Cry Havelock Page 3

  The Royal Malverns, his family regiment, had been here from 1830 until 1835; he was now twenty-four years old, so he had been born here, in this cantonment at Gondabad. Jack looked around; fate played strange tricks sometimes.

  There was the murmur of voices, and he saw that the sentry opposite him was Riley, the gentleman thief with whom he had shared so much in the Crimea. About to call a greeting, Jack realised Riley was not alone.

  'What are you up to, Riley?' He said softly and peered into the dark.

  Peering into the dark, Jack saw that Riley was with Charlotte, his wife. He smiled, knowing how close the two were and opened his mouth to interrupt them. Instead he turned away. Riley was one of the few men he genuinely trusted and even with Charlotte at his side he would be a better sentry than most men. Besides, this was peaceful Gondabad, in the heart of British India and with two companies of the 113th as well as two native infantry regiments and three troops of native cavalry within call. Nothing could happen here.

  'Good luck Riley,' Jack said quietly. 'And you Mrs Riley.' He stepped back toward his bungalow, pulled on his cheroot until the tip glowed brightly and he thought of Helen.

  A picket of sepoys marched smartly past on some mission of their own. The naik in charge threw Jack a perfect salute. He responded, watched them disappear into the barracks and allowed his mind to return to Helen.

  'Sahib!'

  The voice came from the darkness beyond the cactus. Jack frowned; he had not recognised the voice. It came again in a husky whisper.

  'Sahib; sir!'

  'Show yourself, whoever you are,' Jack felt at his belt and grunted when he remembered he had neither sword nor pistol with him. 'Come out!' He lifted his fists, ready to face whoever emerged from the dark be it badmash, dacoit or a servant seeking a favour.

  Dressed in a mixture of European and Indian clothing, the man had a ragged blue turban on his head and a long, old-fashioned pistol at the waist of his baggy red trousers.

  'Don't come any closer.' Jack glanced around, hoping a sentry was within earshot. 'How did you get past the pickets?'

  'They did not see me, sahib.' The man stopped about ten yards away. Slightly built, he leant heavily on a stick. Jack guessed his age at somewhere between fifty and seventy. 'I am here to warn you.'

  'Are you indeed?' Jack wished he had at least his sword with him. 'Warn me about what?'

  'There is a scarlet storm coming to India,' the man's voice was husky, his words hoarse.

  Jack frowned, wondering if he was speaking to some madman, or perhaps a fakir. 'I am not here to listen to your nonsense,' he said.

  The man leant closer. 'You are a British officer, a captain of the 113th Foot,' he croaked.

  'I am.' Jack tried to retain his patience while wondering if he should summon Riley and have this madman removed. 'And who might you be?' He stepped back as the man suddenly slammed to attention.

  'Fraser, Sir, Private, 78th Foot.'

  'You're a British soldier?' Jack heard his voice rise.

  'I was, sir. I was invalided out in 1820.' He limped forward, face wrinkled with curiosity. 'Beg pardon, sir, but what year is it now?'

  'It is May 1857,' Jack said. 'Have you been in India all this time?'

  'Yes, sir. I was wounded you see,' he tapped his left thigh. 'I lost some use of my leg, so the army had no further use for me. There was nothing for me back home; the landowner emptied my glen for sheep.' As he spoke, Fraser's voice strengthened. 'India is my home now, sir.'

  'I see,' Jack said. 'There seems to be a few British soldiers deciding to stay here.'

  'Yes, sir. It's a fine country except bad times are coming.' Years of service compelled Fraser to stand to attention.

  'What sort of bad times, Fraser? Oh, stand easy, man! You're not on parade now!'

  'I move around with the natives, sir, and I hear them talking about a scarlet storm. I don't think they know themselves, but there's talk of kicking the British out of India. There's a prophesy our rule will end a hundred years after the Battle of Plassey, sir, and that was in 1757.'

  Jack nodded. 'So I believe, Fraser.'

  'The sepoys are unhappy sir. I've heard them talking in the markets about the new cartridges having a covering of pig and cow fat. The Moslems think pigs are unclean, sir and will hurt their religion and cows are sacred to Hindus, so if they bite or touch cow fat, it damages their caste.'

  Jack frowned, remembering his recent conversation with Irvine about unrest in some of the East India Company's native regiments. 'Is this discontent widespread?'

  'I wander about quite a lot, and I've heard the same sort of stories from the borders of the Punjab right across to Calcutta.' Fraser's voice strengthened the more he spoke.

  'I'm sure his Excellency the Governor- General knows about them,' Jack said.

  'There is more, sir,' Fraser glanced around him.

  'Carry on.'

  'Some of the people believe we intend to convert them all to Christianity and others are saying the Company is grabbing all their land.'

  Jack remembered that Irvine's conversation. 'They seem to have reasons for discontent.' He thought of the bravery and sacrifice of the sepoys during the Burmese War. It was wrong to ill-treat such soldiers.

  'I thought I should warn you,' Fraser said. 'And I have. What you do next is up to you.' He stepped back just as another cloud concealed the moon.

  'Wait!' Jack strode forward, but Fraser had gone. Instead, he lit another cheroot, turned around and walked to his bungalow. He had much to ponder.

  Chapter Two

  Lying on his bed with the mosquito net loose above him and the night sounds muted by the walls of his bungalow, Jack lit the lamp. Soft light diffused around the room. Whatever Elliot believed, the humidity affected him, so he stripped off his clothing and lay naked, staring at the lizard that crawled along the ceiling on its never-ending hunt for insects.

  Fraser's words reverberated through his head. Unhappy sepoys, soldiers grumbling about new cartridges and British land grabs. Were such things his concern? He was a British officer, a man in command of a company of soldiers in the heart of India. Of course, it was his concern. He would pass on the information to Colonel Jeffreys first thing in the morning. It may well only be bazaar gossip, the sort of grumbles soldiers always had. Yet there had been unsettling incidents with native regiments refusing the new cartridges and a sepoy named Mangal Pandey attacking British officers.

  Jack sighed: Fraser had not given him any new information, so there was no need to interrupt the colonel's sleep. Irvine's earlier conversation proved the authorities knew what was happening and had plans to remove the grievances. After all, John Company, the Honourable East India Company, had been in India for centuries and knew the people well.

  Stretching out, Jack dragged over his tunic and pulled out the letter from his inside pocket. It was crumpled and well-thumbed from constant use, and he knew the contents by heart, yet he opened it with care and scanned the words. It had been his nightly ritual ever since the letter had arrived and every time he read, he felt sick and hoped he had misunderstood the meaning.

  'My dear Jack' it began.

  Jack ran his fingers over those words as if by touch he could bring the writer closer to him. Her writing was large and bold, slightly untidy. Jack could picture her so clearly; he could see the crinkle of her eyes and the set of her mouth.

  'I hope you are in good health and the remainder of the campaign in the Crimea was successful.'

  He re-read the words. He had spent so much time with Helen over there; they had shared experiences, danger and dreams of a mutual future.

  'I often think of our times together and smile at the memories. My father always spoke highly of you, and he took an interest in your career, as did I.'

  Her father was Colonel Maxwell, who had commanded the 113th Foot through much of the campaign in the Crimea. Now he had left, promoted to brigadier and sent on to England, taking his family with him.

  'As you
know, I became very friendly with your brother William before the Russians captured him. He was repatriated in a prisoner exchange and was on the same ship as we were when we sailed Home.'

  Home: Helen had never been to England until that point and still thought of it as Home. The eternal nostalgia of the exile, as Jack knew well.

  'Father and Mother both approved of our friendship so when William asked their permission for my hand in marriage they gave it and I, naturally, had no hesitation in accepting.'

  Jack read the passage three times, mouthing the words silently as moths fluttered around his lantern and the lizard crept slowly across the ceiling. 'Oh, naturally,' he said. 'So brother William not only has my house and land, but he has also has stolen my girl.'

  He put the letter down, closed his eyes and swore. Damn him; damn William to hell, and damn Helen too; the lovely, vivacious, unpredictable Helen. Damn them both. Damning them did not help, so Jack continued to read.

  'I was not happy to learn how you had abandoned William and allowed him to be taken deep into Russia, and now I have learned certain things about your history that are frankly quite disturbing.'

  'I did not abandon William,' Jack said to himself. 'He chose to remain a prisoner with his drinking and womanising!'

  'Indeed, Jack, I find I am quite disappointed in you. I had thought you to be a gentleman and now I know you are not. William and I will be happy if we no longer have anything to do with you. I do not wish you to reply to this, the last message I will ever send you.'

  The letter ended with three curt words

  Helen Windrush (Mrs).

  Jack re-read the entire letter, slowly, knowing it would hurt him, knowing he could do nothing to assuage the pain yet still reading. He leant back as the sweat from his hands soaked into the paper, smudging the ink and blurring some of the words. It did not matter; he knew them off by heart and could repeat the sentences blindfold if he needed to.

  His Helen was gone, married to his half- brother. For over two years he had imagined taking her to Wychwood Manor and showing her his favourite places, introducing her to the Malvern Hills and the villages, fields and woods where he grew up. Now Helen would see all these places with his brother, William, who had turned his back on him as soon as he learned he was illegitimate.

  Illegitimate. The word echoed through Jack's head. He was the bastard son of General Windrush and some servant girl; who she was he did not know and never would. It had been some casual sexual encounter that mattered nothing to his father but infuriated his stepmother, so she denied him all access to his father's home. Rather than having him commissioned into the prestigious Royal Malverns, Jack's mother had sent him to the 113th, the last refuge for ne'er-do-wells, blackguards, criminals on the run, and men discarded by other regiments.

  Jack looked at the bottles on the sideboard, pondered for a moment and discarded the idea. Drinking would not alter anything. He lifted the letter again and read it, savouring Helen's signature as he relived the times they had spent together. Sighing, he put the letter down and lifted a Hindustani dictionary. He was determined to learn the language, although the words blurred and the image of Helen intruded every time he turned a page.

  'Sahib!' The voice was soft but urgent. 'Sahib!'

  'Hazura,' Jack struggled to open his eyes. His Dogra butler stood at the side of the bed. 'Have I overslept?'

  'No, Sahib.' Hazura was immaculate as always. Tall and slim, he sported a fine curling moustache and a turban that seemed over-large for his head. 'There is a soldier-sahib to see you.'

  Jack lifted his silver Hunter from the sideboard. 'It's five in the morning, Hazura. I've only been in bed for two hours for God's sake.'

  'Yes, Sahib. '

  'Send him away, Hazura. Tell him to report to me at a respectable hour.'

  Hazura salaamed. 'It is a sergeant, Sahib. He said it was urgent and he must see you.'

  About to blast the man to obedience, Jack killed his bad temper. Hazura had grown old in the service of John Company; he was not a man to wake an officer unless there was a good reason for it. 'All right, then, Hazura. Give me a minute to get some clothes on, and I'll see this fellow.'

  Unshaved and not-yet-awake, Jack stumbled to the front door to see a sergeant standing at attention.

  'O'Neill!' Jack's momentary pleasure at the sight of a familiar face altered to concern. 'What's the trouble, Sergeant?'

  'We have two men missing, sir.' O'Neill threw a smart salute.

  'Have you reported to the duty officer?'

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill remained at attention. 'Mr Hargreaves said I should tell you, sir.'

  Jack nodded. Lieutenant Hargreaves was one of the new young officers who had joined the regiment to replace the casualties of the Crimea. 'He was probably wise. Who is missing – let me guess, Thorpe and Coleman?'

  'No, sir. Thorpe and Hutton.'

  Jack frowned. 'I don't know much about Hutton.'

  'He's a new man, sir; a wild young lad from Manchester with a taste for women and drink.'

  'Stand at ease for God's sake, O'Neill.' Jack tried to get his sleep-fuddled thoughts together. 'All right; any ideas?'

  'They'll be in a brothel in Gondabad, sir, depend on it.'

  'Bloody fools,' Jack said. 'Thorpe should know better.' He pondered for a moment. 'Ever since he won that blasted medal outside Sebastopol, he's thought he's something special! All right Sergeant. My compliments to Mr Hargreaves and ask him to inform the colonel then meet me outside the barracks in ten minutes. Bring a picket of a dozen steady men, Riley, Logan, Coleman … You know best.'

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill saluted again and loped off into the dark. Somewhere in the night, a leopard gave its sawing cough. Jack grunted. Thorpe and Hutton were prize fools to risk the pox and God-knows-what- else consorting with prostitutes, but at least they had taken his mind off his problems.

  Pulling on his uniform, he allowed Hazura help him with his sword and pistol, checked his revolver to ensure it was loaded and stalked off to meet O'Neill.

  The bugler was busy, calling out the guard and the official words ran through Jack's head as he crossed over to the barracks side of the road:

  Come and do your guard, my boys, come and do your guard

  You've had fourteen nights in bed, so it won't be hard.

  Naturally, the 113th had refined the words:

  Come and do a picket boys, come and do a guard

  You think it's bloody easy, but you'll find it's bloody hard.

  The picket was waiting for him, mostly Crimea veterans, grumbling as they fastened their tunics and made final adjustments to belts and buckles. Jack frowned at one familiar face.

  'Armstrong! You were with us in Burma. Where have you been since?'

  Armstrong was a saturnine Borderer with a mouth like a man-trap. 'In Scotland, sir.'

  'Why were you not with the regiment?'

  'I had to go and sort something out, sir.' Armstrong said and relapsed into silence.

  'You deserted.' Jack said.

  'Yes, sir. I had to sort something out at home and then I was in Greenlaw.'

  Greenlaw was the military prison at Penicuik, south of Edinburgh. 'I see.' Jack knew he would never hear the full details. 'Glad to have to back, Armstrong. If you try to desert again, I will shoot you myself.' He raised his voice. 'Right, men, you know that Thorpe and Hutton are absent and you'll know where. How many of you know the brothel area of Gondabad?'

  There was an uneasy silence.

  'You know, Coleman, and so do you, Logan.' Jack ignored the expected protestations of innocence. 'You take point along with me. Sergeant O'Neill, take the rear. These two idiots could be dragged away and murdered in the native town. I want them safely back in barracks so I can kill them myself.' Jack hid his smile as he looked at the familiar faces. Since his promotion to captain and their posting to Gondabad, he had much less time with his men. 'March.'

  Gondabad was a sprawling town of some thirty thousand souls, with a tangled spider's w
eb of narrow, stinking streets and alleyways around the crumbling Moghul fort in the centre. There was also a suburb where the local merchants lived secret lives behind high walled gardens.

  The watchman at the gate in the decaying mud-and-stone town walls stepped out to challenge them, saw they were British soldiers and retired to his habitual semi-doze.

  'It's a bit like home,' Logan's Glasgow accent cut through the dense humidity of the night.

  Jack ignored him. 'Coleman; you know Thorpe best. Where will he be?'

  Coleman hesitated for only a minute. 'I don't know, sir.'

  'Well you'd better damned well start to know, Coleman!' Jack snapped. 'Anything could happen in this sort of place. Unless you want Thorpe murdered or worse.'

  'He might be in a place I've heard of, sir.' Coleman muttered softly.

  'Take us there,' Jack pushed Coleman ahead into the first of the alleyways. Even at night, there was an all-pervading smell of fruits and spices, together with a hint of incense and the urine of cattle, goats and humans. A waft of high-pitched music came from deep in the interior.

  The alleys were narrow and dark, with windows shuttered to keep out the daytime sun and night-time thieves, stinking puddles on the ground and the rustle of rats and unseen horrors. Even with a dozen fully armed and stalwart British soldiers around him, Jack felt vulnerable in this place. This town of Gondabad was raw India, far removed from the glamour of John Company's offices and the counting of cash through trade.

  The native music continued, punctuated by a sudden outbreak of barking from pi-dogs and the harsh voice of a man. A woman screamed; a child began to cry and then silence, brittle with menace. The music started again, sinister in the dark.

  'This way, sir'. Coleman sounded as calm as if he was walking through a market town in England. Stopping where the alley narrowed even further, he glanced ahead. 'There's a place down here I think Thorpey might be, sir. We call it Madame Dora's but the locals have another name for it.' He touched a hand to his bayonet. 'It could be a little rough, sir.'