The riding master had confidence in his sowars. ‘If they take it careful, they could do it, sir. Me and the rissaldar could do it first to show them it can be done and to keep them from going at it too fast.’
‘Right. Once we’re down we’ll follow the river bank to that collection of huts. You see them? The ford will be there.’
Jones grinned to himself. John Bold was like all the young officers he had served under. They never had the doubts that came with a lifetime of serving with the colours. Perhaps it was better that way. He touched his hand to his turban. ‘I’ll tell the rissaldar, sir, will I?’
‘Yes, do so. We march in exactly five minutes, Sergeant.’
‘Sir!’
While he waited, John loosened his pistol in the leather holster to the left of his saddle. It might come in useful in an emergency, but he would rely mainly on his sword. He drew the long heavy blade, with its razor-sharp edge, and without orders from the rissaldar his sowars did the same, the dark young faces set and determined. This would be their first action, but John knew he could rely upon them. He stood in his stirrups, voice raised above the roar of the cannon and the fanatical shrieks of the advancing Arabs. Bold’s Horse ... Bold’s Horse will advance — at the trot!’
As one the half squadron moved off, the men sitting proud in their saddles, contemptuous of danger. John felt a warm glow of pride, then concentrated on the business of getting them safely down the nullah.
They breasted the rise in a tight bunch, jostling, digging in their spurs and jerking hard at the bits so that the horses’ mouths foamed and their heads quivered with the biting pain. But even the worst riders among them knew that they must maintain control over their mounts now.
Cautiously Jones and the rissaldar, keeping a short rein, went over the edge and disappeared. John swung his head to catch the slightest noise coming from the dead ground. Nothing save the clatter of their hooves and the slither of falling shale. He hesitated no longer. ‘Forward!’ he cried and waved his sword.
They went over. Before them stretched a steep slope littered with boulders and covered with grey shale but clear of sharp-shooters. Heaving back in the saddle, cruelly tightening the bit, he started to descend, his mount’s forelegs thrust straight out, the hindlegs half-crouched, acting as a brake. A great cloud of dust rose from the half squadron as the mounts slithered and skidded down the slope, the troopers exerting all their strength on the reins, the rowels of their spurs already tipped with blood where they dug them savagely into the terrified horses.
Yard by yard they advanced, while to their front, Jones and the rissaldar boldly turned their horses to left and right to ensure that no one broke the ranks and started a panic which could only lead to self-destruction.
John’s shoulder muscles burned with the effort of controlling his panicky horse. But even while he concentrated on getting down, he realized that their luck could not last much longer. The dust they were raising would not go unnoticed by the Arabs.
The roar of the musket came from only twenty yards away. The Arab who fired it could not miss in those packed ranks of sweating horsemen. A sowar screamed shrilly, threw up his arms and slipped out of his saddle, to be trampled by the horses coming behind.
John watched helplessly. God willing, the sowar was dead already. Instead, as a figure in white loomed up from the cloud of dust, he didn’t hesitate. His sword hissed down to cut right through the man’s turban and into the bone of his skull.
As musket balls started hissing in from both sides, John made a quick decision. They would be slaughtered in the narrow nullah if they didn’t move swiftly. ‘Gallop!’ he cried shrilly above the noise. ‘Bugler sound the gallop ... for God’s sake!’
Instantly the shrill urgent notes of the gallop rang out. The men cheered, released their bits and raced pell-mell down the slope.
Then they were down, with only that one man lost, the troopers laughing crazily with relief and the rissaldar bellowing his usual sexual insults at them for their slackness. The sound of musketry died away behind but they were not out of danger yet. As they trotted the sweat-lathered, frisky horses alongside the brown, slow-flowing waters of the Nag, it was Jones who first spotted the robed figures where John had planned to ford the river crossing and shouted, ‘The heathens are among the huts, sir!’
John flushed angrily. He should have anticipated that they would attempt to defend the ford. But there was no time for self-recrimination now. The Arab mercenaries were setting up a leather-bound cannon in the middle of the track.
Already one of them was ramming down the ball into the muzzle. It wouldn’t take a minute before the devils fired. If he ordered his men to ford the river here, it might be deep enough to slow them in mid-stream, sitting ducks. It had to be the ford.
‘Bugler, sound the charge!’ he cried. The instrument blared. A great cheer went up from Bold’s Horse, as if that shrill sweet sound had released them of all tension, all doubts. Bent low over the manes, swords drawn and level with their mounts’ necks, they surged forward, crying obscenities.
Their formation fell apart. It was to their advantage, though the rissaldar shrieked curses on their misbegotten heads. In the same instant that the cannon thundered and a chain-shot — two cannonballs linked by a length of chain that would slice down anything in its path — the split formation streamed to left and right of a group of dusty palms. The chain-shot howled harmlessly into the distance and the sowars galloped on madly, laughing crazily like a bunch of silly schoolboys just released after a long day in class.
Again the ancient cannon thundered. The ball hurtled towards them, black and frightening. It hit the earth, sod flying high, then reared up and slammed into a chestnut. The horse went down on broken legs, its chest a mess of blood. The rider dropped to his knees, unhurt. The rissaldar barely paused as he bent down and scooped up the shocked sowar as if he were a feather and then they were riding on again, the trooper clinging on to the rissaldar’s waist for grim life.
An Arab thrust up the ramrod like a pike. John parried, turned the staff, and his sword came hissing down. The Arab reeled back, blood spurting from a great gaping wound across his face like pulped tomato. Now Bold’s Horse were in among the huts, slashing and hacking with primeval fury, carried away by that old unreasoning bloodlust of battle, horses rearing whinnying on their hindlegs as the fight raged all around in a fury of grunting and harsh swearing.
A tall Arab with rapacious features grabbed for Sergeant Jones’ boot and tried to tug him from his horse. He had not reckoned with the veteran. Snarling like a rabid dog, Jones bent down and slammed his sword hilt into the man’s face. His nose smashed. He went reeling back, blood splattering the dust like great gobs of red rain.
A minute later they were through, gasping like bellows, some of them so exhausted that they fell over the horses’ necks, swords bloody to the hilts.
‘Sound recall,’ John gasped hurriedly, for already the attack on the ridge had failed and the survivors were streaming back down in their hundreds. Bold’s Horse had been spotted and insurgents were beginning to point in their direction. It wouldn’t be long before they attacked in strength.
The young bugler, now minus his turban, blood running down his face, needed no urging. Even as he sounded the call, a great roar went up from the Arabs.
The noise was too tremendous for orders to be heard. John waved his sword and jerked his mount round and into the dark brown water, praying desperately that this was really the ford. His men followed, the Arabs closing at their heels, waving their green flags, shouting their war cries.
The cavalry plunged on, the water rising all the time. In a moment, John thought, the horses would be swimming and that would be that. The Arabs would be lining the bank behind them, popping off the stalled troopers at their leisure as if at a turkey shoot.
Suddenly his face broke into a relieved grin. The water was shallowing. Already it was falling from his straining mount’s chest to its flanks. It had been the ford
after all and they were through!
Galloping next to him, throwing up white water to left and right, Sergeant Jones chortled, ‘Not bad for a bunch o’ heathen niggahs, sir, eh? ... Bold’s Horse has gorn and won its first battle!’ He winked hugely and John winked back.
He was right. Bold’s Horse had won its first battle. His heathen niggahs, as one day not only Sergeant Jones would call them, had written the first page of their illustrious history — in blood.
SEVEN
On the second day of their march north it had become clear that someone was laying a trail for them. They had spotted the rag Sambo on the afternoon of the first day across the river. It had been lying in the dust of the unmetalled road that led to Burrapore, shabby and worn, with one of the button eyes missing, but still recognizably European.
At the time they had thought little of the find, but on the second day when the rissaldar, who had the keen sight of a man half his age, spotted the marbles laid out in a crude arrow pointing north, they knew they were definitely on the track of the hostages. Fortunately no scavengers had come along after the prisoners to remove the signs they had left.
That evening over the dying embers of the campfire, with a tiger barking deep in the heart of the jungle and some mad dog howling at the yellow ball of the moon, the three leaders discussed the matter. Jones was suspicious. Perhaps they were being led into some sort of a trap; the captors couldn’t be so lax as to let the hostages drop things behind them. The rissaldar did not agree. In his strangely accented chi-chi English, he said, ‘Hindoo like children, even white children of sahibs. They give them freedom even if prisoner. They think children are good ... Not suspicious like Sergeant Jones think.’
‘But children are not that clever,’ Jones objected. ‘There’s a grown-up behind it, if you’re right, Rissalder Sahib. And everybody knows that women ain’t got much sense. Not a lot under their tiles,’ he sniffed contemptuously.
John smiled softly and said, ‘Well, the proof of the pudding is in the eating.’
The following day Jones was proved wrong. Just before noon they came across the site of an old camp beside the road. The rissaldar checked the ashes of the fires and judged they had gone out at least two days before.
Now while John tramped about trying to estimate how many men had made up the party Sergeant Jones made his discovery.
It was on a tree, the letters crudely burned into the trunk and ragged, as if done by someone with hands behind the back, secretly. ‘A ... L ... I ... ’ Jones spelled them out slowly, brow wrinkled with concentration. He straightened up, puzzled. ‘Now what’s that supposed to be, sir?’
John did not have to think long. ‘Someone has tried to write a name there — Alice! The wife of Captain Elders — it can only be her!’
Now they quickened their pace, despite the heat and the weariness of their mounts, sure that they were on the right track. Their discovery of the following morning, ghastly though it was, made it absolutely certain.
A child, a pathetically little bundle, lay huddled beside the road, virtually smothered in a writhing, buzzing, revolting swarm of bluebottles. They were everywhere, crawling over his glazed unseeing eyes, into his nostrils, ears, open gaping mouth. But there was no mistaking the colour of one of the exposed legs.
‘A white boy,’ the rissaldar called as they reined their horses. ‘It is them, sahib!’
John swung down and was about to cross over to the dead child when Jones caught him by the arm and said urgently, ‘With respect, sir, but don’t go near the poor little fellow!’
‘Why not?’ John demanded a little angrily.
‘Look at that muck over there, sir.’ Jones pointed to a heap of drying green slime. ‘And over there.’ He indicated a patch of green vomit hardened to the side of a tree.
‘But what is it?’
Softly, hiding his mouth with his hand so that only John and the rissaldar could hear, he said, ‘Cholera!’
‘What!’ John recoiled, face suddenly blanched, as if he had been struck. Everyone knew that the terrible killing disease was borne by the wind. Hastily he commanded, ‘At the trot — advance ... Hurry now, rissaldar, get them moving!’
The aged veteran needed no urging. He knew that cholera, the scourge of India, could fell a whole regiment in days. It was not wise to linger in any place where it had broken out. At a brisk canter Bold’s Horse departed, leaving behind the poor little mite, unburied and without even a cross to mark his passing.
There was little chance of a cure for cholera. Some patients were purged, others were bled. A few desperate wretches were even ready to be blistered all over their pain-racked emaciated bodies with red-hot branding irons to burn out the fever. But in the end, whatever the treatment, most succumbed, sometimes within hours.
John’s mind was in a commotion as he considered what to do now. That dead child would be only the first. Both captors and captives could be expected to catch the disease, so to overtake them now would be a grave risk to his men’s lives.
But John Bold was already becoming that hard unyielding man with a firm sense of purpose and duty that would mark him in Indian society in his mature years: an officer who would brook no weakness in himself or in others and who never shirked a task, however unpleasant or dangerous. Now he made his decision. They would continue the pursuit ...
One day later they came across more cholera victims, abductors abandoned in panic by their comrades in crime, their faces haunted and already sunken, their eyes bulging and too bright, green bile rushing in great body-shaking eruptions from their throats, their tongues swollen and cracked.
Jones nodded as they veered to the other side of the road whenever they came on these dying wretches, as if each new one confirmed his opinion that Lieutenant Bold was mad. For surely the people they sought to rescue would be infected and dying, too, if not already dead, by the time the cavalry caught up.
‘But that is the strange thing, Jones,’ John said slowly when he raised the point. ‘Since we came across that poor dead white boy, there have been no others.’
‘You mean whites, sir?’
‘Exactly.’
Two hours later they spotted them, perhaps smelled them would be a better description, for it was the stench that first attracted their attention — a stench like a cesspit being opened.
Cautiously, his stomach already churning, John led his men round a bend in the road and there they were. Perhaps a half hundred of them, some lying flat in their own filth. Others, squatting sullenly on their haunches, muskets between their knees, watched their dying comrades in the soulless manner of those who live in a country where life is cheap.
One of them staggered to his feet somehow, clutched a tree trunk like a sailor grabbing a spar in a gale, and began retching a bright green bile, his white robe indescribably stained.
Jones nodded glumly. ‘It’s the plague all right, sir.’
John nodded his understanding whilst his eyes scanned the crude encampment for the captives. But there were no white faces in that crowd of black ones.
The rissaldar came up. ‘Sahib,’ he whispered, ‘I have looked around the back... There are no white sahibs anywhere.’
John’s bewilderment grew. The abductors were about at the end of their tether, but would they have let their prisoners go without attempting to slaughter them? Or could the whites all have died? That seemed hardly possible. They’d have come across the bodies. So where were the women and children? He had to make a decision — and soon. The longer they waited outside the enemy encampment, the more they risked being infected by the airborne disease. He could, of course, simply leave, but then he would never know what had happened to their captives. He had to speak to one of the enemy. But how?
Almost as if he could read the young officer’s mind, Jones said, ‘Sir, I must admit that I’m afraid of the plague. A man who doesn’t fear it is a fool. But I’m not that afraid. I’ve been around cholera before — and survived!’
John forced a w
an smile. He could imagine that Jones had survived a lot of things in India, and would probably survive a lot more. ‘Go on,’ he said encouragingly, while the rissaldar edged closer, listening.
‘Well, sir, first we need red-hot branding irons.’
‘Why?’
‘Because any one of the sowars who looks funny, gets it applied to his bowels. It works up the intestines. They say it’s a cure.’
John winced.
The little Welshman didn’t notice. ‘Then we all piss in our neck-pieces and use them to cover our mouths. Keeps the plague away. Then we surround the place and shoot the lot of them at a distance — except that cove there.’ He pointed a dirty finger at a hulking, black-bearded man who kept a little apart from the rest and was actually eating — a chapatti — in this rural charnel house. ‘That one looks all right, he’s the one we keep alive for questioning ... ’
Hardly daring to breathe the young troopers crouched in position, surrounding the unsuspecting encampment. Wet smelly masks across their faces, waiting for the order to fire, each man had already selected his target.
At the far side of the glade the rissaldar raised his sword to acknowledge that his section was ready. John aimed his pistol at one of the few armed abductors still on his feet, squinted through the sight, controlled his breathing and pulled the trigger carefully. The pistol barked. A cloud of powder. The muzzle jerked slightly. Suddenly the man let his mouth drop open stupidly. He staggered, staring at the spreading patch of scarlet on his dirty tunic. The musket fell from abruptly nerveless fingers. Next instant he pitched face forward to the ground, dead before he hit it.
The single dry pistol shot acted as a signal and John’s troopers opened fire. At that distance even the worst shot among them couldn’t miss.
That first devastating volley galvanized even the sick into violent, frantic action. The balls slammed into their thin weakened frames, as they tried desperately to bolt for cover. Men went down screaming and cursing everywhere. They grabbed at their shattered bleeding limbs, howling with pain, only to be hit once again. A few attempted to seize their weapons and charge their attackers. To no purpose! They were cut down within a few yards.
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