Phillip’s instinctive reaction was to deny the suggestion. In the interests of continued good discipline, he knew that he ought to deny it but … Petty Officer Devereux was a good man and he was no fool. He might accept the denial but he would not believe it. He was worried, too, as many of the officers and NCOs were and, damn it, with reason.
“I didn’t hear your last remark, Devereux,” he admonished mildly. “And if I were you, I shouldn’t speak my mind too freely.”
“No, sir, I won’t,” Devereux assured him. “But we are in a mess, ain’t we?” He jerked his straw-hatted head towards the rapidly darkening sky. “If we ’ave ter march all night, like Lootenant Arbor said, they could catch us in the open if they’ve a mind to, with the men asleep on their feet, sir, and them bloody gun-vaches of ours ready to drop. Why don’t the Colonel wait till Captain Crawford gets back and can tell ’im what’s goin’ on in Ghorabad?”
“I imagine Private Collins can give you the answer to that question,” Phillip returned. He added crisply, “When we halt, it will probably only be for a couple of hours. I want the guns ready for action at all times, double-shotted with grape and the crews closed up. See they get a hot meal and their grog, Chief, and chase up the bullock-drivers—those cattle must be properly watered and fed. On the march, if we should be attacked, stand by to unlimber and manhandle both guns when I give the order.” He issued further detailed instructions and Devereux nodded his understanding.
“Do you reckon they will attack us on the march, sir?” he asked.
“It’s possible,” Phillip conceded. “But I think we’ve a little time in hand yet.” It would take time, he thought, for the Newab to gather his forces in sufficient number to take the offensive. News of his brother’s death and the attacks on the villages could only just have reached him and his zamindari levies had to be summoned from their toil in the fields, which would allow the British column a little leeway. Not much, but perhaps it would be enough; possibly that was what Colonel Cockayne was banking on and why he had decided on a forced march. An attack on the marching column was always on the cards, of course, and it was as well to be prepared for one, although the darkness would be as great an impediment to the attackers as it was to the column. His own guess was that the Newab would be waiting at the river, when—tired after their night march—the British troops would be most vulnerable to a sudden, swift assault. And if the Bridge of Boats had been even partially destroyed then … Phillip felt his stomach muscles tighten involuntarily.
They were approaching a low, wooded slope when the shrill notes of a bugle call broke into his thoughts.
“The ’alt, sir,” Petty Officer Devereux announced thankfully. “And it looks as if there’s plenty o’ firewood. Let’s ’ope the black perishers give us time ter cook our meal, so as we can march on full stomachs at least!”
“Let’s hope so.” Phillip echoed his wry grin. “All right, Chief—carry on. You know what to do … Mr Lightfoot!”
Midshipman Lightfoot was at his side, alert as ever, but his young face unmistakably weary beneath its coating of dust and smoke. Taking pity on him, Phillip repeated the instructions he had given to Devereux and then dismissed him, himself supervising the parking of the guns.
Darkness fell and soon the bivouac fires were alight, glittering like so many fireflies as the men hacked brushwood and dry branches with which to feed them. They had halted beside a small wood, about half way across a flat, open plain which afforded no cover for an approaching enemy. Once the moon rose, they would be in no danger of a surprise attack— unless it came from the far side of the wood. Presumably Colonel Cockayne would post cavalry piquets to guard against that danger, Phillip told himself. He had noticed, as they approached it, that the wood was narrow—more a belt of trees running up and to along the crest of an undulating slope than a wood—but his guns were parked close to its lower edge and he decided to make sure that they were safely positioned whilst the cooks were at work on the evening meal.
He walked quietly and without haste, with only the occasional cracking of dry timber to betray his presence as he thrust his way through the closely growing trees, and he had almost reached the crest when, without warning, a dark shape rose out of the darkness to hurl itself upon him. He reacted instinctively, putting out an arm to ward off the attack and following this with a clenched fist, aimed at the white blur of a face. His fist connected; there was a grunt of pain and his assailant stumbled and almost fell, the dagger or sword with which he had been armed falling with a faint, metallic clatter against the bole of a tree. The man made the mistake of trying to retrieve the weapon and Phillip followed up his momentary advantage with a well-aimed boot, which precipitated his would-be attacker flat on his face.
He screamed out something incomprehensible in his own language and, anxious to take him alive so that he could be questioned, Phillip drew the pistol from his holster, intending to threaten him with it as, with his free hand, he attempted to secure a hold on the man’s arm. But the fellow squirmed from his grasp and swiftly made off into the darkness, still yelling in his own language. He fired blindly in the direction of the sound; the next moment there was a pad of bare feet, coming from behind him and, as Phillip turned to meet this new threat, a musket exploded a few yards from him in a flash of orange flame. The ball creased the side of his head and he went crashing to the ground.
Dazed and shaken, he dragged himself up, in time to glimpse several white-robed figures running silently past him towards the crest of the slope and he blundered after them, in a vain attempt to intercept them. Reaching the edge of the trees, vertigo and lack of breath compelled him to end the futile chase. He sank to his knees, his head throbbing unmercifully and, as he waited for the vertigo to pass, the moon rose, bathing the slope below him in an unearthly radiance. Swaying like a drunken man, he clambered up again to cover the last few yards and once more glimpsed his ertswhile quarry—on horseback now—making off in the direction of the river.
There was something else, too, but his vision was blurred and at first he did not realise the significance of what he was seeing. Then, as the dark, shadowy mass resolved itself into a considerable body of horsemen, he waited only to take stock of the ground across which they were advancing and, still swaying dangerously, started to retrace his footsteps towards the distant bivouac fires.
CHAPTER SIX
“Sir … Commander Hazard! Are you all right, sir?” Midshipman Lightfoot’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way away but Phillip recognised it and struggled into a sitting position. He felt curiously light-headed and his vision was still blurred but, by the light of the moon which now filtered through the trees, he saw that Lightfoot was not alone. Lieutenant Arbor was with him, and Seaman Gates, standing guard with his Minié, and behind him George Crawford’s big Highlander orderly, also armed. Both Oates and Private Collins were peering anxiously about them and it was Collins who spotted the long native dagger lying, half-hidden, among the roots of a nearby tree. He picked it up with a stifled exclamation and Lightfoot asked, startled, “Were you attacked, sir?”
“Yes.” Gingerly, Phillip put out an exploratory hand to investigate the throbbing pain which emanated from the right side of his head. He withdrew his fingers, sticky with congealed blood, trying desperately to remember what had happened, and what he was doing here. It was at this point that the unknown assailant had hurled himself out of the undergrowth—it had to be, since the weapon he had dropped was here but … there had been others with him, men in white robes, one of whom had fired a musket at him at alarmingly close range. He had fallen and … yes, damn it, he had tried to chase the men, had followed them to the edge of this patch of jungle and … memory returned.
“We heard a shot,” Lightfoot was explaining. “And came to see what—” Phillip cut him short.
“Go up to the top of the slope,” he bade the boy thickly. “You too, Arbor—now, don’t wait for me. I don’t think I imagined what I saw but we’d better make sur
e before sounding the alarm.”
The two officers, catching his urgency, were gone for only a few minutes. When they returned, Phillip was on his feet. “They’re there all right,” Arbor confirmed grimly. “And advancing rapidly … no doubt with the idea that the column is making camp for the night and won’t be expecting an attack. I couldn’t make out a great deal but there must be several hundred zamindari cavalry and at least one sepoy regiment. The fellows who attacked you, Commander, were evidently spies, on their way to report back to the main body.”
Relieved that his memory had not played him false, Phillip nodded. “Back to the guns, if you please, Mr Lightfoot,” he ordered crisply. “And limber up. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve reported to Colonel Cockayne. Coming, Mr Arbor?”
Colonel Cockayne was finishing his meal when they reported to him. From his slurred speech and bloodshot eyes, it was evident that he had been drinking but, to his credit, as soon as the situation became clear to him, he did not hesitate and his orders were given with admirable clarity. Captain Williams and Ensign Highgate conveyed them to the detachment commanders and, leaving their bivouac fires still burning and their baggage and cooking equipment on the ground, the column moved out in order of detachments, to deploy and take cover in irrigation ditches and behind banks facing the camp site they had vacated. No bugles sounded, orders were whispered and the movement was made in virtual silence, Phillip’s men manhandling their guns across the rough, sandy ground and taking position in the centre of the line of waiting riflemen.
They had not long to wait. Within fifteen minutes the cavalry piquets cantered back to rejoin the main body, with the news that a large force of enemy infantry had reached the crest of the ridge immediately above the camp site.
“Zamindari levies and a regiment of sepoys,” Colonel Cockayne said, when the Subedar reported to him. His tone was harsh, his face, Phillip saw, oddly drained of colour, as he added, “We’ll hold our fire until they reach the camp site. Their cavalry and four guns are on the road we were following. Range on them as soon as you see them, Commander Hazard, my infantry can deal with theirs.”
“Very good, sir,” Phillip acknowledged and Cockayne rode off to place himself at the head of his Sikh cavalry to the left of the line. Phillip stood by his guns, straining his eyes into the moonlit, misty darkness as, one by one, the bivouac fires began to flicker out. The rebels came down through the trees, moving like ghosts, with scarcely a sound, and all along the tensely waiting British line, the men held their breath. Then suddenly the silence was broken, a burst of musket fire heralding the arrival of the rebel infantry at the foot of the slope. To the thunder of galloping hooves, the zamindari horsemen charged down on what they had supposed to be a sleeping camp, and two of their guns—horsed six-pounders, judging by their speed and manoeuvrability—unlimbered to the left of the bivouac site, to open on it with grape and roundshot.
Phillip trained his gun on the flashes and opened in answer as, all along the British line, the Enfields and Miniés spoke. Taken by surprise and caught in a deadly enfilading fire, the rebels were thrown into confusion. The sepoy regiment, which had been leading the way down the thickly wooded slope in skirmishing order, hesitated and then broke. Leaving a number of scarlet-jacketed casualties behind them, they fled precipitately for the concealment of the trees, meeting the descending zamindari flintlock men and bringing them to a temporary halt. But they came on again bravely, putting the sepoys to shame. From the edge of the wood, a number attempted to reply to the British fire; others, with reckless courage, even made a ragged charge, their cavalry supporting them but none got further than the smouldering bivouac fires. Phillip’s gunners, working with speed and disciplined skill, met them with a hail of grape—young Lightfoot, in command of the second gun, leaping into the air with his cap held aloft when a rebel ammunition tumbril exploded with a dull roar.
The attackers were in full and panic-stricken retreat when Colonel Cockayne waved the line forward and led his eager Sikh cavalry in a spirited charge on the only six-pounder that was still firing. Hacking and slashing with their sabres, the sowars cut down the gunners and galloped on in pursuit of the fleeing rebels. Not to be outdone, the infantry detachments rose up from behind their improvised breastworks and dashed after them, their long bayonets gleaming. Within a few minutes, they were once again in possession of their camp site, deserted now save for dead and dying rebels and three abandoned guns, to which Cockayne added a fourth, his cavalry riding back with it in triumph half an hour later. Their bloodstained sabres and sweating horses bore witness to the success of their pursuit but the Colonel allowed them no rest. He praised their zeal and courage and then despatched them to scout in the direction of the Sye River, ignoring the pleas of their grey-bearded old Subedar to give them time to rest and water their horses.
“Now we can press on,” he told his assembled officers. “Now we can relieve my garrison at Ghorabad—we’ve drawn the Newab’s teeth, shown him what British troops can do and left him in no doubt of our intentions. The column will move out immediately, gentlemen. If we bestir ourselves, we can still reach the river crossing by first light.”
“I’ve scarcely had time to attend to my wounded, sir,” the column’s senior surgeon protested. “And there are enemy casualties too. It is inhumane to leave them.”
Colonel Cockayne eyed him contemptuously and, watching his face, Phillip was deeply perplexed by what he saw in it.
“Rebel wounded are of no concern to me, Doctor,” he told the surgeon brusquely. “As to our own, it surely would not tax your skill too highly to place—how many? Not above a dozen, I swear—in doolies and attend to them at our first halt. You’ve no serious casualties, have you?”
“I’ve a man whose arm must come off, Colonel,” the surgeon said indignantly. “And as a Christian, sir, I—”
Cockayne cut him short. “Take the arm off and follow on with the baggage train,” he ordered. “But do not waste your Christian pity on wounded heathens—least of all on mutinous sepoys, my friend. Their lives are forfeit, in any case, and if they die here, they’ve saved us the trouble of hanging them.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “To your posts, gentlemen.”
“My God!” Lieutenant Arbor fell into step beside Phillip. “He’s a strange fellow, is he not, Commander? If I ever saw hate in a man’s face, I saw it in the Colonel’s just then. It’s as if he can’t kill enough rebels to satisfy his craving for revenge. I might understand it if they’d butchered his garrison at Ghorabad but, according to him, they’re still holding the Newab at bay. So it can’t be that—what is it, I wonder?”
Phillip shrugged. “I don’t know,” he confessed.
“Did he thank you for your timely warning?”
“No. It must have slipped his mind. But—”
“Without it,” Arbor said soberly, “we should have fared badly, instead of gaining a significant victory. But we’re not home yet, you know.”
Phillip glanced at him enquiringly. “What do you mean?” “The sepoys who attacked us were from Lucknow. Look—” he bent over the body of a dead sepoy, indicating the number on the man’s shako. “The 48th Native Infantry. The ryots may have been the Newab’s men, there’s no way of telling, but the 48th NI were never with him; his sepoys and sowars are all Oudh Irregulars. I’m afraid we haven’t met the bulk of his force yet.”
“Then we may almost certainly expect to meet them at the river?” Phillip suggested. They reached the first of his guns and he gave the order to limber up. Lightfoot stared at him in surprise but, recovering, passed on the order.
Arbor sighed. “If they intend to fight, I imagine it will be there or thereabouts. There’s a sizeable village this side of it, where they might well make a stand. I’ve been there, though I don’t remember much about it, except that it’s protected by jungle—much thicker than that up there, where you were attacked—and with a stream running across the road.” He drew a rough plan with the toe of his boot in the sand and Phillip
studied it with interest.
“If they have heavy guns, we should have our work cut out to shift them from a place like that,” he said thoughtfully. “Is there no way round?”
“Only through the town itself,” Arbor told him. “Or by river … which would mean getting hold of boats.” They discussed the possibility of an enemy stand, watching the weary bullock teams being whipped and prodded to their feet and yoked once more to the guns. The men were as tired as their reluctant beasts, Phillip thought and, calling Petty Officer Devereux over, ordered an extra issue of grog before moving off.
“There’s nothing to stop the Newab making a bolt for it, of course,” Lieutenant Arbor remarked. His voice lacked conviction, but he added with a cynical smile, “He’d be welcomed with open arms in Lucknow, if he brought his troops with him, because that’s where the real battle will be joined and he probably knows it.”
“But you don’t think he will bolt?”
Arbor shook his head. “No. I think it has become a personal vendetta between him and our Colonel Cockayne … and the Colonel is largely responsible for making it into one, though God knows why. He wants to avenge what he regards as betrayal, I suppose. But a great deal—everything, perhaps— depends on whether the garrison are still holding out. If they are, the Newab might make a run for it … but we don’t know, do we? I heard a rumour that George Crawford had gone to try and find out, but that may not be true.”
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