me.’ Aamira started to speak. She did not flinch from his gaze, matching his stare with a chilling nothingness. ‘Then they took me away. I think they meant to kill me, but one of the men – the one who took me – he liked me. He took me and kept me.’
Jack could no longer meet her stare. He looked away. The truth shamed him.
‘He is dead now.’ Aamira reached forward and cupped her hand on Jack’s cheek, hiding the scar under her palm. She turned him back to face her, forcing him to look at her. ‘I killed him.’
She held him tight. Her hand was warm on his skin, its touch burning his flesh. Their faces were as close as lovers, her lips so near that he could feel the wash of her breath on his own.
‘Your mother?’
‘She died, that first morning. She was dead before we even left the city.’ Aamira shuddered and let him go. ‘I do not blame you. You fought for me. You gave me a life when I had no expectation of one. And I am glad to see you one last time.’
‘We are together now. We can still have a life.’ Jack knew he was wasting his breath. But he begged anyway. He had found her, yet she was still lost to him. ‘It does not need to end.’
‘No. You must go.’
‘I would stay.’ Jack’s voice betrayed his hurt.
‘No.’ Aamira’s voice was emotionless. ‘You have nothing here.’
‘I have you.’ He blurted out the words. He did not care that he revealed the most intimate depths of his soul. He could not lose her. Not now.
‘You do not have me. I am not yours. I am no one’s now. The girl you knew is dead.’
And finally he understood. Aamira was gone. She would not return. The woman at his side was a stranger.
‘I would stay anyway.’ He spoke earnestly. ‘I would ask for nothing.’ He reached for her, but she flinched from his touch, her body recoiling.
She looked away and said nothing more. He knew then that she would not change her mind, that he would never be able to ease her suffering. He would be a constant reminder, a link to a past that she would want to obliterate from her mind. His presence would drive her mad.
He eased himself to his feet. He felt the pain in his body then, the dull ache of wounds both old and new. He stood there, gazing down at her, for a long time. She did not look at him again.
At last he turned and walked away.
Jack watched the earth as it was thrown on to the body. No one had stopped him from attending the simple funeral, not one officer denying his right to be there, even though he was no longer dressed in uniform, his bloodstained khaki coat replaced by the civilian clothes he had not worn since he had first met Hodson so many months before.
There were more officers present than he had expected to see. So many had been killed or languished amongst the ranks of the wounded. It was a measure of Nicholson’s stature that those still on their feet had found the energy to attend the simple service at the entrance to the Kashmir Gate.
Jack had not been a party to the fighting as the British forces ground their way through Delhi one house and one street at a time. The casualty rate was dreadful, but day by day and hour by bloody hour, the mutineers and jihadis had lost heart, deserting the city in droves, leaving it to endure the revenge of the British soldiers.
And it was a bloody revenge. Thousands were killed, the battered British soldiers paying the rebels back for every hour of the bitter months they had endured on the ridge. It took six days of hard fighting to reach the Red Fort. By then, the rebels had largely fled, and when the assault was launched on the emperor’s palace it was met with little resistance.
Delhi once again belonged to the British.
Jack looked at the body that was slowly disappearing under the thin crust of dirt. He had not liked Nicholson. The man was too driven, too wrapped up in his own greatness, to be called a friend. But he had admired him nonetheless, his determination and dedication making him the kind of officer the British infantry needed.
Thinking of officers turned his thoughts to Hodson. Jack could not fathom the whimsical nature of fate. Hodson had been spared, but Nicholson had died. Hodson now lorded it over the city like a great warrior king, whilst Nicholson was consigned to a soldier’s grave. Jack’s former commander had even managed to enhance his reputation still further by capturing the sons of Bahadur Shah and then killing them all, gunning them down himself with just a single carbine.
More deaths. More souls sacrificed in the bitter battle between the rebels and their former masters.
Jack was about to slip away from the funeral when he spied Fred Roberts standing alone. His former tent-mate held his forage cap in his hands, and his head was bowed. Jack saw the trace of tears on the young officer’s face. He might not have shared Roberts’s adoration of the man now lying in a canvas shroud, but he knew what it was to suffer loss, and he walked over and stood at the younger man’s shoulder.
‘Here.’ He fished in his pocket and retrieved the envelope Roberts had given him before the battle. He knew it was the last chance he would get to return it. ‘I said I would give it back to you.’
‘Thank you.’ Roberts took the slim package, nodding his head in gratitude at Jack’s gesture. They stood together in silence, watching as the men tasked with Nicholson’s burial continued to shovel the earth over his body.
‘And so it ends.’ Roberts broke the spell.
‘No. It never ends.’ Jack tasted the words. He was speaking his thoughts for the first time. Ones he did not truly understand.
‘It shall not end until every damn rebel is brought to justice.’ There was fire in Roberts’s voice.
But Jack had none left in his belly. His anger was fully spent. He had nothing left to sustain him. ‘And then what? How many must die to satisfy our desire for power?’
‘I don’t think I like your tone.’ Roberts was huffy. He scowled at Jack.
Jack shook his head at the reaction. ‘Men like you will never understand.’
‘Men like me?’ There was a hint of bitterness in Roberts’s reply. ‘You are not like me then? Like us?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Jack stared the boy in the eye, refusing to flinch from the look of accusation he saw there. ‘I wanted to be. Jesus, I have spent years trying to be just like you.’ He shook his head. He was finally coming to understand what dwelt deep inside him. ‘But I know now that I never will be.’
‘Th
en I pity you.’ Roberts scowled, his face screwed up in youthful arrogance.
‘Do not pity me, Fred.’ Jack smiled at the display. ‘I know what I am now. I don’t have to pretend any more.’
He felt a single spark ignite in his soul. It was time to stop the pretence. It was time to put an end to his career as an impostor.
He did not say farewell. He walked away from Roberts, turning his back on the British army and the men who had controlled him.
I will start this note with a confession. The Lone Warrior has been by far the hardest book I have yet written. The story of the Indian Mutiny, or the First War of Independence, depending on your point of view, is a difficult one to follow, let alone to understand. The slaughter was prodigious, with both sides guilty of the worst sort of atrocities. It was a war fought without quarter, in which prisoners were routinely put to death and innocent civilians were drawn into the brutal heart of the conflict. I did not find it easy to write some of the scenes in this novel. They are not there for some form of grotesque entertainment, but I did want to convey something of the horror that engulfed the country in the early weeks of the mutiny, and I hope I have managed that without overstepping the mark. I certainly found some of the descriptions of the cruelty inflicted by both sides hard reading, and I cannot even begin to understand what can drive men to such acts.
Many of the characters in my story are real. The period abounds with startling personalities that I would hesitate to create lest they be deemed too far-fetched. As a writer of historical fiction they do so much of the work for me that I often feel as much of a fraud as Jack for stealing their fabulous stories and using them in my own.
In truth, I may have been a little unfair on Lieutenant William Stephen Raikes Hodson. I have read so many differing accounts of his personality and his actions that I felt I had to come down on one side or the other lest I be left with a character too ill defined to make any sense. Anyone wanting to learn more about this fascinating man for themselves should consider reading his letters from the campaign, which were put together in a book titled 12 Years of a Soldier’s Life in India. That way you can hear his own words on the events taking place around him and begin to draw conclusions for yourself. For me, his fate was sealed when I read an opinion that pointed to Hodson being, at least in part, the inspiration for George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman. Any man who formed a part of the make-up of the peerless Flashy was simply too good for me to ignore, and so poor Hodson’s fate was sealed, at least in my mind.
The Lone Warrior Page 34