Bugles at Dawn

by Charles Whiting

‘Do you mean, My Lord,’ General Sir John Malcolm asked in his broad Dumfries accent, ‘that it was taken from the body of a Frenchman?’

  ‘No, that was the irritating thing. There was no body, just this and other pieces of military equipment, including a pistol engraved with the regimental number of the Chasseurs d’Alsace.’

  Casually Major Rathbone took the cheroot from his thin lips. ‘Perhaps some niggah bought the stuff in the native bazaar, my Lord?’

  Hastings looked hard at Rathbone. He did not like the man, though he was brave enough. ‘Hardly likely, Rathbone,’ he snapped. ‘There is this, too.’ He opened the sabretache and pulled out a somewhat ragged sheet of paper. ‘A French carte d’identité, issued in the spring of Waterloo.’ He let his words sink in. ‘It is unlikely that such a thing would have found its way on to some Indian bazaar so swiftly.’

  There was a murmur of agreement and Rathbone shrugged slightly, as if the whole subject was a bore anyway. ‘I concede, My Lord, that you are probably right.’

  Hastings ignored the comment. ‘You see the problem, gentlemen?’

  They did. ‘You mean, My Lord,’ Sir John Malcolm said, face brick red with anger, ‘that the Indian princes are recruiting French officers to lead their armies?’

  ‘That seems so,’ Hastings agreed. ‘Before they returned to France to fight with Napoleon, there were French officers who were bought by the native princes for gold. In virtually every case they were highly regarded fighters, who put some stiffening into the natives’ levies, just as do our own Company officers give their black troops. Now, it appears, they’re back.’

  The room was silent as the officers considered this new threat, until Sir John Malcolm ventured, ‘If they are here, then, My Lord, the less time they have to train the native troops of the Mahrattas in European battlefield practice, the better. I suggest that the Grand Army marches against the Mahrattas as soon as Your Lordship finds it convenient.’

  There was a rumble of ‘hear-hears’.

  ‘Time is of the essence. Let us break those damned princes once and for all!’

  ‘Agreed ... agreed,’ a worried Hastings said, raising his hands for silence. ‘I agree fully with your desires and it shall be done as speedily as possible. But if I only knew what those damned Pindarees would do when we march into Gwalior ... Oh, where in the devil’s name is Lieutenant John Bold ... ?’

  TWO

  Later when it was finally assaulted and captured, the Ranee of Burrapore’s ‘chateau’ turned out to be a very tough, almost impregnable fortress. ‘The Gibraltar of the East’, The Times would say in its dispatch on the storming of the place.

  Atop a small mountain not overlooked by any other of the Burrapore Range, it consisted of an upper and lower fort. Around the upper fort, with one exception, were sheer precipices of eighty to a hundred feet, surmounted by a wall closely loopholed for musketry. The lower fort was protected by strong gateways towering thirty feet and by flanking earthworks manned by cannoneers whose artillery was ancient yet would be devastating at close quarters. For any storming party would have to get within two hundred feet before they could assault the earthworks.

  Staring out of their quarters on the top floor of the upper fort at the silver snake of the Burra River far below, John Bold told himself any rescue force the Company might send would have a devil of a job on their hands.

  It was now over four months since they had been captured. He had long recovered from that tremendous blow over the head and his cellmate Sergeant Jones had finally regained the use of his right arm, which had been badly wounded by a French sabre. So far their imprisonment had not been severe. After that first surprising meeting with the Ranee of Burrapore he and Jones had not been placed in the vast underground dungeons of the lower fort, where his sowars were languishing. Instead, they had been lodged in this great bare echoing stone chamber, from whose slit-like windows they could see for miles.

  Their cell, locked, bolted and permanently guarded, was dirty and lousy, the dust of centuries cushioning the floor. Devoid of furniture save a table and two charpoys, its centre was a hole in the floor through which they could gaze down a dizzy drop. This hole was their only means of sanitation and when it was not in use they placed their bamboo table across it for fear that in the darkness of the long nights they might fall through it.

  Their food was adequate, but limited — the bitingly hot curries of the region, washed down with well-water and occasionally a kind of lemonade, but as the Ranee’s subjects were vegetarians there was never any meat. Even fish, save for an overripe, smelly fish paste, was absent from their diet.

  ‘If the Good Lord in His everlasting mercy,’ Sergeant Jones had exclaimed more than once at the sight of yet another vegetable curry, ‘could just let us have a piece of beef, only a very small piece, I’d be a happy man, Mr Bold!’

  But the Good Lord refused to grant that favour and they continued to lose weight steadily.

  At times John paced the chamber like a caged beast, racking his brains for some way of escape. The chance of Lord Hastings sending a rescue force was remote; they would have to save themselves.

  For a while he and Jones studied the possibility of tackling the guards when they brought their daily curry. The one, a tall dark sullen fellow with a great beak nose and jet-black beard, who they nicknamed Hawk-Face, was always accompanied by two armed guards. The other, Pudding-Face, a permanently frightened creature who might well have been a eunuch — his face was totally devoid of hair — never entered the cell but pushed their food through a flap in the great oaken door, not caring whether it slopped on the floor. In the end they decided it wouldn’t work. There were always other guards in the corridor when the food came.

  Sergeant Jones turned his attention to the slit-like windows. With a rusty nail he had found in the dust and sharpened laboriously on the stone flags, he finally prised out a section of the leaded glass and squeezed himself through to crouch in the slit like a cat. ‘See, sir, on the kind of vittles we get in this place, it ain’t difficult.’

  John tried the opening and had to agree. He could squeeze his six foot body through the gap just as easily as the undersized sergeant. But as he peered down the dizzying drop, along the sheer grey wall of the fortress, he knew that without ropes they didn’t stand a chance of escaping that way.

  Of course, the fortress was centuries old and the stone should be weathered and holed by winds and the passage of time. But as far as he could see, there were no gaps for toes and fingers to grip.

  Then, one February evening, John was dragged out of their prison and told he was to see the Ranee. The guards insisted he had to wash and then forced him to hold out his hands while they poured some highly scented fragrance on them.

  The Ranee of Burrapore, he surmised, liked him. Perhaps in standing up to those Prussian louts back in Aachen, in what now seemed another world, he had impressed her. At all events, she received him gracefully, insisted his chains should be removed, and even offered him a chota peg, a whisky and soda, although all alcohol was forbidden in Burrapore.

  Apart from the guards who were everywhere in the large hall, there were three women present: the Ranee herself, in European clothes complete with beaver hat, wearing it indoors as if she might be Lord Hastings himself; the Indian who had guided him to his first ‘audience’ with the Ranee and seemed some kind of chamberlain; and poor foolish Alice Elders, who simpered and pouted and pawed the Ranee, looking fat and awkward in the native dress, and whom the chamberlain eyed with undisguised animosity whenever she believed herself unobserved.

  Little was said while he drank his chota peg, hoping his face would not flush red with the unaccustomed alcohol. The Ranee asked if the food was sufficient and whether he wished for something to read. He did, and she offered him a battered copy of Robinson Crusoe and the third book of Richardson’s Clarissa in French. He thought of asking her for a Bible for Sergeant Jones, but decided against it. So far the Ranee was friendly and accommodating; he didn�
��t want to antagonize her.

  The Ranee of Burrapore, despite her male pretensions and undoubtedly perverse nature, exuded wilful purpose and intelligence. Her dark eyes shone with animal energy, even ferocity, and now John knew why Lord Hastings had called her ‘tigress’. There was something of that magnificent beast about her, ready to strike at any moment, whenever she thought the moment suitable. In comparison with her chamberlain and the stupid fat Alice, who was obviously completely besotted, the Ranee was a paragon.

  She was a beauty, too. Beneath that silly male clothing was a wonderful body designed to give pleasure to the male. She uncrossed her legs in the tight-fitting buck-skins and he saw for a moment the tight cleft between her thighs and remembered that dawn in Aachen. He swallowed hard with sudden longing, and shivered.

  The Ranee looked at him with her infinitely mysterious eyes and said softly, ‘You feel faint, Mr Bold? ... Some sudden fever ails you?’

  He could have answered, ‘Yes, the fever of desire, even lust.’ Instead he forced himself to reply, ‘No, it is nothing, madame.’

  She smiled softly, as if she knew well what ailed him, and said, ‘Apa Sahib has been defeated.’

  His heart leapt with joy at the news, but he felt it was wiser not to comment.

  ‘Soon, he will try once more with his Arabs and then he will suffer — undoubtedly — his final defeat. Then he will go whining to you English for forgiveness. He is a fool.’

  Again she waited for his comment. Again he said nothing.

  ‘Then Lord Hastings will march against the Mahratta princes.’ She looked at him, as if this time she expected an answer. At his side the chamberlain nudged him covertly, so he said, ‘I would think that would be My Lord Hastings’ intention, madame. But I am merely a junior officer, I know nothing of these great affairs of state.’

  Again she gave a soft knowing smile. ‘By now you know India a little, Lieutenant Bold, and realize that we weak women are regarded as chattels whose main function is to please their lords and masters in bed.’ She raised her voice and quoted, ‘Embrace your Master’s waist with your legs. While suspended your Master will insert his Jade Stem into your Flowery Path!’

  Suddenly her face hardened and she clenched her fist. ‘What male rubbish!’ she snorted, nostrils flared, eyes flashing fire. ‘I shall show those man-dogs of Mahratta princes what a weak woman can really do! Without me they will be utterly defeated and swept from the pages of history, their lands stolen by the English.’ She stopped, her chest heaving prettily, as if too angry to go on.

  John was intrigued. Despite the fact that the little chamberlain was now softly gripping his arm, he ventured, ‘And how will you do that, madame?’ She did not reply and he went on, ignoring the fingers now dug into his arm in warning, ‘You mean you and the Pindarees? Is that what you are intending, madame?’

  She looked at him coldly, in full control of herself once more. ‘Lieutenant Bold, I called you here to see for myself that you were keeping well. I am now assured you are. You may also rest assured that my other white captives are also being well looked after. They lack little.’ Suddenly she patted Alice’s hand possessively. ‘Though perhaps they are not as well fed as Mrs Elders.’

  John gave a sigh of relief. ‘And my sowars, how are they being looked after? You know — ’

  She clapped her hands, cutting him off. The chamberlain tugged at his sleeve, the guards surrounded him, and he was dragged from the chamber. But on the way back to his cell, mystified by it all, he saw another strange sight. Padmini (for that was the name of the chamberlain, as he learned later) halted the procession in a dark corridor and called softly through an open door.

  A woman with a baby appeared. Perhaps she was one of the Ranee’s favourites who had fallen from grace through having become pregnant; her robes were shabby and she looked undernourished and harassed. Hesitantly she looked at the guards, the prisoner, and then at Padmini. The latter gave her a reassuring smile, said something, and passed over a small leather bag of coins. The woman bowed low, touching her forehead in thanks, and stammered something as she attempted to kiss Padmini’s hand.

  Gently Padmini released herself and held out her arms. The gesture was all too obvious. She wanted to hold the baby.

  Hurriedly the woman passed over the naked brown child while Padmini fumbled with her bodice to reveal one small, perfectly shaped breast. The baby took it unhesitatingly and began to suck lustily.

  John saw the sweet, overwhelming yearning that crossed the chamberlain’s face; it was that of frustrated motherhood. A few moments later the infant rejected the milk-less breast and began to squall. Still smiling gently, her eyes far away and unfocused, Padmini handed the writhing child back to its mother, fastened her bodice, and without another word set off again, followed by John and the wooden-faced guards ...

  Now, two months later, all that the two captives knew of the outside world was what they gathered from their perch high above the fortress. One day they heard the telltale jingling of horses’ equipment which signalled European riders, not Indian; and although, strain as they might, they could not see the riders, the cries which floated up to their eyrie were in French. Nom de Dieu and his gang of mercenaries had returned. John wondered why.

  Two days later he found out.

  But before then, he was surprised by a visit from Padmini, who slipped into their cell at the same time that Pudding-Face brought their midday curry. Entering without fear, she indicated that the moon-faced guard should close and watch the door behind her.

  She spoke English. ‘There is danger, Mr Bold.’ Her eyes were worried and her face seemed thinner than before. ‘The men from the north have arrived. They bring danger for the Ranee — and you.’ And she looked up at him, as she said ‘you’, lingering over the word as if it were of some significance for her. John could have sworn that she was ‘smitten’, as his father would have put it, and was bewildered. Surely she wasn’t interested in men?

  ‘But who are these men from the north? — ’

  ‘Pssh!’ the warning hiss broke into his puzzled question. Hastily she backed to the door and scuttled off with Pudding-Face, who had uttered that warning, leaving John and Sergeant Jones to stare at their cooling pot of curry.

  THREE

  Two days later when the guards forced him into the Ranee’s presence her male outfit had been replaced by the traditional saree and her face had been rouged heavily in the Indian fashion. She sat demurely on an ornate throne-like chair listening to a tall majestic Indian, who, John guessed, was the reason she had changed her attire and banished her females from the place.

  He was an imposing man, lean and hard-looking, with one of the great hook noses seen in the north, who lectured at attentive Ranee as if she were some innocent slip of a girl. There was a grave, un-Indian dignity about him, too. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how to achieve those wants. Not even the Ranee of Burrapore could awe him.

  The rattle of John’s chains as he was thrust forward by his guards caused them to break apart like disturbed conspirators. The Ranee straightened up in her chair and the tall man walked swiftly into the shadow of the wall, but not before John recognized him. Last time, John and Georgina had seen him from hiding as he led a bunch of Pindaree bandits — whose trophies included the severed head of poor Captain de Courcy.

  The Ranee of Burrapore wasted no time, while the tall Pindaree leader stood brooding, face set in a look of noble savagery. ‘I have intelligence from Nagpore,’ she said. ‘That fool Apa Sahib has been deposed and his land annexed by the Company. Now your Lord Hastings has crossed the River Spira and engaged the army of the first of the Mahratta princes, Holkar.’

  At last rescue was at hand! The forces of Lord Hastings were coming ever closer to Burrapore!

  He must have smiled, for she said severely, ‘Do not rejoice too soon, Lieutenant Bold! My Lord Hastings has not reached Burrapore yet. Indeed, you may yet regret his victories over those fools, the Mahrattas. You kno
w the original reason why Apa Sahib took the white captives — and why my gallant French officers did not kill you and your soldiers on the spot?’

  Something clicked in John’s mind at the mention of ‘my gallant French officers’ and with the total recall of a vision he remembered the rat of a German in Aachen who had offered him a great deal of money if he were prepared to fight — for whom, he didn’t know then. That had been the reason for the Ranee’s visit to Europe. She had been recruiting officers for her own army!

  ‘You mean we are hostages too, not prisoners of war?’ he blustered, feeling he must now put up a brave front at all costs. ‘I rather think that My Lord Hastings will not be greatly concerned with the fate of a handful of white women and children — nor for a junior officer and his men, madame.’ He stared back at her bravely.

  She regarded him with her usual cynical, good-humoured guile. ‘I think you are mistaken, Lieutenant Bold,’ she replied softly. ‘Your home country is in the midst of a great boom caused by this war with the Mahrattas. Your merchants are paying tremendous prices for a passage to India. Several colonels have volunteered whole regiments to come and fight against the — heathen — here, and naturally to line their own pockets.’ She chuckled cynically. ‘London is in a furore. Shares are rising at a great rate. Tremendous profits are being made. Once the heathen has been defeated, what spoils in territory and gold will fall to the Company?’

  He listened as the words poured from her pretty mouth, realizing for the first time just how very much she hated the English and perhaps all men. But she hated herself, too, for being neither. ‘But what has all this to do with me?’ he asked calmly. ‘What do I know of London, shares, the Exchange?’

  She took a deep breath, forcing herself to be calm, while the tall Pindaree turned to look at them, his face calm and passive, like a gambler assessing the chances of two prize-fighters before placing his wager.

  ‘Then I shall tell you, John Bold,’ she said. ‘Imagine what would happen in London if I had you English put to death in Burrapore. Imagine the indignation! Imagine the Company’s embarrassment. A second Black Hole of Calcutta would not help their shares.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘And there are those in your Parliament who would seize upon the discomfiture of the Company like hawks. The Company is not liked in certain quarters — ’