“Thank you,” Crawford acknowledged tonelessly. “But I have no stomach for food. I … I think I’ll have a word with the Subadar of the Punjab Horse. He may be able to tell me what intelligence reports have been brought in.”
They separated and Phillip went in search of Colonel Cockayne. The column commander was preparing to dine, seated alone at the camp table beneath an awning of interlaced branches, his orderly busily turning a spit at a bivouac fire a few yards away, on which two chickens were roasting.
“Ah, Hazard! The very man I wanted to see!” The Colonel’s greeting was affable and he appeared to have forgotten their somewhat acrimonious exchange outside Betarwar that morning, as he waved a casual hand in the direction of the sizzling chickens. “The spoils of victory! Come and share them with me, won’t you?”
Phillip hesitated. Like poor Crawford, he had little stomach for food, still less for the sharing of pillaged chickens with the man who had ordered the sack of the village from whence they had come but … making an effort to overcome his instinctive feeling of distaste, he excused himself courteously, if not entirely truthfully.
“Thank you, sir—I’ve already eaten.”
“Then join me for a peg,” Cockayne invited. He shouted a brusque order and his native bearer came running from the shadows, to set tumblers and a large, leather-covered travelling decanter on the table in front of him.
“I only wanted to speak to you concerning tomorrow’s march, Colonel,” Phillip began. “Not to interrupt your meal. What I have to say is urgent but it will not take long and—”
“Nonsense, my dear Commander—you’ve time for a drink, for heaven’s sake! And by God you’ve earned one, after the fine work your guns and rockets did today.” His round, red face lit by a beaming smile, the Colonel splashed whisky into the tumblers with a lavish hand. “Help yourself to water if you take it. Personally I never do—this is a Highland malt, too good to drown, in my opinion.” He savoured the whisky appreciatively, rolling it round on his tongue and then, as his orderly approached uncertainly with one of the chickens, nodded him to serve it. “You won’t mind if I take my meal, since it’s ready, will you? I want to turn in reasonably early because we’ll have a hard day in front of us tomorrow. It’s about twenty miles to the Sye River as the crow flies but we shall have to go a few miles out of our way in order to deal with two more of the Newab’s villages. They’re both hot-beds of sedition like Betarwar, as you might expect, but they shouldn’t delay us very long.”
Conscious of a chill about his heart Phillip, his whisky untouched, attempted to speak but was waved imperiously to silence.
“Anticipating your question, Hazard, there’ll be no serious problems for you if you simply do as you did today,” the Colonel told him, attacking his chicken with relish. “H’m, this isn’t bad, not bad at all … ah, where was I? Oh, yes … a preliminary bombardment with rockets, then when the place is well alight, advance and open up a breach with your nine-pounders. That’s all you need do—the rest can be left to my infantry. They’re improving, aren’t they? There’ll be no holding them, now they’ve been blooded—they’re raring to go.”
“Colonel,” Phillip said, unable to contain his impatience. “If you—”
“Have the courtesy to hear me out,” Cockayne bade him sharply. “There’s a jheel about half a mile to the south of the first village but, at this time of year, you won’t have to make much of detour—the banks will be quite firm enough for your guns and I’ll give you a cavalry screen. As I say, neither of the villages need delay us for long, they’re only a few miles out of our way. Seven or eight, at the outside … here, I’ll show you on the map.” He reached for the map case on the table beside him, seeming so confident of the rightness of his decision that Phillip marvelled at his duplicity—if duplicity it was. But surely he knew what he was doing, knew the risk he would be taking if he attacked two more of the Newab’s villages. Damn it, he had to know—this wasn’t his first campaign! Unless, as George Crawford had said, he was going out of his mind …
“Is that what’s worrying you, Hazard?” the Colonel asked, smilingly. “The delay?”
Phillip nodded, tight-lipped. “Indeed it is, sir. I don’t understand why those villages need delay us at all. Would it not be advisable to press on to Ghorabad with all possible speed tomorrow?”
“If it were, don’t you think I’d do so?”
“I am at a loss to understand why you do not, Colonel.” Phillip braced himself as he saw the Colonel’s smile abruptly fade. He would achieve nothing if he antagonised the column’s commander, he knew, and he added, with restraint, “Surely, sir, the purpose of this force—its sole purpose—is to effect the relief and rescue of the British garrison at Ghorabad?”
“Certainly. That is precisely what it will do.”
“With respect, sir, you appear to me to be more concerned with subjugation of rebel villages,” Phillip countered, still keeping a tight rein on his temper. “We lost half a day’s march today for that purpose and now you are proposing that we should waste most of tomorrow in the same manner. Every hour that we delay in going to their rescue must add to the danger of your people in Ghorabad. Are their lives not at stake? If they—”
“What the devil are you driving at, sir?” Cockayne demanded irritably.
“Permit me to explain, sir,” Phillip requested. Speaking firmly but without heat, he advanced the arguments with which George Crawford had armed him and Colonel Cockayne listened, his meal congealing on his plate and all trace of his former affability gone. But he listened and it was not until Phillip mentioned the dead talukdar’s claim that the garrison’s surrender had already taken place that, losing patience, the Colonel’s smouldering resentment errupted into fury.
“Damn your insolence, Commander Hazard! You’ve been listening to Crawford’s imbecile ramblings,” he accused. “You’ve let him poison your mind with his lies!”
“I spoke to Captain Crawford, yes. But he—”
“No doubt he told you that I’d relieved him of his duties on my staff?”
“Yes, he did, sir,” Phillip admitted. “He—”
“Did he also tell you that I threw him out of my regiment?” Cockayne questioned. He laughed, without amusement. “No, I’m sure he did not—it’s not something he’s proud of, I assure you. But I had good reason—the damned fellow started casting sheep’s eyes at my daughter. For God’s sake, she was only sixteen then and he’s forty, with no money and no prospects and, to cap it all, he had a native woman in the bazaar whom he’d been keeping for years as his mistress! I couldn’t be expected to tolerate that, could I? Or give his suit my paternal blessing. Damme, I didn’t want him with this force. He was the last man I wanted—but he volunteered and Sir Colin Campbell appointed him to my staff without consulting me …” The tirade went on and Phillip tried vainly to stem the flow of angry words.
“And now,” Colonel Cockayne flung at him, “the infernal fellow is trying to undermine your loyalty by telling you a pack of malicious lies! Devil take it, Hazard, don’t you know better than to believe him? Don’t you know better than to take the word of a condemned rebel? My garrison have not surrendered! They—”
“Sir,” Phillip pleaded, “can you be certain of that?”
“Are you questioning my competence, damn your eyes?” the Colonel challenged wrathfully. “My fitness to command?” Phillip remained silent, anxiously searching his face. What he saw there was not reassuring and his doubts concerning the Colonel’s sanity added to his anxiety. But then, as swiftly as if it had never been, Cockayne’s anger died. He had himself under control; his voice was steady, his tone dignified and reasonable as he went on, “Last night, when you questioned my orders, Commander Hazard, I paid you the compliment of explaining them in detail. I do not intend to do so again. I shall issue my orders and you will obey them without question. If you do not, I shall have no alternative but to place you under arrest, pending the return of this column to Cawnpore, when I s
hall report unfavourably on your conduct. Is that clear?”
“It is quite clear, sir,” Phillip acknowledged. Aware that he was defeated, he made one final appeal. “Nevertheless, I beg you, sir, to order this column to continue its advance to Ghorabad without delay. With the greatest respect, I—”
“Your request is noted and refused,” the Colonel returned coldly. “I do not require advice from a naval officer on matters of military tactics, Commander, so kindly refrain from offering it. And now oblige me by retiring.”
Phillip saluted stiffly and turned on his heel. On his return to the naval party’s bivouac, he found Midshipman Lightfoot waiting for him with a note.
“Captain Crawford asked me to give it to you, sir,” the boy told him. “Before he left. The cooks have kept your meal hot for you, sir. Shall I fetch it?”
“I … no, thanks, youngster. Just some coffee, if there is any.” Phillip hesitated. “You say Captain Crawford left?”
Lightfoot nodded. “Yes, sir,—on horseback. He was by himself—in fact, he asked me if he could leave his orderly with our party and I said he could. He’s a 93rd man, sir, so I didn’t think you’d mind. Er …” He gestured to the note. “I expect he’s explained in that—Captain Crawford, I mean. He seemed a bit upset, sir—almost as if he’d received bad news … although I don’t know where he could have got it from, out here, do you?” Warned by Phillip’s glance, he restrained his curiosity and added quickly, “I’ll get a hurricane lantern so that you can read the note, sir, and then I’ll fetch your coffee. That is if you’re sure you don’t want anything to eat? It’s jolly good, sir—fresh beef and—”
“Thank you, Mr Lightfoot, coffee’s all I want.” Fresh beef, Phillip thought … that, like the Colonel’s chickens, had probably come from Betarwar. He suppressed a sigh and, when Lightfoot brought him a lantern, read the note.
“The cavalry have not brought in any intelligence from Ghorabad,” George Crawford had written. “And since I fear that you will be unable to induce our commander to change his mind or his orders for tomorrow, I am going to find out what I can of the present situation of the garrison.
“I am going alone—I shall have a better chance that way, since I know the country and the language. If I should fail to return, you must, I am afraid, expect the worst.”
“Your coffee, sir.” Lightfoot was there, a steaming pannikin held carefully in both hands. “Was it bad news from Captain Crawford, sir?”
Phillip roused himself from his shocked contemplation of the note. “I’m not sure,” he answered. “It may be, I’m afraid, but don’t concern yourself with that for the time being, Mr Lightfoot. You cut along and get some sleep. Good night and— thanks for the coffee.”
Young Lightfoot eyed him uneasily for a moment and then gave him a dutiful “Aye, aye, sir,” and obediently returned to his place by the fire.
Left alone, Phillip sipped morosely at his coffee. It was twenty miles to the Sye River, he thought, and Ghorabad was a further three or four miles from the Bridge of Boats by which Colonel Cockayne planned to cross—Crawford could get there by daybreak, on a good horse, provided the bridge was still there and he reached it unchallenged. But he was taking the very devil of a risk and it was unlikely that he would be able to complete his self-imposed mission and rejoin the column until the following evening at the earliest—and even then he would need a good deal of luck. By tomorrow evening, if the Colonel carried out his plan to deal with the Newab’s other two villages as he had dealt with Betarwar, the peasantry and the zamindari levies in the area would be up in arms and George Crawford would find every man’s hand against him … as also would the column.
In a mood of black despair, Phillip sought for some way out of the impasse. Short of depriving Cockayne of his command, there was nothing he could do to alter the course of events, he decided wretchedly. He would lay himself open to arrest and a charge of mutiny if he even attempted to supercede the column’s commander and, indeed, any failure to carry out his orders might well have the same result—had not Cockayne warned him that it would? So that … He shrugged resignedly. Unless and until the Colonel actually endangered the column or committed some act which would cast strong doubts on his sanity, his own hands were tied and he could only bide his time in silence, obeying whatever orders he was given.
Next day, the village of Morawah was attacked and set ablaze. The inhabitants put up only a token resistance and many of them took refuge in flight, but Colonel Cockayne despatched his cavalry in pursuit of those who had escaped the flames and himself led the infantry in a systematic slaughter of the unfortunates who had remained within their battered mud walls. Half a dozen of the men were dragged out from the shambles to be hanged, with the troops drawn up in their ceremonial square in order to witness the barbaric ritual.
But when the march resumed, there was no singing. The young soldiers marched in grim silence and only a few, reeling from the effects of the liquor they had been permitted to consume, expressed boastful satisfaction in their victory. By the time the second village had been similarly dealt with, there was a tangible uneasiness amongst the whole force and the NCOs could supply no answers to an increasing spate of questions concerning Ghorabad and their chances of effecting the rescue of the British garrison without further delay. The officers, for the most part, kept their own counsel, ignoring the questions or replying to them evasively. But the men’s uneasiness began to spread to them also and, Phillip noticed, the youthful Captain Williams—acting as Chief of Staff in George Crawford’s stead—was subjected to repeated demands for information by the detachment commanders, which he found it hard to satisfy.
“It seems the Colonel intends to make a forced march tonight, so as to reach the river by first light tomorrow morning,” the baggage train commander confided, in aggrieved tones, trotting up on a lathered horse to join Phillip at the head of the guns. “Or so Tom Williams says. Have you heard anything definite, Commander Hazard?”
“No,” Phillip confessed wryly. Whether inadvertantly or on instructions from Colonel Cockayne, Tom Williams had told him nothing.
“Well, I don’t know about your gun-cattle, sir, but mine won’t stand another five-or six-hour slog,” Lieutenant Arbor said. He was a tough, grey-haired man of approaching fifty, promoted from the ranks, who had seen a good deal of active service and he sounded genuinely worried as he went on, “The cavalry have had a hell of a lot of chasing about to do—their horses ought to be watered and rested, if they’re to be of any use to us tomorrow. Not to mention the men!” He swore in frustration. “My blasted Sikhs are rolling drunk and have been all day and a number of the Queen’s splendid redcoats can barely stand up. They need a chance to get some solid food inside them and sleep it off—a forced march in darkness will just about finish them.”
“There will be a moon,” Phillip reminded him.
“I suppose that will help but …” Lieutenant Arbor hesitated, eyeing Phillip uncertainly for a moment. Then his feelings became too much for him and he burst out indignantly, “I hesitate to criticise our Commanding Officer but this whole damned march seems to me to have been badly mismanaged! I’m all for punishing rebels and mutineers, who richly deserve it, but what we’ve been doing for the past two days has been a waste of valuable time and manpower. These miserable villagers we’ve been butchering can hardly be described as a threat to the British Raj, can they? And in the meantime the Ghorabad garrison are still awaiting relief. I …” Again he hesitated. “I heard a rumour—God knows where it sprang from— that they may have surrendered. Apparently it came from the talukdar we hanged at Betarwar. Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I heard it. I—”
“Did you believe it, Commander?” Arbor pursued.
“It has to be a possibility, Mr Arbor.” Phillip’s tone was deliberately non-commital.
“Then God help the poor souls,” Arbor said, with bitterness. “Because we shall probably be too late to do more than avenge them … if we ever reach G
horabad.” He turned in his saddle to look back at the seamen, plodding stolidly along beside their guns. “I congratulate you on the discipline you keep, sir. In this respect the Navy is an example to us all.”
“We work our guns, Mr Arbor,” Phillip told him smilingly. “That duty, thank God, has enabled us to avoid what the infantry have been called upon to do.”
“I take your point,” Arbor acknowledged. “And wish my baggage guards were not required to double as blasted infantry under our present commander!”
When he had gone back to the rear, Petty Officer Devereux drew level and Phillip dismounted, in order to walk beside him. “Something on your mind, Devereux?” he asked.
The petty officer nodded, his lined, leathery face unusually grave. “I over’eard a bit of what you and that officer were sayin’, sir.”
“Well?” Frenchie Devereux missed very little, Phillip thought and, with typical lower-deck shrewdness, usually drew the right conclusions. He had almost certainly witnessed George Crawford’s departure the previous evening and—if he hadn’t already guessed that officer’s destination—would have made a point of pumping Private Collins, his 93rd orderly, until he obtained the salient facts. The two had been together throughout the day. “You’ve also been talking to Collins, have you not?” he suggested.
“Aye, sir,” Devereux admitted quite readily. “ ’E’s an old sodger, sir, and there ain’t no flies on ’im—knows what ’e’s about, Collins does. And ’e reckons as there ain’t no garrison at Ghorabad to rescue, not now—they’ve surrendered. Maybe a while ago—maybe before this ’ere column left Cawnpore. ’Is officer’s gorn to find out for sure becos … well, for personal reasons, Collins says. There’s a lady involved, I fancy—cherchez la femme, sir—”
“You haven’t told our men any of this, have you?” Phillip demanded sternly.
The old petty officer eyed him reproachfully. “With respect, sir, I know better’n to do that. But they’re not too ’appy about things, sir, an’ that’s the Gorspel truth. They know something’s wrong … all that killin’ in them villages, it ain’t right, sir, not when we was sent out to relieve a British garrison. Collins reckons …” He paused, subjecting Phillip’s face to a wary scrutiny and then added, his tone almost apologetic, “Sir, ’e reckons as we’re in a rare mess and that it’s Colonel Cockayne’oo got us there. Meself—if you’ll pardon me speakin’ me mind, sir—I reckon the Colonel’s well an’ truly derangey!”
Escape from Hell Page 13