Читать книгу Dust and Steel - Patrick Mercer - Страница 7

‘Christ, I never want to see anything like that again.’ Morgan and Bazalgette were sitting in the shady anteroom of the officers’ mess in the fort, chota-pegs in hand, icecubes clinking, still dusty from the maidan.

‘Aye, I thought I’d seen some sights at Sevastopol, but nothing like that.’ Bazalgette’s forehead was cut across by sunburn, stark white above his peeling nose where the peak of his cap had kept the rays at bay. He pulled hard at his brandy. ‘It hardly made the right impression on the sepoys when Mabutt from my lot and that other lad from Carmichael’s company fainted dead away. We’re supposed to be the hand of a vengeful God, not a bunch of swooning tarts. I didn’t see a single sepoy drop out, did you, Morgan?’

‘No, I didn’t, and I agree that our men droopin’ around the place ain’t good, but the jawans did have Bolton’s guns to help ’em on their way, didn’t they?’

As the Bengal officers had bellowed the orders to the three native battalions that sent them marching back to their own cantonments, the Horse Gunners had hand-wheeled the two loaded guns behind them just to make sure that there were no second thoughts. It was as well they did, Morgan had thought, because the sepoys had missed the sight of the sweepers, the lowest of the professions, picking up the remnants of their comrades and untying their limbs from the wheels of the guns, so defiling their caste and punishing the victims after death.

Then, with a muted curse, brushing dust from the knees of his overalls, Captain Richard Carmichael came stamping into the mess.

‘Hey, chota-peg, jildi, boy.’

It hadn’t taken the big Harrovian long to pick up the arrogances of the worst type of white officers, thought Morgan. In their own mess in England or Ireland, the soldier servants would have been called by the discreet ringing of a bell, but here in India, the mess staff hovered just out of sight, instantly gliding to obey their officers’ wishes.

‘Can’t you keep the noise down, Carmichael? Haven’t you had enough din for one day?’ Morgan asked peevishly, tired of Carmichael’s boorishness.

‘Enough Din…I’ve just seen more than enough of Din, spread all over the maidan, poor bugger…ha!’ chortled Carmichael. Morgan immediately regretted feeding him the line. ‘And I don’t know who you think you are to be telling me what to do…you’ve let that brevet quite go to your head, ain’t you?’

The mess waiter had slid into the room, proffering a tiny silver tray to Carmichael on which sat a beaker of brandy and soda: it was snatched without a word or gesture of thanks.

Morgan said nothing, fearing that Carmichael had recognised his indecision as the wing had marched down to the execution site. Bazalgette, sensing the tension, leapt into the breach. ‘The lad of yours who measured his length, is he all right?’ Typically, Bazalgette asked an innocent question, not seeking to tease or mock; equally typically, Carmichael saw a barb where none existed.

‘What, that bloody fool Jervis? Aye, about as all right as that greenhorn o’ yours. Nothing that a dozen strokes with the cat wouldn’t put right. Not that Colonel-go-lightly bloody Hume would let us touch the men’s lilywhite skins, would he?’

Morgan wondered at this outburst. Carmichael was normally much more subtle in his disloyalty.

‘Aye, those two made us look right fools in front of that Bombay rubbish – and the bloody natives, come to that. No, you have to wonder what dross the Depot’s sending us these days and – mark my words – today was just a flea bite compared with what we’ll come up against later, see if it ain’t,’ Carmichael continued at full volume.

‘Please, Carmichael, I’d thank you to remember that we’re guests in the “Bombay rubbish’s” mess at the moment,’ Morgan tried to hush him, ‘and we’re going to have to learn to trust them, and them us, if we’re going into action shoulder to shoulder in Bengal. So it makes no sense to upset our hosts, does it?’

‘Aye, Carmichael, the white officers are going to have quite enough on their plates making sure that their own men stay loyal, without us sticking a burr under their saddle as well,’ Bazalgette added.

Morgan watched Carmichael’s reaction. Full of bluster with just one opponent, when the pendulum swung against him, he instantly backed down – and what a damn nerve he had to talk about the quality of the soldiers: Carmichael, the officer who was always in an indecent rush to find himself a safe job on the staff, leaving the men and his regiment without a second thought.

‘Aye, well, we’ll soon see if we can trust the rascals or not, won’t we?’ Carmichael continued more quietly. ‘Now that you’re in the colonel’s pocket, Morgan, did he give you any idea where they might be sending us?’

‘No. There’s some talk amongst the Bombay officers that we’ll be sent up towards Delhi, but I think that’s just speculation.’

‘Oh, so nowhere near your old countryman Ensign James Keenan, and his peachy little wife, then?’ said Carmichael with a curl of his lip.

‘No…no, why should we?’ Morgan was instantly uncomfortable when Keenan’s name was mentioned. ‘The Keenans are up at Jhansi near Agra with the Twelfth BNI. Safe as houses, no hint of trouble – and there won’t be, if I know anything about the commandant, Colonel Kemp. He’ll keep ’em well and truly in line, so he will,’ he continued, keen to steer the talk away from his former sergeant and his wife.

‘Aye, just as well now that the Keenans have got a son and heir to look after.’ There was a troublesome note in Carmichael’s voice. ‘You remember Keenan, don’t you, Bazalgette?’

‘Of course I do; wounded at the Alma, wasn’t he, did a wonderful job at The Quarries and got commissioned in the field, sold out and then went off to an Indian regiment? Didn’t know you were still in touch with him, Morgan,’ Bazalgette answered.

‘Oh, I doubt if he is,’ Carmichael cut in before Morgan could answer, ‘but I guess he still corresponds with Mrs Keenan – much to discuss about life back in Cork, eh, Morgan?’

‘Haven’t had anything to do with either of ’em since they left Dublin last year,’ answered Morgan, a little too quickly,

‘No? Well, who knows when we’ll knock into them again.’ Carmichael drained his glass noisily and stood up. ‘That would be an interesting meeting for you, wouldn’t it? Right, must go – there’s any number of delightful loyal sepoys to re-train whom “we must learn to trust” – wasn’t that your phrase, Morgan?’ And he strode from the cool of the mess out into the heat of the early afternoon.

‘Christ, you’ve really got under his skin this time, ain’t you, Morgan?’ Bazalgette held his glass in both hands, sipping at the brandy. ‘Why’s he prosing on about Keenan, though? He’ll never be coming back to the Ninety-Fifth now that he’s taken John Company’s salt, and what’s the chance of seeing him again out here in India?’ Bazalgette watched Morgan carefully, much more interested in his friend’s impending answer than he was pretending to be.

Morgan hesitated; James Keenan had been his batman before winning laurels and a commission in the face of the enemy, whilst Mary, his wife, had been a chamber maid in Glassdrumman, the Morgan family home in Cork. The close relationship between the Protestant officer and the Catholic girl in the Crimea had caused rumour to swirl, particularly when Keenan, with a new and valuable commission in a Queen’s regiment and a heavily pregnant wife, had sold that same commission and scuttled off to India no sooner than the 95th had returned to Dublin eighteen months ago.

‘D’you really not know?’ Morgan asked quietly.

‘I’d sooner hear the truth from you, old lad,’ Bazalgette answered sympathetically.

‘Lord knows, it’s been a strain. The child – Samuel – is mine; he was conceived when Keenan was on trench duty and I was visiting the wounded just before we attacked The Quarries…I know, please don’t look at me like that.’ Bazalgette had heard the rumours, but it didn’t make the truth any less shocking. ‘So when the Keenans decamped to India I thought that that would be an end to the whole chapter.’

‘How much of this does Maude know?’ Bazalgette thought back to the Cork society wedding last year where the gallant Tony Morgan, hero and heir to a fair spread of pasture and farms on the Atlantic coast, had married Maude Hawtrey, judge’s daughter, so cementing the two families into one of the most influential Protestant enclaves in the county.

‘Nothing…nothing at all,’ Morgan answered, ‘and now she’s pregnant, so there’s to be another Morgan coming into the world, only this one shall be able to carry my name.’

‘Well, it’s a fine pickle, but as long as Keenan’s not hounding you, then I reckon that your usual streak of luck has seen you right.’ Bazalgette knew Morgan better than most of his friends, yet the subject had never even been hinted at before. ‘Why, there’s no reason to think that we’ll come across the twelfth BNI, nor that we’ll be sent up Jhansi way. I suspect that this is the last you’ve heard of it and, frankly, it’s not in Keenan’s interests to go blethering about his boy’s real father, is it?’

‘But that’s the whole goddamn point, Bazalgette,’ Morgan blurted, holding the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. ‘He’s my son – mine and Mary’s – not bloody Keenan’s. Jesus, the girl only married Keenan because she wanted to follow me, and now I’ve a son that I shall never see whilst I’m stuck with the driest, coldest creature in the whole of Cork, who can’t hold a candle to Mary. What a bloody pother.’

‘Come on, old feller, it may seem a mess to you, but it’ll have to wait until we’ve settled the Pandies’ hash.’ Bazalgette reached across and gripped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Now, there’s the bugle, the men will be waiting for us.’

‘Grenadier Company formed up and ready for demonstration, sir.’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken’s hand came down smartly from the salute.

On the parched parade ground of the fort, the left wing of the 10th Bengal Native Infantry stood at ease in their cotton shirtsleeves, white trousers and round forage caps – almost four hundred of them – waiting for the skirmishing demonstration that Morgan’s company had been told to organise for them. The butts of their rifles rested in the dust, the weapons comfortably in the crooks of their elbows, their faces alert and apparently keen to learn.

Kneeling opposite them were Morgan’s men. Like the sepoys, they had been allowed to strip down to their shirts and now they kneeled in two, staggered ranks.

‘How are our boys, Colour-Sar’nt?’ asked Morgan quietly as his hand flicked casually to the peak of his cap, returning the salute.

‘They’ll do as they’re told, sir,’ McGucken replied equally quietly.

‘No, Colour-Sar’nt, that’s not what I’m asking,’ said Morgan. ‘How are they about it?’

‘They’re no’ very pleased, sir. They don’t understand why they’ve been detailed off to teach the sepoys how to be better soldiers when they might turn on us at any moment. That scunner Corporal Pegg asked if we shouldn’t be loaded with ball, “just in case”, but I told him to button his fuckin’ lip. They’ll do what you want them to, sir – and bloody like it.’

The 95th, with their recent battle experience, had learnt the value of skirmishing – the fire and manoeuvre by independent pairs – that was utterly unlike the formal old-fashioned drill movements by which the Indian regiments still moved in battle. Now the colonel had decided to teach the sepoys this tactic, not just as a battle-winning skill, but also as a device for his men to show their trust in their new comrades – a pair of whom they had just blown to infinity.

As Morgan arrived, the three British company commanders and their subadars came marching towards him and halted as one man, throwing up the dust of the barrack yard, before the senior captain took a pace forward and saluted.

‘Sir, Numbers Five, Six and Seven Companies paraded ready for training, sir.’ The captain remained at the salute, his right hand at the peak of his covered cap.

‘Right, Captain Mellish, I’m obliged to you,’ Morgan returned the salute, ‘but please drop all that parade-ground stuff. We’re here to learn to fight, not to play at guardsmen. How d’you suggest we tackle this?’

Morgan looked at the trio of Indian officers. Again, he was struck by their age – they were all at least forty – and their smartness. Even in shirtsleeves they were beautifully pressed and brushed, whilst their moustaches swept down and over their lips, a stark, dyed black compared with their greying hair. But it was their eyes that held his attention most. Did he detect humility there, a supplication that seemed to beg him not to compare them with their faithless comrades? It wasn‘t yet possible to know – but the next couple of hours of running and crouching in the heat would soon tell.

‘Well, sir,’ all the British and native officers of the 10th had relaxed at Morgan’s word, ‘if you would be good enough to pause in your demonstration every few minutes so that we can translate the instructions for the boys, they’ll soon cotton on. Then it’s up to us to drive home what you’ve taught us.’

‘Good. Form the companies in three sides of a square around my men, please, and we’ll try to show you what little we’ve picked up.’

Captain Mellish and the others smiled politely at Morgan’s self-deprecation, saluted and doubled off to the waiting sepoys.

‘They don’t look half bad, sir.’ McGucken cast an appreciative eye along the long, smart, lean ranks of the 10th.

‘Aye, Colour-Sar’nt, as long as they’re on our side I reckon they’ll do rightly,’ Morgan replied quietly, ‘but I can see why Pegg and the others have their doubts.’

The three companies of the 10th were quickly wheeled around the waiting ranks of the Grenadiers.

‘’Eathen sods…’ Lance-Corporal Pegg knelt in the dust at the far right of the company, rifle at his knee, with his skirmishing partner, Private Beeston, one pace to his left and rear in the same pose, ‘…bit too close for comfort, sez I.’

‘You’re right, Corp’l. If the bastards rush us now we’ll be fuckin’ lost,’ came the reply in dourest Nottingham.

‘Right: falling back. On sighting the enemy the even numbers fire without challenging on their own initiative,’ McGucken bellowed to the assembled multitude, slow and clear, before pausing and glancing at the subadar who stood alongside him.

‘Ee-nish-a-tif, sahib?’ The Indian looked puzzled.

‘Aye…’ McGucken was stumped for a moment, ‘…without needin’ no bloody orders.’

‘Ah…yes.’ The subadar grasped what was meant quickly enough before turning it into rapid Hindi.

‘Whilst the odd numbers prepare to cover them,’ the big Scot continued, ‘shouting, “Moving now” the evens fall back fifteen paces, turn to face the enemy and immediately reload.’ The subadar repeated everything he said. ‘Once they’ve reloaded, provided the enemy’s not pressing too hard, the evens shout, “Ready” allowing the odds to fire and fall back in exactly the same manner. Got it, Mister…er, Lal?’

Subadar Lal had indeed got it, translating fast and accurately.

‘Right, look in and you’ll receive a complete demonstration.’ There was no need to repeat these words. ‘Grenadier Company, skirmishing by numbers, falling back…one!’

On McGucken’s word of command, thirty or so weapons rose to the men’s shoulders, ‘Bang!’ was shouted the same number of times as the rifles’ hammers fell dully against leather-rimmed nipple guards, then, ‘Moving now’ was yelled as half the men darted back through the dust, a regulation fifteen paces.

To Morgan and McGucken’s bemusement, the three sepoy companies suddenly cawed with delight, hands clapping in appreciation, feet stamping in the dust in noisy admiration for the precision of the British troops.

‘What are those cunts laughing at?’ Pegg, already sweating hard and slightly out of breath after even a modest dash in the afternoon heat, went through the dry drill of reloading his rifle, steel ramrod rasping on the rifling of the barrel.

‘Ready,’ he and half the company bellowed.

‘Bang!’ boomed the other half before, ‘Moving now,’ to be greeted by more ecstatic applause and cries of admiration from the 10th.

‘Boggered if I know, Corp’l,’ panted Beeston as he sped past Pegg who, in time with the rest of the leading rank, was just bringing his rifle to the present. ‘Must think we’re fuckin’ off back to England,’ he added drily.

‘An’ so on until contact is broken with the enemy…’ McGucken’s voice brought the precisely regulated, darting ranks to a halt, all of them puffing with exertion as their equipment banged on their hips and the dust roiled around them in the heat of the day.

‘Now, the advance to the enemy…’ the colour-sergeant paused for translation, ‘…is exactly the same but the other way round.’ The subadar looked confused by that phrase. ‘Och, just watch,’ and with a few simple commands the skirmish line advanced back to the point from which it had started, as precisely as it had fallen back, to the intense and noisy pleasure of the audience.

‘Well, Mellish, I’m not quite sure why we’ve caused such a stir with your lads,’ Morgan said to the 10th’s senior captain, ‘but d’you think they’ve grasped the principle?’

‘Yes, of course. You don’t understand them yet, Morgan: they delight in anything new; they’re impressed by organisation and regulation. It’s what makes them such a pleasure to command but also leaves them so vulnerable to big-mouthed badmashes who can exploit their religious beliefs better than we can. Let’s see if they’ve hoisted the idea aboard, shall we?’

With remarkably little fuss, the British officers gathered the sepoys around them, talking to them in quiet Hindi almost as a schoolmaster might speak to his most promising pupils. The jemadars and subadars spoke rapidly to the havildars and naiks and in no time the ranks were numbered off, kneeling attentively and waiting for orders. There were a few hesitations and some mistakes, but very quickly the sepoys were trotting and crouching, loading almost as smoothly as the well-practised 95th.

‘Looks like this lot picks things up dead quick, don’t it, sir?’ Corporal Pegg and the rest of the company were standing on the edge of the yard in the shadow thrown by the white-washed buildings, sucking greedily at their big, blue-painted water bottles once the order had been given. All of their grey flannel shirts were stained wet at the armpits and down the spine, and they pulled at the damp crotches of their blue serge trousers.

‘They seem to have got the hang of things remarkably well, Corp’l Pegg. I imagine we’ll be glad of their help when we meet Pandy,’ Morgan replied.

‘Aye, an’ they’ve ’ardly broke into a sweat, ’ave they?’ Beeston said. ‘But what’s that noise they’re mekin’, Corp’l?’

‘It’s just the sound that these wallahs mek rather than “bang” like a good Christian would,’ Pegg explained as the sepoys smacked their lips to simulate the firing of their rifles. ‘All sorts of strange ’abits, these foreigners, you know, Jono.’

‘Aye, but the officer’s right: they’ll be ’andy to ’ave alongside when we get to Delhi,’ Beeston added, a note of grudging respect in his voice.

‘P’raps, but pound to pinch o’ shit they’ll be no bloody use at all when the lead begins to fly, you mark my words,’ added Pegg, his twenty years and single chevron weighing heavily.

‘So, who’s your man, Mellish?’ asked Morgan.

The afternoon’s exertions had left the sepoys excited and delighted by their new-found skills, and the 95th utterly exhausted. Now, as the next stage of bringing the two battalions together before they had to face the trials of battle, the 10th BNI had decided to entertain the British soldiers with some roasted goat and mutton, and a wrestling challenge. Colonel Hume, knowing the reputation of Private Lawler, a vast, Lincolnshire bruiser from Carmichael’s company, much loved and admired by the men, had accepted Commandant Brewill’s suggestion with alacrity, knowing that he was on a safe wicket.

‘Oh, Sepoy Ranjiv Nirav from our Light Bobs,’ Mellish answered casually. ‘There’s not much of the lad, but you’d be surprised at the speed and strength of some of the Brahmins who are bred to this sort of thing.’

‘Indeed I would,’ replied Morgan as the two antagonists strode to their respective corners of the ring, which had been marked by a rope pegged in the dirt.

‘Now, don’t sneer at our boy, Morgan.’ Forgett, the policeman, had come to watch the spectacle as well. ‘Just because he’s half the weight of your great monster, don’t underestimate him. Those who choose to wrestle spend hours perfecting their skills and I’ve got the marks to prove it. Soon after I arrived here in Bombay I decided to impress my command with my martial skills…’ Morgan saw how Mellish chortled at the memory of Forgett’s story, ‘…and that was a mistake, I can tell you. One of my lads – another of these full-time wrestlers – had me in the dirt in seconds; chucked me about like a child’s doll; had me begging for mercy and then stood over me and made the lowest namasti you’ve ever seen. I promoted him the next day – best thing I ever did. So, I’d be a bit cautious about putting too much money on Private Swede-basher over there.’

Private Lawler was broad and squat; wearing a pair of cotton drawers and canvas shoes, his milky white torso stood in almost painful contrast to his tanned face and lower arms where his uniform had left him exposed to the sun. Now he stretched his limbs, massaged his shoulders and rotated his head to ease the pressure in his neck, whilst another soldier stood ready with a bucket and towel.

Opposite was Sepoy Nirav. Barefoot and thin, Nirav was easily a stone and a half lighter than Lawler, narrow where the Englishman was broad, nimble where he was stolid. The sepoy, in nothing more than a loincloth, had coiled his long hair up into a knot on top of his head and now he stood on one leg, pulling at the toe of his other foot in a gesture that reminded Morgan more of Sadler’s Wells than the Fancy. Like his opponent, Nirav was attended by another soldier, an even shorter man, very dark-skinned, with drooping moustaches.

‘Ah don’t give much for that Pandy’s chances once Terry Lawler gets a grip on ’im, d’you, Corp’l?’ Beeston was sitting on a mat, cross-legged as he’d seen the natives do, nursing a china mug of rum and water in both hands.

‘Naw, our Terry’ll bloody murder ’im,’ Pegg replied. ‘’E won’t see the end of one round, ’e won’t.’

The officers were of much the same opinion. As Morgan, Forgett and Mellish studied the form, Carmichael sauntered up. ‘My feller was runner-up in Dublin last year.’ He was suddenly proprietarily interested in a soldier who might reflect well on him. ‘Saw off Shand from the Dragoon Guards. You’ll remember him – quite a celebrity in his day.’

‘Shand…yes, I do recall him; beat the Navy’s top boy in ’fifty-two, if I’m not wrong. But watch Nirav: he’s as fast as a snake,’ replied Mellish, sticking to his man.

It was all too much for Morgan’s sporting blood. ‘Twenty rupees says Lawler’ll best yours inside a round.’

Carmichael glanced disapprovingly at his vulgar brother officer, whilst Mellish pulled his hand from his pocket to shake Morgan’s with no hesitation at all. ‘Aye, make it forty, if you like,’ he said.

‘Forty rupees! Why, that would keep my family in clover for a month, that would,’ exclaimed Forgett.

‘Forty it is.’ Morgan shook Mellish’s hand as the two wrestlers moved to their corners.

One of the younger naiks was the referee. In excellent English, followed by Hindi, he explained the rudimentary rules to both contestants before, at a single blast from a bugle, he signalled the contestants forward.

Lawler dominated the centre of the ring, gently turning to keep his face towards Nirav who, crab-like, circled slowly round him.

‘Fuckin’ easy meat, this is,’ jeered Beeston from his ringside seat.

‘Aye, no bleedin’ contest. Just watch how Terry’ll—’ But Pegg didn’t finish his words, for Sepoy Nirav darted at Lawler’s vast, pale form, threw his wiry arms around his waist and drove him right back to the rope by sheer force of momentum.

Lawler scrabbled, almost lost his footing as he tried to stay upright, and caught hold of Nirav’s sweat-sheened shoulders more to steady himself than as a countermove. But as he was pushed further and further back, Lawler came to his senses and, with a series of crude double-handed blows to the back of Nirav’s neck, swatted his assailant away from him.

This one sally, though, had allowed Nirav to gauge Lawler’s lack of speed as well as his strength. As the sepoy massaged his neck but continued to circle, the crowd became increasingly vocal, the Indians cheering and stamping their feet in applause, just as they had done during the skirmishing demonstration earlier, the British whistling and catcalling.

‘Your boy doesn’t want to get in the way of another of Lawler’s roundhouses, does he, Mellish?’ Morgan was transfixed by the speed of the sepoy and suddenly worried about his stake.

‘True, but Nirav’s got the measure of Lawler now that—’

‘Oh, come now, Mellish,’ Carmichael butted in. ‘Your fellow’s just skin and bone, more used to snake-charming and rope tricks than wrestling, just watch how—’ Then it was Carmichael’s turn to be interrupted, for a great cry went up from the 10th as Nirav skimmed through the dust feet first at Lawler, striking the Englishman with both heels just below the left knee.

The bigger man crashed on his chest, whilst Nirav rolled skilfully to one side and leapt to his feet. A gasp came from the 95th.

‘Bloody hell, that’ll ’ave broke our Terry’s shinbone, that will.’ Beeston said what everyone was thinking, but whilst Nirav floated around the downed giant, Lawler dragged himself onto all fours, squatted momentarily whilst he pulled a paw across his eyes and then launched himself at Nirav with a low roar.

As Lawler charged like Goliath, the 10th’s David saw his chance. Falling almost flat on his face before scrabbling quickly forward through the grit, Nirav shot between Lawler’s pumping legs and whirled round behind him in a crouch; he seized the wrestler’s trailing ankle, then stood and lifted the flailing leg high in the air, all in one easy, fluid movement. Lawler’s weight and speed were skilfully used against him and for the second time in a few moments, the champion of the 95th thumped into the ground. This time, though, Lawler’s forehead was the first part of his body to meet the sun-hardened earth.

As Morgan heard the crunching impact, he knew that Lawler wouldn’t make the count. The referee counted down the seconds and the Scunthorpe champion lay in the dust, as cold as the setting sun was hot.

‘You see what I mean, gentlemen? Never underestimate these people. They’ll always surprise you,’ Forgett observed, as Sepoy Nirav grinned mightily, making namasti to all four corners.

‘There now, I said ’e was an ’andy little bugger, didn’t I?’ Pegg, by the side of the ring, pulled his clay pipe from his mouth and spat. ‘But let’s see how they take to powder an’ shot, shall we?’

As the troops of both regiments – the 10th noisy in victory, the 95th sullen in defeat – wandered off towards the smell of cooking, Commandant Brewill bore down on the knot of officers. ‘Well, gentlemen that was a treat, even if it was rather brief. Thought you said Lawler had done a bit of this sort of thing before, Hume?’

It was the first time since the arrival of the British troops, three days before, that the sepoys had done anything to restore their honour; now Brewill was going to make the most of it.

‘Aye, he’s been tidy in all the bouts that he’s had in the Regiment,’ Hume replied modestly. ‘There’s no question, though, that Nirav beat him squarely.’

‘But he’s hardly got used to the heat or the water yet, Colonel.’ Carmichael sprang to Lawler’s defence. ‘Once he’s into his swing I’ll back him against anyone. Why, you remember him at Aldershot, don’t you, Colonel?’

‘I do, Carmichael, and he did well then, but the commandant’s feller showed him a trick or two this time and he won handsomely.’ Hume’s tone brooked no further intrusion from Carmichael, his humility causing Brewill to beam with pleasure.

‘Well, let’s get some drinks and toast our partnership against the bloody Pandies, shall we?’ Brewill led the way up the steps of the officers’ mess, the great wooden doors of which were opened silently by waiters as the officers approached.

Caps and swords were passed to servants, Hume pointedly unhooking his pistol from his belt as well. Carmichael was the only officer not to follow Hume’s lead and remove his revolver.

‘Don’t forget to leave your splendid pistol, Captain Carmichael. You won’t need it in this mess any more than you would in ours.’

‘But, Colonel, in Meerut…’ Carmichael’s voice trailed off as Hume stared hard at him.

‘We’ve got some more guests, ain’t we, McGowan?’ Brewill appeared not to notice this little scene, hesitating before leading the party into the anteroom.

‘Yes, Commandant,’ Brewill’s adjutant replied. ‘A Captain Skene, the political officer from Jhansi, and an escorting officer from the Twelfth Bengalis.’

Morgan’s ears pricked up; guests from Jhansi – the station not only where his father’s friend Colonel Kemp commanded the 12th but, much more importantly, the godforsaken place where Mary Keenan was.

‘No matter, but you have told Forgett that they’re here, haven’t you? Our policeman is bound to want a discreet word with the political, won’t he?’

Morgan noticed how much more relaxed Brewill was once he was back in control of events.

‘I have sent word to his bungalow, sir,’ McGowan replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll be with us directly.’

After the court martial in which the police officer had been the principal witness for the fatal prosecution, it had been thought wise to move Forgett, his wife and daughter into the fort until tempers had cooled.

The officers strode into the anteroom, where the curtains had been pulled against the night that would suddenly rush upon them. Where it had been cool and shaded earlier, it was now stuffy, the tables alive with candles, their light flickering off crystal bowls of punch and glasses that lined the sideboards, ready for the press of thirsty guests. There were some modest pieces of silver in the corners of the long, low room, but the décor relied mainly on countless heads of stuffed animals, skins of tigers and leopards, and a vast pair of elephant tusks from which hung a brass gong.

‘Christ, I hadn’t noticed earlier – the place looks more like a bloody zoo than officers’ quarters.’

Hume frowned to silence Carmichael but it was true, Morgan thought: there was little of the grace or taste of a British regiment’s mess, but then wasn’t that exactly the point that Forgett had made to him a couple of days ago? What had he said – something about ‘most of us don’t come from money like most of you’?

As the waiters fussed around the guests, Morgan noticed two figures at the far end of the room; they rose respectfully as the senior officers came in. One was small and dark, his well-tanned face set with heavy whiskers below carefully combed, wavy black hair. He was dressed in a simple blue frock coat, and his long riding boots were still dusty. On the table beside him was a thin leather document wallet.

‘Hello, sir…gentlemen…I’m Skene, Political Officer from up-country in Jhansi.’ Five foot seven of nervous energy pushed into the gaggle of new arrivals, all of whom were trying to get at the drink, returning Skene’s greeting only perfunctorily.

At first, Morgan scarcely noticed the other figure, hovering in the background; he was concentrating too hard on the servant’s brimming punch ladle and his own empty glass. But there was something about the way that Hume looked up, his face breaking into the widest grin, his drink forgotten, that caused Morgan to pause.

‘Well, I’ll be damned, this gouger needs no introduction, Brewill!’ Hume pushed his outstretched palm out to the other man, who practically ran down the room to shake it.

Almost six foot of handsome, hay-rick-headed, scarlet-coated ensign of Bengal infantry pumped the hands of the 95th officers with glee.

‘You know all this lot, don’t you?’ Hume continued delightedly. ‘Bazalgette, Massey, Carmichael…’

‘I do, Colonel Hume, I do,’ said the ensign, greeting them ecstatically.

‘And your old friend Morgan, of course,’ Hume added.

‘Indeed, sir.’ The ensign’s grin suddenly faded. ‘Brevet Major Anthony Morgan; how could I ever forget?’

Morgan shook the hand of his old sergeant, the husband of his lover, the man he’d never expected to see again, James Keenan.

Christ, this is ghastly, thought Morgan as he shifted on the horsehair-covered mess chair. How, in the name of all that’s holy, in a country the size of India, have I knocked up against James bloody Keenan again?

Keenan sat opposite Morgan, looking fixedly at Skene as he explained the situation in Jhansi to the assembled officers.

‘You all know what’s happened in the north and around Delhi, and the telegraph reports this morning that General Wheeler and a small force of mixed white and native troops have been besieged in Cawnpore which – as I am sure you all know – is about seven hundred miles north-east of us here in Bombay.’ Skene pulled at his drink whilst the audience – most of them, at least – listened intently to his assessment.

‘There’ll be Queen’s troops from Malta and elsewhere along shortly to swell our forces, and I believe that so long as the mutinies don’t spread to the Madras and Bombay Presidencies – and may I congratulate you, Commandant, on the way that things have been handled here in the city – the main centres of rebellion, including Delhi, should soon be under control. But, there’s a lot of countryside and difficult terrain that’s less easy to dominate, and it’s crucial that we must keep the native princes and lesser rulers loyal.’

Brewill was genuinely pleased to be praised by a ‘political’, but he hissed to his adjutant, ‘Where’s bloody Forgett? He ought to be here.’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’ll go and find him, shall I?’ McGowan replied.

‘No,’ the commandant muttered. ‘You need to hear this as well; sit still.’

‘And around the Gwalior area in southern Bengal, ten days’ hard riding up-country from here, things are particularly difficult to gauge. Now, gentlemen, I need your complete discretion concerning what I’m about to say…’ Skene looked around the dozen or so officers in his audience, Brewill and Hume, the company commanders of the 10th and the 95th and a clutch of subalterns. ‘The whole area is dominated by a series of princelings and maharajahs who are overseen to varying extents by British agents and political officers like me, and referred to as the Central India Agency. Now, I know that sounds untidy and unsatisfactory to the military mind – and it is – but it works, or it has done so far. Despite persistent rumours, there have been no uprisings amongst these states. But much hangs on how the Rhani of Jhansi now reacts to changing events. Her little fiefdom is wealthy and well organised and she pulls the strings at the centre of the spider’s web. She may be a woman, but her intelligence, family connections and strength of character make her damned influential. The others will probably follow her lead, and between them they have about twenty thousand irregulars and household troops – pretty mixed quality, mark you, but fine horsemen and a fair amount of artillery – who’ll be worth their weight in gold against the mutineers, not due so much to their fighting quality but because of the powerful influence that they’ll send to their rebellious “brothers”.’

Again Skene paused. Even Morgan was concentrating now, and one or two of the subalterns’ jaws hung slack with suspense.

‘And talking of gold, India ain’t England: the Rhani runs on graft and geld, so Keenan and I are here to collect enough guineas to buy her loyalty. I’m confident, gentlemen, that if she and her upright supporters – and, gentlemen, if you’d met the lovely Rhani you’d be upright as well…’ Skene had woven his spell so well that this little joke was met with a positive storm of laughter, ‘…will fight alongside us and help to tumble the Pandies to ruin. I look forward to being at your elbow when the prize money for Delhi is decided upon.’

Aye, thought Morgan, spoken like a real tyro, my lad, those of us that are still alive. And you can bet your best hunter that it’ll be A Morgan and the rest of the Old Nails that’ll be sent in first whilst you and the other nabobs hang back, leaving bloody Keenan with the last laugh.

As Skene finished speaking and the officers rose to talk and drink before dinner, Morgan saw a servant quietly approach the group of officers he was with, bow slightly to McGowan to attract his attention and then whisper urgently in his ear. The adjutant’s face contorted, he said something in Hindi to the servant, who shook his head and pointed outside before moving back to the edge of the room, clearly agitated.

‘That’s bloody odd,’ McGowan said to the group in general. ‘Bin Lal has been to the bungalow where we’ve put Forgett and his family but the doors are locked, all the shutters are down and barred, and there are no lights showing.’

‘Well, didn’t your man just bang the door down, then?’ Carmichael, slightly belligerent with too much brandy and hopes of bloodless glory on an empty stomach, asked.

‘No, a sepoy wouldn’t do that,’ the adjutant replied. ‘They’ve too much respect for a sahib.’

‘What, like they had in Sitapur?’ muttered Carmichael acidly – the news had just reached them of wholesale massacres in the garrison north of Lucknow just days before.

‘Well, we’d better go and see what’s detained him, hadn’t we?’ said Morgan, seeing the perfect way of avoiding a deeply awkward conversation with James Keenan.

‘Yes, I’d be delighted to have you with me, Morgan,’ said McGowan, as the pair moved towards the entrance to the mess. ‘Better take our revolvers, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, aye, quite so,’ said Morgan, taking the proffered Tranter and clipping its reassuring weight to his belt.

‘I’ll come too, if I may,’ Carmichael interrupted. ‘Too much toad-eating that bloody political for my liking.’

Yes, you too want to avoid Keenan, don’t you? thought Morgan. Keenan had seen Carmichael at his cowardly worst in the Crimea, and a meeting between the two of them would be almost as difficult as the one he was trying to dodge.

‘Do: get your weapons,’ said McGowan as the three of them set off to Skene’s bungalow, which lay with a series of others some quarter of a mile from the mess, just within the walls of the sprawling fort.

‘You’re a bit jumpy, ain’t you, McGowan?’ The night air had cooled Carmichael’s brandy-warmed head. ‘Thought we had to act as normal as possible; sahib bristling with ironmongery ain’t exactly calming for John Sepoy, is it?’

‘P’raps not,’ McGowan answered, ‘but you never quite know with Forgett. He discovered the whole of the mutineers’ plot, you know, by skulking around dressed up like one of them, skin stained, sucking betel-nut – the complete damn charade – all by himself. Slings the bat like a bloody native, he does, and has now made more enemies than you can count. That’s why we’ve dragooned him and his family into the fort.’

‘Think this is it…should be number eight.’ It was tropically dark. McGowan lit a lucifer and searched round the front door frame until he found a small, brass plate engraved ‘Sobroan House’, below a figure eight painted in the 10th’s regimental green. ’Aye, we’re here.’

He rapped on the door. ‘Forgett…Mrs Forgett, are you in?’

‘Does it look as though they’re bloody in?’ Carmichael asked quietly. ‘Here, let’s see if we can’t…’ and he pushed at the front door, which gave as he shoved, but refused to open. ‘There’s something jammed against the door from the inside. Here, Morgan, lend a hand.’

The two captains applied their shoulders to the door, and each time they crashed home against the woodwork, it opened a little more, inching something heavy and awkward away into the darkened room until there was just enough space for one man to squeeze in.

Morgan drew his pistol, cocked it and thrust his shoulder and chest into the gap, squirming between the door and the jamb.

‘Can you get a lucifer lit, one of you? I can’t see a blind thing.’ Morgan had pushed inside but his eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, and as McGowan scrabbled with another match, he stumbled hard over something on the ground, crashing onto the wooden floor, sending his pistol flying.

‘Goddamn…what filthy mess is this?’ As Morgan pulled himself to his feet he was aware of something wet and gluey that had stuck to the palms when he’d broken his fall. The feel was horrid yet familiar, and as he held his hands up to his unseeing eyes, a match flared behind him, showing him that his fingers, forearms and knees were covered in blood. Indeed, he was standing in a puddle of it, which spread as far as the pool of match-light reached, blackly red.

‘Christ alive!’ Morgan was appalled. ‘Come in quick, you two.’ But as the others barged through the half-opened door, Morgan looked at the bundle on the floor over which he fallen. ‘Careful, there’s a body there…there, just where you’re standing.’ Carmichael had hung back and as McGowan pushed in, he almost tripped over the corpse, as Morgan had.

‘I’ll get the lights going.’ All the bungalows were designed in the same way, and on the wall McGowan quickly found an oil lamp, which he tried to fire. It guttered briefly, shrank from the match and then caught, revealing everything in the room. ‘There, that’s done.’

Other than the heavy chaise-longue that had been used to bar the door, and the lake of blood, things were remarkably orderly. There was no sign of a struggle, but lying just inside the entrance was the body of a young woman. Both arms were pierced with bone-handled carving knives, which pinned her to the floor, whilst a brown satin dress was pulled up around her waist, showing her underwear and a bush of pubic hair between the separate legs of muslin drawers. There was blood on her thighs whilst round her mouth and neck a towel had been wound. Her auburn hair was thrown into chaos, both blue eyes wide open but seeing nothing.

‘God, that’s Kathy Forgett.’ McGowan instantly leant down and pulled her dress back over her bloody knees and ankles, returning a little modesty to her in death.

‘Oh, no…’ Morgan had seen dead women before during the famines back in Skibberean – but those corpses were different – and more dead men killed on the field of battle than he wanted to remember, but nothing like this. He, like the other two, pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it against his nose and mouth, for there was the most ghastly, foetid stench of blood and abused femininity all about them.

‘If this is what they’ve done to Mrs Forgett, where’s the Thanadar?’ McGowan dreaded the answer to his question, but as the three officers moved from the tiny hall of the bungalow to the sitting room and lit the oil lamp there, the answer was apparent.

‘What the hell’s that in his mouth?’ asked Carmichael.

‘It’s a pig’s tail,’ answered McGowan matter-of-factly.

There was very little blood, for Forgett had been executed with a butcher’s axe. The policeman lay sprawled on the floor. One blow had fallen obliquely across his neck, severing, Morgan guessed, the spinal column and causing almost instant death, and then the horrid little iron spike that backed the axe’s blade had been buried deep in Forgett’s sternum. Lying on his back with his legs folded under him, the chief of police could almost have been laid out ceremonially, and the impression was only underlined by the pink, curly gristle that emerged from his mouth.

‘Aye, that’s what it is.’ Between finger and thumb Morgan delicately pulled the distasteful bit of pork from Forgett’s lolling lips. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, at a guess, it’s an allusion to the biting of pig-fat-greased cartridges,’ McGowan volunteered. ‘I told you that Forgett had enemies.’

‘Yes, and we need to get after them.’ Carmichael led the others back to the hall and gestured towards the open kitchen door and the yawning back door beyond, which showed as a black oblong of night air. ‘Look at the trail – that’s the way they’ve gone.’ He indicated some smears of blood on the floor, drew his revolver and led the others back to the hall and towards the open kitchen door.

‘Wait. What on earth’s this…oh!’ McGowan exclaimed, noticing a rolled bundle of curtain cloth close to the woman’s cadaver.

The mainly buff, floral-patterned cotton curtain had been pulled from the pole above the window, that much was obvious, and something wrapped within it had bled into the material, staining it a rusty red.

McGowan pulled the tight-wrapped fabric to one side, revealing a crushed baby’s head, blue and deep purple with bruises and contusions. ‘It’s baby Gwen. They’ve beaten the poor little mite to death.’

Morgan had seen plenty of starvation-dead babies back in Ireland, and one of the servants’ still-born children at Glassdrumman, but nothing like this. The toddler had been deliberately wrapped in the curtain to drown any noise, then, from the look of things, heels had stamped hard on the delicate bones of her head, thumping the skull almost flat, making the grey matter of the infant’s brain ooze from her nostrils and ears.

‘Dear Lord.’ Carmichael was genuinely appalled. ‘Come on, there’s not a second to lose.’

‘Yes, but they’re almost cold.’ McGowan was too squeamish to touch Gwen, but reached down to Kathy Forgett. ‘They’ve been dead for at least a couple of hours.’

But Carmichael wasn’t having any of it and went charging through the house, out of the back door and into the night, towards the sallyport of the fort.

‘Right, I’ve got you, you murderin’ Pandy, you.’ The officer commanding Number One Company had run two hundred yards down the cinder path that led from the married officers’ quarters to the back gate of the fort, and there seized a sentry from the 10th, thrusting his pistol against the forehead of a terrified sepoy.

One minute Sepoy Puran Gee had been quietly standing at ease, belching curried goat, guarding the least used gate of the fort and expecting an agreeably undemanding couple of hours, and the next an angry sahib had come running at him, thrown his rifle to the ground and pushed a steely-cold revolver hard against his head whilst yelling a stream of incomprehensible Angrezi at him. It was bad enough having the Feringees blow his friend Mungal Guddrea to dog meat, without this sort of indignity.

‘For heaven’s sake, Carmichael,’ McGowan exclaimed, running across after him. ‘He’s not your man!’

Carmichael had forced the sepoy to his knees, one hand twisting the soldier’s collar, the other ramming the barrel of the revolver into his temple, a series of jerks causing the man’s cap to fall off and his face to twist in a combination of fright and pain, whilst his hands shot out sideways to steady himself against the officer’s assault.

‘Forgett and his family must have been dead for hours.’ McGowan grabbed Carmichael’s wrist and pistol. ‘Puran came on guard, what…about an hour ago?’ He looked to the soldier for confirmation, but the man was too scared to follow the question in English. ‘Besides, that wasn’t the work of soldiers – not from the Tenth, anyway.’

Carmichael allowed McGowan to push the pistol away from the sentry’s head, and released the hold on Puran’s collar. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘It stands to reason: the Forgetts have been dead since this afternoon, when the whole battalion was being trained by you lot, every man jack accounted for. All ranks are under curfew, either here in the fort or down in the cantonment, and believe me, all the officers and NCOs are on a hair trigger. And anyway, those executions have put the fear of the Almighty into the lads; the mood’s not right for this sort of thing now. I’ve never seen the troops so obedient and keen to please,’ McGowan answered. ‘No, this has been done by bazaar wallahs or perhaps soldiers from another battalion, though I doubt that.’

‘Oh, I see, you’re probably right.’ Now the aggression had gone out of Carmichael, who lowered the pistol and even stooped to pick up Puran’s cap.

‘May I suggest an apology to the man, Carmichael?’ Morgan asked. He could see how this story would spread like plague back to the ranks of the 10th, the very men whose trust they were trying to restore.

‘Apologise to some damned…’ Carmichael blurted, whilst the Indian brushed the grit off his rifle and rubbed his bruised forehead with offended gusto.

‘Yes, Carmichael, apologise to a man you’ve wronged, even if he is a private soldier and a mere native.’ Morgan thought the apology just as important for McGowan to hear as for Puran.

Carmichael looked hard into Morgan’s steel-blue eyes, opened his mouth to object, but then changed his mind. ‘Er…I’m very sorry, my man.’ He was still holding Puran’s cap; now Carmichael brushed the dust off it before handing it back. ‘Hasty of me and needlessly rough.’ He thrust his hand out to the soldier whilst McGowan translated.

Puran looked perplexed at the big, pink mitt. McGowan uttered something more before the sepoy awkwardly put his rifle between his knees and made namasti, cocking his head to one side and grinning so widely that his teeth flashed below his moustache.

Carmichael was equally confused. Not to be outdone, he grasped both of Puran’s hands that were now pressed, palms together, in front of his face and gave them a vigorous waggle. ‘No hard feelings then, old boy,’ he said, just as he might have done after accidentally tripping a fellow team player at Harrow.

‘Right, thank you, Carmichael. I’m sure that’s soothed the poor fellow,’ McGowan said with a note of sarcasm. ‘I doubt that these troops have been involved in this outrage, but they may well have turned a blind eye to those who did. After all, whilst we accepted Forgett, he was a policeman; the executions were pretty well all his own work. The colonel will want this investigated.’

Women and babies getting torn to bits; what sort of a war is this? It’s going to be a nasty bloody bitter fight that’s not really any of our business. We should have left it to the John Company boys to sort out. After all, they got themselves into it…thought Morgan as the little group of officers trudged back to the mess, skirting the horror of the bungalow.

All eight hundred men of the 10th Bengal Native Infantry stood in two ranks arranged in three sides of a square whilst Commandant Brewill, the British officers and McGowan, the adjutant, stood in the middle of the fort’s parade ground in the early morning cool. The sun had hardly risen, the dust lay still, whilst the monkeys blinked sleepily from the branches of the trees that peeped from just beyond the high stone walls.

The men had breakfasted on dates and chapattis before parading by companies and filing down to the square under the voice of the subadar-major; now they waited for the word of their commanding officer.

‘Boys…’ Brewill’s Hindi was clear and firm, if not especially grammatical, for he had learnt it from the lips of the men with whom he’d served over the past thirty years rather than from any babu, ‘…yesterday Forgett sahib was murdered in his bungalow here inside the fort. Some baboon slew him with a butcher’s meat cleaver and left a pig’s tail in the dead man’s mouth.’ There was complete silence from the troops, not a flicker of emotion. ‘As if that’s not bad enough, memsahib Forgett was dishonoured and murdered as well; and there’s worse: their baby daughter was beaten to death by these same criminals.’

Where the chief of police’s death had caused no reaction, a quiet ripple of disgust and dismay came now from the throats of the 10th.

‘Men, you know how bad things are in this country and how many sins have already been committed, but the death of women and babes-in-arms is unforgivable, and I pray you to tell any details that you know,’ Brewill continued.

‘What the fuck’s ’e on about, Corp’l?’ Private Beeston and Lance-Corporal Pegg had made it their business to collect Captain Skene’s and Ensign Keenan’s chargers as well as the little bat-horse from the syce in the stables when the urgent message had come down to the Grenadier Company’s lines. The visitors were in a sudden hurry to return to Jhansi; their mounts needed full saddlebags and their pony had to be carrying enough fodder for three days’ march, whilst Pegg and Beeston wanted to see their old pal and boon companion – now a grand officer – James Keenan before he disappeared. Now they waited outside the officers’ mess, reins in hand, watching the 10th.

‘Dunno, Jono.’ Pegg could hear the passion in Brewill’s speech without understanding a word. ‘But ’e’s layin’ into ’em. It’s about that peeler’s murder, ain’t it?’

‘So they say. Them sods did it – revenge for the executions – but the wife and nipper as well…’ John Beeston could understand the desire to murder any officer of the law, but the death of white women and children was too much.

‘Aye, it’s out of order an’—’ Pegg was about to produce some solemn judgement when voices and clattering spurs came from within the dark entrance of the mess. ‘Stand up!’

Pegg brought Beeston to attention and saluted as Skene and Keenan came hurrying out.

‘Well, Charlie Pegg, ye fat wee sod, as I live an’ breathe; what about ye?’ Ensign James Keenan recognised his old friend instantly.

‘Doin’ rightly…’ Pegg did his best to imitate Keenan’s brogue, ‘…your honour!’ Pegg swept down from the salute and the two men clasped each other’s hands and slapped shoulders as if no chasm of rank now existed between them.

‘An’ Jono Beeston, heard you was both out here with the Old Nails.’ There was more delight from Beeston and Keenan. ‘Ain’t it just the devil’s own luck that I’ve not time for even a swally with ye?’

‘No, lads, I know how much you’d like to keep Mr Keenan here with you…’ Captain Skene was obviously eager to get moving, pushing one foot into the nearside stirrup of the horse that Beeston held and reaching up to the saddle’s pommel, ‘…and talk about old times, but the Twelfth have turned in Jhansi and it’s going to take us twelve days or more to get back; I knew we shouldn’t have left the garrison when things were so bloody touchy.’

‘What’s happened, sir?’ Pegg asked.

‘We don’t know, exactly, but the news came over the telegraph in the early hours and some clown of an operator didn’t want to disturb us too early, damn him,’ Skene continued. ‘A fire had been started near the royal palace. Most of the Europeans – and that’s not many – turned out to fight it, and whilst the officers were away, the sepoys stormed the armouries and marched on the Rhani’s quarters and the officers’ cantonment.’

‘Ain’t your missus there, Mr Keenan, sir?’ asked Beeston without an ounce of tact.

‘No, t’ank the Lord. She an’ the wee boy are up-country with some of the other ladies an’ a horde of the Rhani’s officers to look after them,’ Keenan replied calmly. ‘They’ll be fine. And anyway, with Commandant Kemp in charge, it’ll all be sorted out. He’ll cool any hotheads sooner than you can say jildi-rao, so he will.’

Keenan, too, swung up into the saddle. So intent had they all been in the conversation that the quiet arrival of two more figures on the veranda of the mess had gone unnoticed. Still buckling on their sword belts and settling their caps came Bazalgette and Morgan, on their way to the 95th’s lines for morning inspection. Both officers hesitated when they saw the group before them.

‘We got all that, Skene. Keenan, you’ll need every ounce of that gold to smooth things over, won’t you?’ said Bazalgette, full of earnest concern.

‘Aye, it should come in useful, provided we can get there fast enough,’ replied Skene.

But as the two officers spoke, Morgan’s eyes met Keenan’s. They both knew that they’d deliberately avoided conversing the night before in the mess, but now there was no choice. Morgan started towards Keenan, his mouth open, but no words coming, and as he did so the ensign walked his charger a few paces away from the mess, putting a little distance between himself and the others.

‘Hello, Keenan.’ Morgan stretched his hand up and gently laid hold of the horse’s bridle. ‘So Jhansi’s risen?’

‘It has, Captain Morgan, sir.’ Though Keenan’s voice was low and cool, it seemed to Morgan that the pair of them had never been parted. ‘It’ll be nothing that Commandant Kemp an’ us can’t cope wit’, though.’

‘No…no, I’m sure you’re right,’ Morgan stammered. ‘Have you heard of any casualties?’ He thought of dead, ripped Kathy Forgett.

‘No, sir, not yet,’ Keenan answered levelly. ‘But you can be sure of one t’ing: Mary. Keenan will always come through, just like she did with them Muscovites.’

Morgan blinked up at Keenan sitting high above him in the saddle, the sun turning him into a black sillhouette.

‘An’ there’s another t’ing you can be equally certain of.’ Keenan’s voice now held an edge of menace. ‘With the greatest of respect, sir, if ever you come near my Mary or our boy again, I’ll kill ye dead.’