Cry Havelock Read online

  'Thank you for the warning, Coleman.' Jack felt the comforting weight of the revolver in its holster. He raised his voice slightly. 'Be prepared for anything, men.'

  The resulting growls were reassuring. Roused from their sleep and sent on a march to the native town in the small hours of the morning, his men would not be in the best of tempers. He stifled his involuntary grin. God help the badmash who got in their way.

  Moving in single file up the alley, Jack was very aware how vulnerable his picket was with shuttered windows overlooking them and hidden doorways leading to only-God-knew-what on either side. Although the men carried rifles and bayonets, this was a civilian area, and they were under the rule of law. Whatever happened, he would be responsible for any damage to property or injuries to people, military or civilian. With Fraser's warning of the previous night raw in his head, he could sense a new tension in the air. It was as if the town was watching him, waiting to strike at these men from the far north who had occupied so much of this ancient land.

  There was a sudden bang of wood on hardened mud as a shutter opened behind them, the querulous sound of a female voice and the staccato barking of a dog.

  'Here we go.' Somebody muttered.

  For a few moments frantic barking and the shouts of angry dog-owners filled the air.

  'Bloody dogs,' Logan commented. 'We should shoot the buggers.'

  'We should shoot you, Logan,' O'Neill gave the inevitable response. 'And I might if you don't keep your mouth shut, you bloody Scotch dwarf.'

  'Aye, right, Sergeant. It would take more than you.' Logan probably meant his words to be a whisper, but they carried further than he intended in the confinement of the alley.

  Jack said nothing. It was better for the men to work these things out themselves without the interference of an officer.

  'Up here, sir.' Coleman opened an ornate metal gate by turning his back on it and kicking with his heel. The gate creaked backwards to slam against a mud wall. The sound set off another dog.

  'You pick your places, don't you?' Jack said. 'How on earth did you find this?'

  'Oh, Madame Dora's is well known, sir,' Coleman said. 'It's one of the best whore houses in Gondabad.'

  'If this is one of the best…' Jack left the rest unsaid. He remembered the French army in the Crimea supplying women for the benefit of the men. They were clean and safe, which was a much more sensible arrangement than anything the British Army did. Perhaps the powers that be in Horse Guards believed British soldiers were hymn-singing angels who spent their evenings reading improving books rather than the flesh-and-blood men they were.

  The metal gate led to a short passageway that stunk of every offensive smell Jack could imagine, and others he had no desire even to consider. At the far end was an arched Moorish door, heavily studded with iron and with a small grilled window in the centre.

  'Here we are, sir.' Coleman stood aside, duty done.

  Jack stared at the door, momentarily unsure what to do next.

  'With your permission, sir?' O'Neill stepped forward, as Jack had hoped he would.

  'Carry on, Sergeant.'

  'Logan, Riley, Murphy, Whitelam; you follow me when I enter and don't stop for anything. Coleman, Parker, and Regan: stay out here and don't let anybody in. The rest of you wait inside and don't let anybody out.'

  Without waiting for confirmation, O'Neill lifted his boot and kicked massively at the wooden door.

  '113th Foot!' He roared. 'Open up in there!'

  O'Neill's voice had carried across the battlefields of the Crimea and Burma. Now it shattered the fragile peace of the restless town and yet again awakened a score of dogs.

  Lights appeared behind the upper windows of the building.

  'Open up!' O'Neill emphasised his roar with another thunderous kick that rattled the door on its hinges. There was the scrape of bolts, and the door creaked slightly.

  'Follow me!' Without waiting for the door to fully open, O'Neill barged inside with his four chosen men at his heels. Either he was already familiar with the interior layout of Madame Dora's, or he had some sergeant's skill at navigation for he raced up a flight of internal stairs without hesitation.

  'Thorpe! Hutton! We're here for you, you idle bastards! Come out now, or I'll have you both hanged for desertion. 113th! 113th!'

  The men at his heels shouted the same so the cacophony of noise increased; doors opened and patrons and their girls peered out.

  In the meantime, Jack took a more leisurely approach as he watched a surge of people descend to the front door, where the 113th halted them with loaded rifles and loud voices. Jack looked over the assembly of scared men and angry women. It was a pretty typical cross-section of Indian society, he decided, with clerks and lawyers as well as farmers and merchants of all ages from sixteen to sixty. One middle aged, dignified woman stared at him, bold-eyed.

  'Sir,' Riley said. 'That's Dora. She will know if Thorpey's here.'

  Jack stepped into the press of bodies. 'Miss Dora?' He enquired politely. 'I am Captain Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot.'

  He expected the tirade of abuse but not the large man who stepped forward and lifted an iron-shod staff.

  'The Wrath of Shiva will come upon you!'

  'That could be true,' Jack tried to sound calm. He knew any over-reaction would only encourage this man to violence, and then his 113th would retaliate, with goodness knew what ultimate consequences. 'But before Shiva begs angry we are searching for two wayward private soldiers. Once we retrieve them, we will be gone and leave you in peace.'

  'There is a scarlet storm coming to India,' Madame Dora said. She was about forty, Jack guessed, with a caste mark low on her forehead and intense brown eyes.

  'So I've heard.' Jack noted that Dora used the same phrase as Fraser had.

  'It will blow you back to England.' Dora shouted.

  'Bloody cheek!' Williams lifted his hand as if to slap her.

  'Restrain yourself, Williams,' Jack glanced upstairs as there was a sudden outburst of noise and then O'Neill's voice bellowed out.

  'Stand still Hutton, or I'll shoot you where you stand!'

  'That's Hutty told,' Riley said casually. 'Stupid Mancunian bastard.'

  There was the sound of heavy feet clattering on the stairs, and Logan appeared with his rifle at the high port. 'Got them, sir. The locals don't like us much.' He shifted aside as something heavy sailed through the air to bounce on the ground at his feet.

  'Form a square, men,' Jack ordered. 'We're not popular here.'

  Thorpe looked bemused as O'Neill pushed him down the final few steps, reached behind him and dragged Hutton to join him.

  'Sorry I took so long, sir,' O'Neill said. 'These two were out of uniform.'

  That was as neat a euphemism as Jack had heard for some time. 'I take it they were not alone.'

  'No sir; they had company.' O'Neill shoved them both into the middle of the square.

  'Let's get out of here before we start a war.' Jack wondered if he was better to lead from the front or take the rearguard. As an officer, he should take the position of most danger.

  'Yes, sir.' O'Neill hesitated for only a second. 'Beg pardon sir but do you remember the way back?'

  'Not well,' Jack admitted.

  'Shall I take point then, sir?'

  'Yes, please, Sergeant.' Thank God for O'Neill.

  The first stone rattled from the gate as they reached it. The second stone passed high over Jack's head, hit the wall of a building and bounced back.

  '113th!' Jack watched his men pass. Hutton ducked as the volley of stones and crockery increased, with men and women in other buildings joining the denizens of Madame Dora's in pelting the British. '113th; hold your ranks!'

  If the men remained in formation, they would be safer. Any individual soldier who strayed could be snatched away and murdered in the tangle of dark alleyways. These native towns were as dangerous to strangers as the rookeries of London or the closes and wynds of Glasgow. The noise of shouting men and
women and the crash of stones on walls and ground increased.

  Logan cursed as a rock thumped onto his shoulder. He lifted his rifle as if to fire, glanced at Jack and lowered it again.

  'Keep moving,' Jack ordered. 'Hold your fire. These are civilians.'

  'There's a scarlet storm coming!' That was Dora's voice, high-pitched and piercing. 'It'll chase you back to England.'

  'You'll lose half your custom then, you poxed-up bitch!' Thorpe retaliated quickly.

  'Keep quiet and listen for orders!' O'Neill shouted over his shoulder.

  Jack looked forward. Dawn was breaking above the town, easing tendrils of light through the gaps between the houses and shining on the shakos of the white-clad 113th as they pushed through the lanes. Above them, shutters opened, rubbish was tipped out, stones thrown and shutters closed again. Faces appeared and reappeared, brown and dark-brown, male or female, shouting insults, screaming hate or worried and fearful. The roar of abuse increased. The barking of dogs became frantic.

  More stones battered down, bouncing from shoulders, knocking off shakos, cutting heads and faces.

  'Scarlet storm!' the English phrase was heard above the background noise, either partial or in its entirety. 'Scarlet storm.'

  The gunshot came as a surprise, echoing through the narrow lanes. Jack did not see where the ball landed but smelled the burned powder and saw the slow drift of smoke across the face of a building to the left.

  'Anybody hurt?'

  There was a pause. 'No, sir!' O'Neill replied. 'All present.'

  'Pick up the pace,' Jack said. 'The sooner we're out of here the better.'

  Williams yelled as a stone struck his mouth. He swore, spat out blood and carried on.

  'Permission to fire, sir?' Coleman asked.

  'Denied; keep moving.' Jack ducked as a brass pot hurtled toward him. It hit the wall at his side and clattered to the ground.

  'Sir!' O'Neill shouted. 'Ahead of us.'

  Another lane crossed theirs at right angles. A crowd waited at the intersection, brandishing metal-tipped staffs, swords and long muskets and shouting as the British approached.

  'Halt,' Jack lifted his hand. His men obeyed, eyeing the shifting mass ahead, the long robes of the men and the array of weapons they carried. Jack raised his voice above the hubbub. 'Bayonets, fix!'

  The sinister hiss of British soldiers drawing bayonets from their scabbards would quieten any crowd. The sharp snick of the picket fitting them under the barrels of the Enfield rifles penetrated even the rising roar.

  Stepping to the front of his men, Jack formed them into a solid block, taking his time to make it appear he was unafraid of the screaming mob. The veterans of Sebastopol and Inkerman stared forward without expression, with the newer members of the unit shaking, either with excitement or fear, Jack neither knew nor cared. They would do their duty, and in time they would be skilled veterans, or they would die. In the British Army, there was no alternative.

  'Sergeant O'Neill,' he said. 'Take the rear.'

  'Sir!' O'Neill slammed to attention and threw a salute. There was a trickle of blood on his face where some missile had nicked him.

  With the lane behind them also beginning to fill up with yelling men, Jack knew he had little room to manoeuvre and no time to hesitate.

  'O'Neill, Logan, Riley; face the rear. The rest of you, load!'

  The men took cartridges from their ammunition pouches, ripped them open with their teeth and tipped the gunpowder down the barrel of the rifle.

  'Caps!'

  The cap was a cone which contained a chemical compound known as fulminate of mercury. Each man lifted a cap from the cap-box on their belt and fitted the cap onto the lock of the rifle. Despite the noise, they remained disciplined, with the younger men copying the veterans and trying to ignore the stones and other missiles that bounced all around them.

  'Aim high!' Jack shouted, 'above their heads!' He made sure each man hoisted his rifle with the muzzle pointing to the sky. He had no desire to have a civilian death on his conscience. So far this was just a local disturbance; if he shot some unarmed man, the local population might rise en-masse with who-knew-what consequences.

  One young soldier's hands were shaking.

  'Thorpe; remove that man's rifle and take his place.'

  The Enfield weighed nine pounds and together with the long triangular bayonet was a heavy weight for a man to point skyward for any length of time.

  Coleman nudged Thorpe's elbow. 'Can you remember how to fire it, Thorpey? Or are you too important now you've got a Victoria Cross?'

  'Bugger you, Coley! You never got nothing, you!'

  'Fire!' Jack ordered.

  In the confined space, the report of the rifles was shockingly loud. Grey-white smoke choked the alleys as the mob in front withdrew a pace.

  'Reload,' Jack ordered when the echoes faded away. The sound of men preparing their rifles filled the new hush. 'Now lower your bayonets and follow me.'

  Drawing his sword, Jack rested it against his right shoulder and marched boldly toward the crowd. A stone hurled through the air from somewhere in the rear. He ignored it and strode on, aware the mob was facing the gleaming bayonet points of his men, and also knowing his 113th would not hesitate to stab and thrust. These were not parade-ground soldiers but veterans who had seen all the horrors of war.

  Two natives stood their ground; one was tall with the arrogance of a Pathan and a scarf shielding the lower half of his face, the other older, with a bushy grey beard and venomous eyes. Unrelenting, Jack strode on, meeting the bearded man's gaze, seeing the smouldering hate and knowing he would not break away. He had faced Burmese dacoits and Russian Cossacks so a fat Indian civilian could not intimidate him. The Pathan stepped aside and watched from the shadows of a deep doorway. The bearded man began to shout, gesticulating angrily with his finger as Jack stepped toward him.

  'Shall I shoot him, sir?' Coleman sounded eager to help.

  'No, Coleman.' Jack nearly added: 'but thank you for the offer'. Some of the crowd were backing off; the sound altered from defiance to anxiety yet the bearded man shook his fist and stood directly in front of Jack.

  'Leave him to me, sir,' Coleman sounded angry. 'It's not right he should do that.'

  Jack pressed on, with the pressure of the 113th behind him. The bearded man was forced back, first one step, then two. He continued to shout with his breath hot, foul and spiked with betel in Jack's face. Jack slipped on something foul, recovered and continued, stepping over the man as he stumbled and fell. The soldiers of the 113th had no such sympathy; their iron-studded boots crunched down, deliberately stomping the bearded man as they marched onward.

  In front, the mob dissipated. There were one or two stones and then nothing. Jack glanced over his shoulder; only the masked Pathan remained, watching from the shelter of an arched doorway. His gaze locked with Jack's and he nodded, once and drew a finger across his throat in silent menace before gliding back into the darkness. Jack ignored him and led his men clear of Gondabad and on to the British cantonment.

  Chapter Three

  'He just refused to move,' Jack said. 'You know there is often trouble in the poorer quarters of Gondabad, as there is in any town. Good God, man, there are riots in Worcester and London and Birmingham every other weekend when the drink is in them. It is normal.'

  'So I've heard,' Elliot rested his feet on a stool as he sipped at a glass of sherry.

  'I am not concerned about the stone throwing and shouting,' Jack said, 'but this fellow simply refused to move. I had my sword out, we had fired a warning volley, and we were advancing with a dozen bayonets, and he stood there haranguing us as if he had every right to do so.'

  'Blasted cheek of the man,' Elliot agreed.

  'More nerve than cheek,' Jack said. 'I've never seen the like. There was a Pathan as well. He stepped aside and drew a finger across his throat.' Jack demonstrated for Elliot's education.

  'To a Pathan that's probably a sign of affection,' Elliot
said. 'They're ugly brutes at the best of times.'

  'His face was half-hidden,' Jack said. 'And he kept in the shadows, yet I'm sure I've seen him before.'

  'Never met one in my life,' Elliot said. 'Don't want to either because they're ugly brutes.'

  'I admire your logic.' Jack told him, shaking his head. 'Damnit, the more I think about it, the more I'm sure I've seen him before, but for the life of me I can't say where.'

  Elliot waved his glass in the air for a servant to refill. 'Never mind; it will come to you. What did the old man say about your two blackguards?'

  Jack frowned. 'He was less angry than I thought. I wondered if he would get the triangle out, but instead, I have to take the entire company for a five-day route march to teach us discipline.'

  'Your men were lucky,' Elliot said. 'The Colonel was light-handed because Thorpe won the Victoria Cross at Sebastopol.'

  Jack nodded. 'It would not look good if the regiment flogged a hero.'

  Elliot grinned. 'Some hero! Did you tell Jeff about the bearded fellow?'

  'I did. And about Fraser's warning about the sepoys. He did not seem particularly interested. He called it bazaar gossip and people trying to stir up trouble.' Jack shook his head as a servant offered him sherry. 'No thank you.'

  'If the company men don't seem concerned,' Elliot said, 'I don't think there is anything to worry about.' He grinned. 'After the Crimea, this is a cushy number anyway. True it's hot. Yes it's humid, but you can't compare this to the trenches outside Sebastopol, can you?'

  Jack shook his head as his mind darkened with memories. 'No,' he said shortly. The Crimea had been hell on earth, yet Helen had been there. Here, stranded in Gondabad in the north of India, he had nothing but the regiment.

  Jack sighed and stretched. 'Best get back to my bungalow,' he said. 'I've an early start tomorrow with this route march.'

  'What a bore,' Elliot agreed. 'Serves you right for not looking after your men properly.' He waved his glass for a refill. 'I'd see you out if I could be bothered.'