“It is,” Phillip said. “He left the column the night before last.”
“Did he, by God!” Arbor’s bearded lips pursed in a silent whistle. “I thought I hadn’t seen him about. Did he go alone, Commander?”
“Yes, he did.”
“With or without the Colonel’s knowledge?” Arbor questioned shrewdly.
“Without, as far as I am aware,” Phillip answered. “So I should keep it to yourself until he gets back.”
“If he gets back! It was a foolhardy thing to do but”—Arbor sighed—“by heaven, I admire his guts! Mind, if anyone can get away with it, Crawford will. He knows this area like the back of his hand and he may even have friends in Ghorabad—native friends, I mean, who may still be loyal. He was stationed there with Cockayne’s regiment, but as he may have told you, they had an almighty row and George Crawford got himself transferred. Gossip had it that the row was over a woman but I don’t know any details, although I believe that most of the sympathy was for Crawford.”
This was not quite the same as the story Colonel Cockayne had told him, Phillip thought wryly, but he let it pass. The bugles sounded and, breathing hard from his exertions, Midshipman Lightfoot reported the gun teams yoked and ready to proceed. The men were looking and sounding more cheerful since the issue of their extra tot of rum and Phillip nodded his approval.
“Well done, Mr Lightfoot. Carry on, if you please.”
A seaman brought him his horse and Arbor prepared to rejoin the baggage train. “We’ll be held up by that blasted sawbones,” he said glumly. “But doubtless we’ll meet at the next halt, Commander—if we’re permitted one!”
He strode off and Phillip climbed stiffly back into his saddle. His head was still throbbing but the acute pain had become a dull ache which, if not pleasant, was at least endurable and, as the column resumed its march, he resigned himself to the discomfort and, after a while, dropped off into a doze, letting his horse find its own way. Once or twice the animal stumbled from weariness and he was jerked back to wakefulness, but for the most part he slept, hunched in his saddle, and when the first halt was called, he found—to his own surprise—that his headache had gone and he was ravenously hungry.
They had made only four miles, Ensign Highgate told him, but had been compelled to halt to enable the baggage train and the wounded to catch up. His indignation sounded like a reflection of his Commanding Officer’s and Phillip suppressed a smile as the young aide-de-camp continued on his way, in order—as he had expressed it—“to acquaint Lieutenant Arbor with the need for haste.” He would get very little change out of the tough, experienced Arbor if he took that tone with him but … to the devil with Ensign Highgate! No doubt he would learn sense in time … Phillip dismounted, thankfully stretching his cramped limbs. The men, he saw, without waiting for his order, had unlimbered and were standing by their guns, the cooks already at work brewing water for coffee and the bullock drivers attending to their exhausted charges under Midshipman Lightfoot’s exacting supervision.
“Well done, Mr Lightfoot,” he said again, as the boy came to report to him. “You can post a look-out on each gun and let the crews stand down. At this rate, it will be noon before we reach the river, and I don’t think we’re in danger of another attack—at least until we sight the bridge.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Lightfoot sang out the order and the seamen raised a subdued cheer. “You’re not looking quite so groggy as you did last night, sir,” the midshipman observed. “Are you feeling better?”
“A great deal better, thank you,” Phillip assured him. He smiled ruefully. “I rather think I slept most of the way here. However when I’ve had coffee and a bite to eat, I’ll be as right as rain, don’t worry.”
“I’ll see you get it right away, sir,” Lightfoot promised. He hesitated and then added, “Ensign Highgate said the Colonel was most concerned about you when the attack started last night.”
“Was he, indeed?”
“Yes, sir.” The midshipman’s tone was unexpectedly stiff. “According to Highgate, he was afraid that command of the guns would have to be entrusted to a schoolboy—if you weren’t fit, I mean, sir. Those were his words and I—”
“And you took offence?” Phillip suggested.
Lightfoot avoided his gaze. “I did, yes, sir. Coming from Highgate, it was … well, an insult and he’d no right to say it.”
Phillip laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy was almost as tall as he was and, he reflected, inwardly amused, there were not very many schoolboys of seventeen who could lay claim, as young Lightfoot could, to be fighting in his third campaign. “You may tell Ensign Highgate from me, Mr Lightfoot, that I would entrust not only these guns but an entire ship’s company to your command … and without a moment’s hesitation, if the situation demanded it.”
“You … would you really, sir?” Lightfoot flushed with pleasure.
“You know damned well I would!” Phillip grinned at him. “You are an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy with nearly five years’ service behind you, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.” Lightfoot returned the grin a trifle sheepishly. “I’ll see about your coffee, sir, I … thank you, sir.”
The first pink tinges of sunrise were in the sky by the time the naval party had broken their fast and, after satisfying his hunger and gulping down two mugs of scalding black coffee, Phillip lay back, his head pillowed on his clasped hands, to take advantage of the last chance of relaxation he would probably get all day. The baggage train, preceded by a small procession of laden doolies, had just made its belated appearance and the men, as well as their cattle, would have to be permitted time to eat and rest, however impatient Colonel Cockayne might be to press on to the river. He could count on another half hour, he decided, and let his heavy lids fall.
But in spite of his feeling of weary lassitude, sleep did not come. He was anxious about George Crawford’s continued absence and his recent conversation with Lieutenant Arbor had increased his anxiety. Arbor’s opinion of his brother officer had, it was true, been reassuring. “If anyone can get away with it, Crawford will,” the grey-haired baggage master had said. “He knows this area like the back of his hand and he may even have friends—native friends—in Ghorabad who may still be loyal.”
All the same, he had condemned Crawford’s self-imposed mission as foolhardy and had gone on to hint that relations between Colonel Cockayne and the man he had so arbitrarily relieved of his staff duties had been strained for a long time— strained to the extent that Crawford had been compelled to transfer to another regiment. And … Phillip stifled a yawn. Both men, on different occasions, had offered differing reasons for “the almighty row”—as Arbor had put it—which had blown up between them. The Colonel’s had been the more damaging and certainly the more vindictive; of the two men, he himself liked and trusted Crawford. His feelings were instinctive; his doubts as to Cockayne’s ability as a commander and even of his sanity were much more than instinctive, however, and they had grown with each passing day. Now others, veteran campaigners like Arbor among them, were beginning to harbour the same doubts, to ask the same questions concerning the Colonel’s motives that he had asked and yet … He sighed in frustration, conscious that weariness was dulling his wits, preventing him from thinking clearly. There were some questions he hadn’t asked, because he had taken the answers to them for granted and, he supposed, because he regarded George Crawford as a friend and—like Arbor— admired his guts. But … why the devil had Crawford embarked on his perilous and entirely self-imposed mission?
His devotion to the Colonel’s daughter was the answer that instantly sprang to mind … and the one he himself had taken for granted. Many brave men had risked—and even sacrificed —their lives to save the women they loved since the outbreak of mutiny among the sepoy regiments, and there could be no doubt that George Crawford was a brave man. He had implied that he still cherished hopes of making Andrea Cockayne his wife, despite her father’s opposition to the match but … was tha
t his sole reason for taking his life in his hands and going— in defiance of the Colonel’s authority—to Ghorabad? Could it be, when he had had no means of knowing whether the unhappy girl was alive or dead? When …
“Sir … Commander, sir, there’s a party of horsemen approaching the column and I think Captain Crawford is with them, sir!” Midshipman Lightfoot sounded excited and Phillip roused himself, conscious of a pang. Dear God, and he had doubted a brave man, he reproached himself—doubted or, at any rate, questioned his motives … He sat up, feeling the sun warm on his face. “Are you all right, sir?” Lightfoot asked uncertainly, offering his arm. “Permit me to—”
Phillip shook his head impatiently and jumped up unaided. “I am perfectly all right, thank you, Mr Lightfoot. Where is Captain Crawford?”
“Over there, sir.” The midshipman pointed and Phillip took out his Dollond. With its aid, he was able to see George Crawford quite clearly. He was sitting hunched in his saddle, as if in the last stages of exhaustion, and with him were four native riders, one of whom had a square of white cloth attached to his lance-tip, which he was waving vigorously as a Sikh cavalry piquet cantered forward to intercept them. The Sikhs encircled the new arrivals, their commander saluting and, under their escort, Crawford and his party trotted up to the head of the resting column. A few scattered cheers greeted them, as the men recognized Crawford and word of his return spread; then the scarlet-clad figure of Ensign Highgate could be seen, as he thrust his way officiously past the little group which had started to gather about Crawford’s companions and the cheers faded abruptly to silence.
“He did it, by Jove!” Lieutenant Arbor was beside him and Phillip turned, smiling his relief.
“He did indeed. Shall we go and find out what news he has brought?”
“Without a summons from the Colonel?” Arbor demurred. “We shall be unwelcome, I fear, but I’m prepared to risk that, if you are, Commander.”
“I think, for what it’s worth, I owe George Crawford my support, Mr Arbor,” Phillip said. “The more so because I—”
“Hold hard, sir,” Arbor warned. He pointed, a wry little smile curving his lips. “Here comes the man himself—and he’s come to ask for more than your support, by the look of things. For God’s sake, that young idiot of an ADC appears to be trying to arrest him!”
Phillip followed the direction of his pointing finger, brows lifting in astonishment. George Crawford, still on his horse, was riding towards them, Ensign Highgate trailing after him on foot with drawn sword, his plaintive protests unheeded. A soldier, with seeming casualness, thrust out a booted foot and Highgate tripped over it, to measure his length on the dusty ground. When he jumped up, the man had vanished and blank, unsmiling faces met his angry gaze as he looked about him for the culprit.
Crawford, taking pity on him, said quietly, “All right, Benjy—go back to Colonel Cockayne and say that I will report to him as soon as I’ve washed the dust from my person.”
Benjamin Highgate recognised defeat. He saluted stiffly and obediently went to deliver his message. When he had gone, George Crawford slid wearily from his horse. His orderly, the big Highlander, Collins, appeared from nowhere bearing a bucket of water and a towel, and he gratefully plunged face and hands into the bucket, sloshing the tepid water it contained over head and neck.
“God, that’s better!” He towelled himself briskly.
“Coffee?” Phillip offered. “Or this?” He held out his flask. Crawford raised a wan smile. “Both, if you can spare them. I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb! John”—he recognised Arbor—“do me a favour, will you please? See to it that the men I brought with me are well treated.”
“Of course,” Arbor assented readily. “Damned well done, George … and good luck!”
“Thanks,” George Crawford acknowledged. He gulped down the coffee Lightfoot brought him, eyeing Phillip unhappily over the rim of his mug as he drank. The coffee finished, he splashed in whisky from the flask and sipped it with slow deliberation. “I’m playing for time, Hazard,” he said at last. “Putting off the moment when I must face Colonel Cockayne with the unpalatable truth. I thought I should feel some elation at proving him wrong but I don’t. I just feel—oh, God, a terrible sadness. You’ve guessed what the situation is, have you not?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Phillip admitted. “If you had brought good news, you’d hardly be keeping it to yourself. I take it the Colonel was wrong—or misinformed concerning his garrison? They are not still defending the fort?”
“No, they are not.” Crawford met his gaze squarely. “But some of them have survived and the Newab is holding them as hostages. I don’t know how many or in what condition—I was unable to find out. But I have been given to understand that most of the women and children are alive and that he’s prepared to bargain for them. They …” He hesitated and then went on painfully, “the whole garrison surrendered at the end of August, when word reached them that General Havelock had been forced to return to Cawnpore. They held out for as long as they could—presumably in the hope that Havelock would succeed in relieving Lucknow and would then send them help. But they never had a chance. That damned fort was indefensible! Nevertheless”—tears glistened unashamedly in his dark eyes—“they managed to defend it for over six weeks.”
“And what of Colonel Cockayne?” Phillip asked.
George Crawford’s mouth tightened. “It would appear that the Newab’s brother told us the truth before we hanged him.”
“Then he knew of the surrender?”
“He could not have failed to, if he was there. Or even if he escaped before it took place—damn it, he had to know!”
They were silent, looking at each other in dismay, both reluctant to put their thoughts into words. Finally Phillip said, “Then why deny it, in heaven’s name?”
“Because he knew he would never have been given troops for any purpose whatsoever excepting the relief of a British garrison under siege—and a surviving British garrison at that,” Crawford returned bitterly. “Sir Colin Campbell’s first objective is to secure Futtehghur and the Doab, after which he intends to launch a full scale attempt to recapture Lucknow. Lucknow has always been his main objective, Hazard. Punitive expeditions into Oudh come much lower in his scale of priorities—he made that abundantly clear and I’m quite sure that Cockayne was aware of it. But that’s what this has been, from the start, has it not—a punitive expedition? Whatever excuses Cockayne may have made.”
“Yes, without a doubt,” Phillip confirmed, with equal bitterness.
Crawford controlled himself with a visible effort. “Taking the most charitable view of Colonel Cockayne’s behaviour,” he said. “I imagine he must have convinced himself that the entire garrison were murdered by the Newab following their surrender and that he’s become obsessed with a desire to avenge them. I’ve racked my brains for another explanation and I can’t find one. I cordially detest the man, as you know, but I cannot believe that even he would have risked the lives of the survivors of the garrison if he had known that there were any survivors—not with his wife and daughter among them.”
His reasoning made sense, Phillip thought. It was the only possible explanation—unless, as at times he had feared, the Colonel’s sufferings had reduced him to madness … Out of the tail of his eye, he glimpsed a file of red-jacketed soldiers moving towards them, an officer at their head.
“What now, my friend?” he asked, gesturing to the approaching file. “You are about to be summoned forcibly to the Colonel’s presence, unless I’m much mistaken. You said that the Newab was prepared to bargain for the lives of his hostages, didn’t you? Have you proof of that?”
“I have.” George Crawford had himself under stern control now. “I have brought back his proposals for Cockayne’s consideration and, please God, his acceptance. The Newab’s vakeel, Mohammed Aslam, came with me to vouch for his master’s good faith and to implement the terms, if Cockayne agrees to them. He—”
“Ar
e they such that he can agree to them?” Phillip put in. “He must agree to them; it’s our only hope of getting the hostages out of Ghorabad alive! But”—for all his rigid control, Crawford’s hand was trembling, Phillip realised, as he felt it close about his arm—“I dare not trust myself to put them to him without your backing, Hazard. I can count on you, can’t I?”
“I’ll back you to the hilt, my dear fellow,” Phillip assured him. “Needless, I hope, to tell you, I echo John Arbor’s sentiments. You’ve done magnificently!”
“Thanks,” Crawford acknowledged. “Let us make poor Williams’s task easier for him, shall we?”
They moved towards the approaching file, curious eyes following them. Captain Williams, red of face but determinedly formal, brought his escort to halt. “I have orders for you to report to Colonel Cockayne immediately, sir,” he announced, addressing Crawford.
“Or to arrest me if I don’t, Alan?” Crawford challenged dryly. “Is that it?”
“I … yes, I’m afraid so, I …” Poor young Alan Williams’s colour deepened. “The Colonel is in quite a state. You are holding up the column and—”
“Don’t worry, old man, I’ll make my report to him at once. Commander Hazard will accompany me, so you may dismiss your escort.”
“I can’t,” Williams said wretchedly. “But we’ll fall in behind you and the Commander.”
The Colonel was seated at his camp table, with half a dozen of the column’s more senior officers grouped around him, their faces tense and anxious. The gathering had all the formality of a field court martial and it was evident, when the column’s commander launched into a series of angry accusations against his one-time Chief of Staff, that he, at all events, was virtually treating it as such. George Crawford, having saluted, listened in impassive silence to the charges being levelled against him.
“Well?” Cockayne demanded wrathfully. “Do you deny having absented yourself from this column without permission and contrary to my orders?”
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