“Should we give them some sort of warning, sir?” he suggested. “A shot over their heads and a call to surrender?”
The Colonel gave no sign of having heard him. His own glass to his eye, he was watching George Crawford and his reconnaissance party over to his left and the sudden sharp crack of a single musket brought his head round. The shot, fired ill-advisedly or, perhaps, inadvertantly, struck the sand a good fifty yards short of the group of horsemen; they wheeled and retired without haste, trotting easily towards him, Crawford with an arm raised as if to signal something. No other shots were fired at them but, waiting only until they were clear of the target area, Cockayne turned to Phillip and ordered curtly, “Open fire with your rockets, Commander Hazard!”
“Now, sir? Without calling on them to—”
“Now, I said, sir!” Cockayne flung at him angrily. “I want that village set ablaze. You can open a breach in the walls with your nine-pounders once it’s well alight.”
Phillip had no choice but to obey him. Hissing skywards and then curving down on to the rooftops of Betarwar’s clustered houses in a shower of sparks, the rockets did their deadly work with swift efficiency. One after another, the straw-thatched roofs burst into flames and soon the whole village was an inferno, great clouds of choking smoke covering it like a pall. The villagers replied with a single ancient cannon mounted to the right of the main gateway but, although of heavy calibre, it was so inexpertly served as to be useless. Advancing to close range with his two 9-pounders, Phillip and his gunners came under musket fire but this, too, was ill-aimed and ineffective. It took him barely fifteen minutes to smash two wide breaches in the mud wall and put the village cannon out of action, a lucky shot having blown up the stored powder with which it was being supplied.
The infantry deployed and, led by Colonel Cockayne in person, advanced with fixed bayonets on the shattered wall, to vanish into the smoke, cheering as they went. Phillip waited, sick at heart. Mutiny and treason had, he knew, to be punished but this ruthless slaughter of guilty and innocent alike had more in common with vengeance than it had with justice. Even in Lucknow, with hundreds of British lives in jeopardy, Sir Colin Campbell had issued orders that no retribution was to be exacted from the townsfolk by his victorious troops—and none had disobeyed those orders. Sepoys and native landowners, taken in armed revolt against the British Raj, were liable to the death penalty, it was true—but never without trial. Yet here … he felt bile rising in his throat as sounds of the unequal battle reached him faintly across the intervening fields of stubble. To Lightfoot, who expressed boyish pride in the good practise their guns had made, he snapped a crisp order to check the reserve ammunition and then added, relenting, “The men may as well cook dinner, Mr Lightfoot. We look as if we’ll be here for sometime yet.”
Half an hour later, George Crawford rode out of the blazing village, with the news that it was about to be vacated. “It’s a bloody shambles, Hazard,” he said, his face grim and pale under its coating of dust and smoke and sweat. He slid stiffly from his saddle, accepting Phillip’s offer of a swig from his flask and gulping it down thirstily. “Thanks … I needed that, by God I needed it!” He returned the flask, his hand shaking visibly. “Cockayne said he wanted to blood his young soldiers— well, by heaven, he’s done it! Let ’em loose with the bayonet in there and they don’t know any difference between mutineers and harmless peasants. It’s enough that they all have black skins.”
“Why?” Phillip asked, tight-lipped. “I thought all he wanted to do was save his people in Ghorabad.”
Crawford sighed. “He let slip, last night, that he sought help from the Betarwar villagers after his escape from Ghorabad and they refused—beat him up, he told me, and robbed him.”
“Yes, but—”
“I know, I know,” the staff officer said wearily. “He’s waging a personal vendetta. But he can claim justification for today’s attack—our unseasoned troops had to be taught their business. And virtually all these Oudh villages did turn against us, Hazard—British fugitives were maltreated, many of them were murdered, including women and children, without mercy. The Moslem talukdars and their retainers gave active support to the siege of the Lucknow garrison and both they and the Hindu rajwana fought against poor old General Havelock’s column. They prevented him reaching his objective in August. Retribution is long overdue.”
“But Colonel Cockayne is supposed to be commanding a relief force,” Phillip pointed out. “Sir Colin Campbell gave him these troops on the clear understanding that he would use them for that purpose, did he not? Certainly it was on that understanding that I volunteered to serve with him. I didn’t volunteer to slaughter women and children, whatever the colour of their skins, and we’re descending to the level of murderers if we do it. To the level of Pandy murderers, Crawford, and at a time when Christians preach peace and goodwill to all men!”
“I’m not defending Cockayne,” Crawford qualified. “Only saying that he can justify what he did here today, if he’s ever required to … and he hasn’t finished, you know. He intends to hold a ceremonial execution.”
“Of the Newab’s brother, d’you mean? When?”
“Now, I believe—after an even shorter trial than the men who were flogged were given last evening.” George Crawford sighed and moved reluctantly to his waiting horse. “It’s a hell of a way to spend Christmas Day, isn’t it? But … I’m a member of the court, so I had better go and get it over with.”
“You can’t stay and eat with us?” Phillip invited.
“Alas, no.” Crawford pointed to where a small procession was emerging from the smouldering wreckage of the main gate of the village. “I see the prisoner and escort are on their way. But, as I said, the trial isn’t likely to take long and I don’t particularly want to witness the hanging … may I come back and take you up on your hospitable offer?”
“Of course, my dear fellow,” Phillip assented readily. “I’ll wait for you.”
As George Crawford had predicted, the trial was quickly over; within less than half an hour, he returned, an anxious expression on his good-looking face. He ate his meal of naval stew in virtual silence and Phillip, sensing that something had occurred to upset him, tactfully refrained from pressing him for an explanation. Below them, as they sat under the shade of the grove of trees, preparations for hanging were swiftly completed and the troops, with the exception of sentries and a cavalry piquet, formed up once more in a hollow square, facing the tree which had been selected to serve as a gallows. No general assembly bugle call had been sounded and Phillip kept his party with their guns, feeling no obligation to send any of them down to witness the barbaric ceremony, since he had not been ordered to do so.
To the roll of drums, the talukdar, his hands pinioned behind him, was half-pushed, half-lifted to a waggon positioned beneath the tree and the dangling rope was looped about his neck. He was too far away for Phillip to see the expression on his face but he stood stiffly erect, showing no obvious sign of fear and then, in response to a shouted order, the horses harnessed to the waggon were whipped into motion. Moments later, a twitching body was suspended from the tree and, after a few convulsive jerks, it was still, a limp figure in a stained white robe, which distance robbed of much of its horror.
“Well, that’s that,” George Crawford said resignedly. “The fellow was guilty all right, so his death doesn’t weigh unduly on my conscience. And he had a fair trial, for all it wasn’t a lengthy one. But … he said something during the trial that worries me, Hazard. He may have been lying—it’s on the cards that he was because he knew damned well what was going to happen to him. Only—” he broke off, frowning.
“What did he say?” Phillip prompted.
“He said that the Ghorabad garrison had surrendered to his brother, the Newab, and that the survivors were being held as hostages.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Yes … one thinks of General Wheeler’s garrison and that ghastly house where the Nana’s poor host
ages were murdered,” Crawford said bitterly. “And it doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”
Phillip shivered. “No. No, it does not. I—” Aware of his companion’s tension, he thrust the unwelcome memory to the back of his mind. George Crawford, of course, was frantic with anxiety for the girl he hoped to marry, the Colonel’s young daughter Andrea but … He said, his tone deliberately sceptical, “You admit that the fellow might have been lying. What was Colonel Cockayne’s reaction? Surely he—”
“He wasn’t there,” Crawford answered uneasily. “I was acting as president of the court martial and the other members were all Queen’s officers, who don’t understand Hindustani. I told the interpreter to keep his mouth shut, of course, but … dammit, I shall have to tell Cockayne, shan’t I?” He hesitated, a small pulse at the angle of his jaw beating agitatedly. “Keep this in confidence, Hazard, won’t you?”
“Naturally I will. Is there more?”
“Unhappily there is. You see, Hassan Khan claimed that the Ghorabad garrison surrendered quite a long time ago.” Crawford spread his hands helplessly. “That’s what sticks in my throat, Hazard.”
Phillip stared at him in shocked surprise. “I don’t think I understand … for God’s sake, how long ago? What are you suggesting? That Colonel Cockayne knew they’d surrendered before we left with this relief column?”
Crawford inclined his head reluctantly. “He must have known, if Hassan Khan is telling the truth. He … devil take it, he insisted that the Colonel made his escape some hours before the surrender!” Reminded of Colonel Cockayne’s strange outburst when he himself had asked about his escape, Phillip drew in his breath sharply. Crawford added, with distaste, “The fellow accused Cockayne—or tried to, until I silenced him—of running out on his own people. Of running out on his wife and daughter, for heaven’s sake! Could you believe that of him?”
Could he, Phillip asked himself, could he in all honesty? Slowly he shook his head. “No,” he said. “I could not. Dammit, that was Hassan Khan’s interpretation of his actions. Cockayne has always said that he escaped in order to seek aid for the garrison—and he did just that, even if his pleas for British troops fell on deaf ears until now. He even braved Sir Colin Campbell’s wrath to get them.”
“Yes, that’s true.” George Crawford got to his feet and started to pace restlessly up and down. Finally, as if reaching a decision, he came to a halt facing Phillip. “Please understand, Hazard, there’s no love lost between Colonel Cockayne and myself but I’m making no accusations—I’m simply telling you what the prisoner said. He offered no proof. He admitted he wasn’t in Ghorabad at the time but his statement was made with death staring him in the face. What possible motive could he have had for making it, if it wasn’t true?”
Phillip frowned. “Hatred, perhaps,” he suggested. “The desire for revenge … I don’t know.”
Crawford sighed. “He was undoubtedly full of hatred—and with reason, of course. His people slaughtered and his village set on fire, himself facing an ignominious death—oh, yes, I freely concede that he was motivated by hatred. And therefore he might have been lying but—it puts me in a devilish difficult situation, doesn’t it? I mean, I owe Colonel Cockayne my professional loyalty, whatever differences were between us in the past, and yet I—”
“You’re wondering whether or not to tell him of the prisoner’s accusation—the personal allegations the fellow made against him?”
“Yes, I am,” the Native Infantry officer confessed. “Because if it’s true, as heaven’s my witness, I cannot let it rest there. I—”
“If it’s true,” Phillip told him, with conviction, “we shall very soon find out, my friend.”
“Find out? How shall we find out? Cockayne won’t tell us!”
“No, possibly not. But we shall know within the next day or two whether we are a relief column or a punitive force, shall we not? And we shall know whether or not the Ghorabad Fort is still in British hands.”
George Crawford looked relieved. “Yes, you’re right,” he agreed. “All the same, it’s my duty to report the statement Hassan Khan made to the court. Colonel Cockayne is in command—he has to be told that the Ghorabad garrison may have surrendered.”
“Yes, that much he must be told,” Phillip said. “Or you would be failing in your duty without a doubt. But if you’ll take my advice, Crawford, you’ll leave it at that.”
“Can I leave it at that?”
“I think you’d be wise to, my dear fellow. To repeat the unsubstantiated accusations of a condemned rebel can only do irreparable harm. If Hassan Khan was lying, the Colonel will never forgive you for giving credence to such damaging allegations against him. Had others heard and understood them, it would be a different matter—then he’d have to be told. But as it is—” Phillip shrugged. “It’s up to you, of course.”
“Yes. Thank you—you’ve offered me sound advice, Hazard, and I’m grateful.” George Crawford’s expression relaxed. “I have a personal stake in all this, as you know, and I wasn’t seeing things objectively. I’ll go and report to the Colonel at once, I … dear God, I pray that Hassan Khan was lying! Because if that poor child is in the Newab’s hands I …” He broke off, teeth clamped fiercely on his lower lip in an effort to recover his composure. “Thanks again, Hazard. I’ll see you when we make camp.”
He remounted and rode off. Phillip watched him go, a thoughtful and somewhat anxious frown creasing his brow, but he was permitted little time for reflection. The bugles sounded, Ensign Highgate trotted over to request him courteously to limber up, and within half an hour the column was heading eastwards, leaving the smouldering ruins of the village of Betarwar to be swallowed up in the dust of its passing.
CHAPTER FIVE
Permission to sing on the march was given and, swinging along at ease with pipes lit, the men took advantage of this unexpected relaxation of the stern discipline which had hitherto been enforced on them … although, significantly perhaps, their repertoire of songs included no Christmas hymns.
But the young soldiers’ morale had greatly improved. They had come through their baptism of fire, had struck a blow against the enemy and suffered only minor casualties, and now they marched with their heads held high, brave in their newfound manhood, their earlier weariness and resentment forgotten, and the Colonel’s praise still ringing in their ears. Even those who had been sickened by the bloodshed kept their feelings to themselves, fearful of ridicule and hearing the word “Cawnpore” repeated by their comrades and shouted aloud by some of their NCOs. They had, they told each other, avenged the hideous massacre of their countrymen and women at the Suttee Chowra Ghat and the still more terrible butchery of the poor innocents in the Yellow House, the appalling evidence of which they had all seen with their own eyes—however brief their sojourn in Cawnpore—and few questioned the justice of what had been done in Betarwar.
In that respect at least, Colonel Cockayne had been right, Phillip thought, but … He glanced about him uneasily, listening to the raised voices, when the singing stopped.
“An eye for an eye,” he heard a grim-faced corporal exclaim. “That’s what the Bible says, don’t it? The sods got what they deserved—we didn’t do nuffink to them that they didn’t do to us. What if it is Christmas Day? It makes no odds. And them as says there was wimmin an’ kids killed terday that shouldn’t ’ave been—why, they’ve only ter pay a visit to that there Yeller ’Ouse in Cawnpore and they’d soon think different!”
“Aye, Corp, that’s a fact!” a youthful private echoed excitedly. “We’ll show them black swine what’s what—just let us at ’em with the bayonet! An’ when we’ve done with the men,” he added boastfully, “they can give us the wimmin an’ we’ll show them, too! I’ll show ’em, like I done today. Yellin’ their bleedin’ ’eads off, they was, begging us for mercy—but we shown ’em, didn’t we?”
Petty Officer Devereux, trudging stolidly beside his leading gun, met Phillip’s gaze and, removing his battered clay pi
pe from his mouth, spat his disgust expertly in the dust at his feet. “Mon Dieu, sir, to ’ear them young roosters crow,” he observed cynically. “You’d imagine they’d just taken on the ’ole Pandy army and the Nana with ’em, instead o’ beatin’ the tar out o’ a bunch of miserable native peasants armed wi’ peashooters. Any case, we done their work for ’em with our rockets—they ’adn’t nuffink more to do than go in an’ mop up. And—Cawnpore or no Cawnpore—there wasn’t no call to let ’em loose on the wimmin an’ bairns, was there, sir? Leastways I don’t think so, if you’ll pardon me speakin’ frankly, sir. It’s simply lowering ourselves down to their level, in my ’umble opinion. There wasn’t much noblessy oblige about today.”
These were exactly his own views, Phillip thought wryly. Colonel Cockayne could have raised his men’s morale without permitting the excesses which, it was becoming evident, he had permitted. Even seasoned and highly disciplined troops should not be allowed to run wild and, in the case of these raw boys, to induce over-confidence could have fatal results.
“Let us pray that it will not be necessary to repeat what happened today, Chief,” he answered, keeping his voice low.
“Aye, sir.” The petty officer’s tone was flat. “That—and the floggings. But I’ve got a nasty feeling that it’s what we’re ’ere for—again speakin’ freely, sir. And our lads don’t like it, any more than they liked not ’aving Divine Service this morning … Christmas Day, sir! Why, even in the Black Sea, with the decks and rigging frozen, the Navy ’eld Divine Service on Christmas Day, didn’t they, sir?”
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