Bugles at Dawn

by Charles Whiting

  He said, while the fat stupid white woman, who seemed to be the Ranee’s current favourite, sulked on a pile of cushions in the background, eating sweetmeats, ‘Ranee, you have had your pleasure.’ He looked at her male dress pointedly.

  ‘It was a success, wasn’t it, Cheethoo!’ she retorted hotly, face flushed.

  ‘The time for such games is over. Now we must make decisions about the future.’

  ‘What decisions?’ The Ranee glanced over at Alice, who had just spat out another sweetmeat half eaten — sulking because she was being ignored. The Ranee told herself that Alice was a very stupid person. Still it gave her a secret thrill to know that this white woman was hers totally, more than any other woman would be under the thrall of a husband. She, a brown woman, had made that foolish white woman do things to her that a husband could never dare dream about.

  ‘What are we going to do next, Ranee?’ he said coldly, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts.

  ‘We sit the siege out here until either the British leave or the Mahratta princes go to war with them again, and then we seize our own chance.’ She opened and closed her hand, a fierce look in her eyes. At that moment he thought of her as a spider waiting for its prey to walk into its trap.

  ‘What if neither takes place?’

  ‘It will, rest assured, Cheethoo. Either one or the other. One only needs to have good nerves, doesn’t one?’

  He flushed a little, knowing what she implied. ‘My nerves are exceedingly good, Ranee. But here in Burrapore there is no room for me and my people to manoeuvre. We are the ones who are trapped.’

  She hesitated a moment, as if she might be having difficulty in formulating her words, but the fires which burned within her took control and she blurted out, ‘You mean really, you wish to ride and loot? The cause of India means nothing to you!’

  ‘India!’ Cheethoo shrugged his broad shoulders cynically. ‘What is India?’

  Her eyes gleamed dangerously. ‘There are too many like you Cheethoo,’ she hissed, her voice now full of menace. ‘Ever since the Europeans came and destroyed the old Moghul Empire, princes and chiefs have concerned themselves only with their own petty kingdoms. They have forgotten that our great country exists. Now at last we have a chance to redress the balance, drive the British out of our country for ever and begin restoring our ancient glories and power once more.’ She stopped for lack of breath, her breasts tied down beneath the man’s shirt heaving.

  Cheethoo remained unmoved. ‘The British came as conquerors and imposed their will on the people. The Moghuls before them did the same. In all our history we have been united only by outsiders.’ He sighed, as if it was too much of an effort to continue, but he did so all the same; this foolish perverted woman needed to be taught the harsh facts of life. ‘Ranee, we are not a people and we are not a country. We are a collection of many peoples and many countries. They can only be forced into unity. You and your Mahratta princes will never be able to do that forcing. Why delude yourselves?’ Unable to restrain his contempt for her and her foolish woman’s ideas, he hawked and spat on the floor at her feet.

  On the pile of silken pillows Alice paused in her chewing. She did not understand the words the male pig had uttered; but she recognized the deadly insult well enough. She gawped open-mouthed.

  The Ranee’s hand fell down to the little jewelled sabre at her waist.

  Cheethoo looked down at her haughtily, his hands well away from his own fearsome sword. His look told the Ranee everything. The brigand was contemptuous of her — a woman playing games. She decided then that she would eliminate Cheethoo, Chief of the Pindarees.

  It was thus that Padmini came upon them: a scene from a melodramatic Indian play with the actors frozen into their positions for ever; that stupid English whore with her mouth open, dribbling sweetmeats; the tall haughty Pindaree chief staring down at her mistress challengingly; and the Ranee herself, face flushed with rage, hand on sword, eyes flashing murder.

  Hastily she raised her hands to her forehead in salute, aware of crisis. For a long time the Chief of the Pindarees had been quietly disgusted by the Ranee’s behaviour, but he had tolerated it because he needed her for his attacks south. Now that tolerance had come to an end. The tension and hatred between them was tangible; she could smell it in the air. ‘We have intelligence, Ranee,’ she said swiftly.

  For a moment her words did not seem to register. The actors in this strange little drama remained motionless. Then the Ranee shook her hand, released the hold on her sword and said flatly, not taking her burning gaze off Cheethoo, ‘What intelligence? From where?’

  ‘From the English camp. They are preparing something.’

  ‘What?’ the Ranee asked in that same toneless voice.

  ‘We know not what, mistress. But our spies tell us the English are planning some move.’

  While she spoke Cheethoo made up his mind. He realized now that the Ranee of Burrapore had been using him all along for her own purposes. It was time — for better or worse — to disassociate himself from her. Let that crazy woman face the future, whatever it brought, triumph or tragedy, without him. He raised his hands to forehead in a parting greeting and stalked out.

  For what seemed a long time no one stirred. Finally, Alice could stand the brooding silence no longer. She had understood little, only that there had been a break between her beloved mistress and the big, evil-looking brigand. She said, beginning to chew the sweetmeat once more, ‘You showed him, my darling ... You gave him an earful all right!’ She popped another sweetmeat into her slack mouth and began chewing happily.

  Padmini shot her a murderous look, but the Ranee ignored her; she had other things on her mind. ‘You think that he will abandon us?’ she asked sharply.

  Padmini nodded, a worried look on her face now.

  Like some caricature of an ancient Indian warlord the Ranee paced the chamber, hand on sword.

  Padmini waited. Alice waded through the sweetmeats, totally unaware that a world was falling apart all around her. Finally Padmini could stand the tension no longer. ‘Mistress,’ she quavered, her love for the Ranee filling her soft voice with anxiety, ‘will you now declare a truce with the English — while there is still time?’

  The Ranee paused in her pacing and stared as if she was seeing her chamberlain for the very first time. ‘A truce!’ she echoed, and threw back her head and laughed out loud — and there was something crazy about that laugh now. ‘Never, Padmini. I am a princess of India. A princess of India does not make a truce. No, never! A princess of India dies with her sword in her hand.’

  Padmini’s head drooped. Slowly great soft tears began to course down her brown cheeks.

  NINE

  Ne’er in a score-and-seven years in the King’s Service in the Remote East, (wrote Sir John Campbell many years later) did I ever experience a night like that.

  The Duplicity of the Eastern Native is well-known to all who have ever served in that clime. That night, however, it was exceeded by good measure. Never could there have been a night of such alarums and excursions, compounded by treachery and counter-treachery, which commenced when those brave fellows of the Army of the Deccan first crossed the raging torrent of the Burra River and set spark to the train of events that resulted in those barbaric savageries carried out by the well-known She-Devil of Burrapore.

  Even now, all these years later, I recall well the words I uttered last to Captain (now General) John Bold, as he commenced that daring undertaking on the banks of the Burra ...

  *

  ‘Mark well, My Lord Hastings’ orders!’ Campbell yelled above the roar of the swollen river as John’s little force, slipping and cursing in the thick mud, toiled to position the two pontoon rafts which would carry them across. ‘Your objective is the main gate, nothing else! Once you have taken it and given the signal, we will storm the lower fort. But the capture of that gate is essential. If you fail ... ’ The dour Scot left the rest unsaid, and despite being soaking wet and his feet freez
ing in the icy water, John grinned in the darkness. General Sir John Campbell had probably already written them off.

  Only three hours ago Lord Hastings had come out of the malaria coma and given his decision, limiting John Bold, using his own men and one single company of native infantry, to the capture of the main gate. And promptly lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  Now John hurried about his task, urging on his men, who were looking at the raging white-wild Burra with increasing apprehension. Laden down with equipment, they had little chance of surviving if one of the pontoons overturned.

  The infantry were particularly fearful. Unlike Bold’s Horse, they were unfamiliar with rivers. In the growing darkness they huddled in frightened groups, grumbling softly, flashing increasingly apprehensive glances at the swollen Burra; while the brawny rivermen who would paddle the pontoons across fought to steady their craft and embark the troops.

  It was then that a worried voice called out of the grey gloom, ‘Captain Bold ... Captain John Bold!’

  He turned and started a little. It was Captain Elders. He was in rags and he smelled, and since John had last seen him his hair had turned completely white.

  ‘Oh, hello, Elders,’ he said uneasily, ‘are these sepoys yours?’

  ‘Yes, Bold. I volunteered my Company. I want in at the kill.’ He coughed thickly and John could see, even in that poor light, that Captain Elders was a dying man. ‘Take my revenge on that female swine up there for what she has done to my poor Alice.’

  John said nothing. What could he say?

  ‘I’ve been ill, you see,’ Elders continued, taking John’s silence for assent. ‘The usual fevers — or I would have been to see you earlier. Do you mind my asking ... but did she die quickly, cleanly, Bold?’

  John wished that the earth would open up and swallow him. His mind’s eye flooded with a vision of fat Alice, clad in the transparent gear of a houri, pawing the Ranee’s hand in that perverse, possessive manner of hers. Somehow he managed to stutter, ‘Yes, yes, Elders, it all went very quickly.’

  ‘Thank God, thank God for that!’ Elders said, voice choked a little, ‘For poor Alice ... ’

  At that very moment Captain Elders’ poor Alice’ was a very frightened woman. Abruptly the little world she had built for herself with the Ranee seemed to be falling apart. It had started when Cheethoo had insulted her lover by spitting at her feet. Now she realized that for the Ranee the gesture was more than an insult; it signified the end of the alliance — and the Ranee was not prepared to allow Cheethoo to leave Burrapore just like that.

  As she huddled on her cushions, the evening plate of fruit and sugar almonds forgotten in her growing fear, Alice listened as the Ranee and that great boor of a Frenchman, who had always looked at her as if he were mentally stripping the clothes off her, plotted. Although they spoke in whispers, the Frenchman’s English — English was their lingua franca — was so bad, that the Ranee had repeated herself several times. More than once she heard the word ‘kill’ and twice she heard the Ranee say, eyes flashing fire, ‘He must not escape ... he must die this night!’

  ‘But why?’ Alice asked when the Frenchman had swaggered out. ‘Why must Cheethoo die?’ She caressed the Ranee’s hand, blue eyes filled with worry.

  The Ranee looked at her coldly, as if she were seeing Alice for the fool she was for the first time. ‘Not because he insulted me ... but because he insulted India.’

  ‘I don’t understand, dearest,’ she stuttered, feeling that look like a knife.

  ‘Imbecile!’ the Ranee snapped. ‘Why do I waste my time on such a fool?’

  Alice’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But I am just a mere woman,’ she simpered. ‘I do not understand — ’

  The sudden thunder of cannon from outside the walls brought the Ranee to her feet, hand at sword. ‘It seems that you are not the only fool in Burrapore this night,’ she said, as outside the great drum began to beat the alarm. ‘The English are attacking again. What possessed them? Do they want to fling away their stupid lives for nothing?’ and with that she was gone, swaggering just like the Frenchman.

  Alice stared after her open-mouthed, heart beating wildly, face white with fear. She had just been party to a planned murder. Worse — now she had lost the Ranee’s love. If she had ever had it?

  She had been a fool, of course, a blind, lovesick fool who had been taken in by the wealth and trappings, the blandishments of that niggah — that perverted woman! The Ranee had seduced her, there was no doubt about that. That black monster had made her into a monster herself, doing terrible things that a decent man like James Elders would never have expected from her. What a degraded creature she had become!

  On impulse, she clawed at the ‘niggah finery’, as she thought of it, ripping the fine silks, tearing the transparent trousers from her ample thighs until she squatted there completely naked, sobbing with self-pity and rage, murder in her heart ...

  Cheethoo listened to the thunder of the guns, lying on a humble straw pallet with his hands clasped beneath his head, in his dark, bare chamber. There was not much time to waste. The English would persist in their attacks. One day they would succeed and before then he must be safe inside a Pindaree mountain fastness far to the north.

  Cheethoo frowned suddenly. He had caught another noise apart from the boom and crash of cannon — something secretive, furtive. Immediately he was fully awake. Slowly, soundlessly, his right hand slid beneath his pillow and was comforted by the familiar hardness hidden there.

  Now the sound was just outside his door. He could hear the rusty handle being tried. He peered through the grey gloom. The door was being opened stealthily. His finger sought and found the trigger of the pistol. He cocked it silently.

  Cooler air began to fan his right cheek. From half-closed eyes, as if he were fast asleep, he peered at the figure standing there motionless, watching. He had the impression that there were others in the corridor.

  An eternity passed — in reality, a matter of seconds. With great deliberation the figure stepped into the room, gaze fixed on the reclining figure. Cheethoo tensed. The intruder raised something above his head. Cheethoo caught the faint gleam of silver. A knife?

  He waited a moment longer. The killer was almost on to him now. He could wait no more. In one and the same gesture, he pulled the big horse pistol from beneath his head and fired. There was a great ear-splitting roar and bright flame.

  The intruder gave a shrill scream, high and hysterical like that of a woman as he was propelled against the wall, to hang there for an instant like a bundle of wet red rags before beginning to slide down it, trailing blood.

  Cheethoo was on his feet. There was an angry curse in a language he did not know, the metallic slither of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. Cheethoo grabbed his own great curved blade from the floor. It was always unsheathed at night; that was the way of the Pindaree.

  A tall white man with a scarred face sprang at him. It was the feringhee who was training the Ranee’s cavalry — a killer sent by her, he knew that instantly. He crouched and waited.

  The Frenchman came at him in a wild fury, slashing left and right. Cheethoo knew the technique. It was calculated to frighten an opponent, but he remained calm and parried the blows, first one way and then the other, doing so almost mechanically, taking the measure of this great, scar-faced foreigner.

  Suddenly he acted. As Nom de Dieu aimed a great slashing blow at his head, Cheethoo parried. Metal struck metal with a sharp clang. They poised there, locked in a test of strength, as Nom De Dieu exerted the full pressure of his brutal shoulder muscles. Then Cheethoo slipped beneath his guard. His sword plunged home and Nom de Dieu reeled back, blood arcing brightly from a gaping wound in his left side.

  Behind him his fellow assailants jockeyed for position in the corridor, urging the wounded Frenchman to get out of the way so that they could attack.

  But Nom de Dieu shook his black curly head ponderously like a wounded, savage animal, preparing for another char
ge, but not wishing to reveal the murder in its heart. Suddenly, startlingly, he rushed Cheethoo again. His bladed hissed furiously from side to side as it cut the air. It sang with the sheer savagery of that wild attack.

  Cheethoo kept his nerve. He had faced the fury of the battlefield often enough. Hacking from left to right, he parried with all his strength. Time and again their blades locked. Angry blue sparks flew up. The force of the blows sent fierce pains shooting up his arm. Somehow he held the other man, but slowly he was being forced back. If he allowed himself to be pinned to the wall, he was lost, with no room to manoeuvre. If he dodged beneath that lethal blade and turned his back to the door, the other assassins would cut him down in an instant. Already they were baying for his blood like wild dogs, cheering on Nom de Dieu and yelling encouragement.

  Suddenly he had it. It was a wild chance, a crazy one. But there seemed no other alternative. He measured the distance to the nearest window, an arch-like structure devoid of glass, thank God. He parried another vicious slash. The Frenchman was breathing harshly now. His face was crimson with the effort, but by the look of triumph in his eyes, Cheethoo knew that his opponent felt he was winning. The coup de grace wouldn’t be long now.

  Cheethoo acted. It was a plan of despair, but there was no other way. Parrying another huge lethal slash, he altered the hold on his sword. Taking it like a spear in his sweating hands, he threw it with all his strength at the Frenchman — who screamed as the point sank into his unprotected chest. For a long moment he simply stood there, his weapon still upraised, staring at the vibrating blade protruding from his breast, a slow trickle of blood already beginning to escape. Slowly, very slowly, his sword arm began to fall, as if he had become infinitely weary. His knees started to fold.

  A great cry of rage rose from his accomplices. Next moment Nom de Dieu, who had ridden with Murat and had once been the lover of Princess Hortense herself, sank to the floor dying, killed in a sordid attempt to murder a black bandit.