The Cannons of Lucknow, page 6
Alex inspected the arm. “Have you shown this to the surgeon?”
“Sure, sorr. He dressed it and sent me back to duty.”
“I see. Well—can you handle a pistol?”
“I can, sorr.”
“Then we’ll use you as a galloper, Cullmane,” Alex decided. “Unless you want to go back to your regiment?” Receiving an emphatic headshake, he smiled. “Right, then. I don’t imagine you’ll be a liability after whipping-in for the Tips. But you’d better have that arm dressed again—you could lose it, you know, if it becomes badly infected.”
“I’d be in powerful good company if I did, Colonel sorr,” Cullmane said. “For haven’t you lost your sword arm yourself now? Dammit, sorr, if ye’ll pardon the liberty, if I could handle myself the way you do, sure I’d never miss it!”
“You would, my lad, you would,” Alex told him quietly. Hardly a day had passed during the siege when he had not cursed the loss of his arm and found himself impeded by it. But at any rate, he thought, as he left the Cavalry Lines, if he could still give the impression of being able to handle himself well on horseback, then the years of patient practice with his left hand had not been wasted.
In the Volunteers’ mess tent, he found Lousada Barrow at table and joined him there. After questioning him minutely concerning their new recruits, the cavalry Commander warned him that the time allocated to their training might be less, even, than he had anticipated.
“Neill’s arrived, with 227 of the 84th, as no doubt you observed. The general received him with an eleven-gun salute and they’re dining together now, but I gather from what Fraser Tytler let slip that the Highlanders are under orders to cross over to Oudh tonight.”
“Tonight, in this deluge?” Alex frowned.
“So it would seem,” Barrow assured him.” Tytler, who’s something of an expert on engines, has spent the best part of the day putting the steamer’s engines into working order. The Bridge of Boats was destroyed on the Nana’s instructions, of course, but Tytler says they’ve managed to collect twenty sizeable boats, with native boatmen to man them, and the steamer is to tow them across. They’re to take a couple of field-guns with them but no tents, poor fellows.”
“And Neill is to remain in command here, is he?” Alex was hungry, but he regarded the unsavoury-looking mess on the plate a servant placed before him with glum disfavour. “What is this? Is it edible?”
“It’s curry,” Barrow assured him. “And not as bad as it looks … try it. Yes, Neill’s to command here as soon as all our men are across the river. The general has had hundreds of coolies working to build an entrenchment on the Baxi Ghat, where already he’s had two guns mounted to cover the crossing. It’s a well-chosen site, with the river on one side and the canal on the other, and it’s high enough up to cover the approaches from the city as well. The coolies have worked well—the breastwork is considerably higher, even now, than poor General Wheeler’s and I’m told that, when completed, the walls will be fifteen feet thick, turfed over, and fitted with sallyports and properly constructed gun platforms.”
“Surely that will take time?” Alex ate his curry with unexpected relish.
Lousada Barrow shook his head. “The final touches will, but the general is satisfied that enough will have been done before he leaves with the main body to enable Neill to hold it with three hundred men.” He laid a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “It will be a different proposition altogether from Wheeler’s, Alex, and the guns we brought in from Bithur will be used for its defence. Poor old Wheeler did make a grave error in siting his entrenchment so far from the river, you know, and mounting so few light guns.”
Perhaps that was true, Alex thought unhappily. He pushed his plate away and shook his head to the mess khitmatgar’s proffered basket of fresh mangoes. Barrow passed him a cheroot and they left the table together and went to sit in the tent which served as an anteroom. It was deserted save for two civilian Volunteers who were dozing over their coffee, and when Barrow had finished his, he took out his pocket-watch.
“The crossing is due to start about midnight,” he said. “I suppose, in spite of the rain, we ought to watch it, don’t you? But we can snatch a few hours’ sleep before going down to the ghat.”
Alex agreed resignedly, stiffing a yawn. He was becoming accustomed to lack of sleep; it seemed a lifetime since he had been able to enjoy a full night’s rest, but at least the few hours Lousada Barrow had promised him need no longer be spent on the bare ground with his horse tethered beside him, alternately drenched by rain and burned and blistered by the fierce June sun. Tents had arrived with the baggage train and were springing up like mushrooms within sight of the burned-out, looted ruins of the bungalows and barracks which had originally housed the garrison, so that some degree of comfort was now possible. For the next week, at any rate, all save the unfortunate Highlanders could count on being able to sleep under cover which, in view of the present ceaseless downpour, would make a welcome change.
“I think I’ll turn in now, if you don’t mind, Lou.” Alex got stiffly to his feet, stifling another involuntary yawn. “I’m planning a fairly active day tomorrow. For a start I want to have the old Riding School cleared and the roof patched up—the Pandies had a twenty-four-pounder battery sited there and they’ve left it in a hell of a state. But I fancy the new boys will learn a good deal faster if they’re under cover, and we’ll knock up fewer horses if—”
“Good Lord, I nearly forgot!” Barrow interrupted apologetically. “My memory isn’t what it was, I’m afraid. You won’t be free tomorrow morning, Alex. The general has ordered the trial of that subedar of the 17th—the one we brought in from Bithur. The trial is to take place tomorrow morning at eight-thirty, at the Kotwalee, I think, under the presidency of one of the Queen’s regiments’ commanding officers … and you’ll be required as a witness. You—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Alex began in frustration. “If I’m to train those recruits, then surely—”
“The trial will not take up much of your time,” Barrow assured him. “And I’ll attend personally to the clearing of your riding school. But I understand that the general considers this trial of great importance, since it will be the first of its kind here. Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done. The death sentence is, of course, mandatory for all native officers and sepoys taken in mutiny, and the subedar will undoubtedly be sentenced to death. It’s essential, however, that his guilt is proven, and you were there when we found the Nana’s letter on him. You were also there when he carried out the Nana’s orders and fired on the boats which managed to escape from the Suttee Chowra Ghat—which makes you a vital witness, Alex.”
“I suppose it does,” Alex conceded reluctantly. “And if the general wishes me to give evidence, I can scarcely refuse, can I?”
“Scarcely, old man. Well …” Lousada Barrow reached for his shabby cavalry cloak, which still smelled faintly of mothballs and bore the silver buttons and pale buff facings of his old regiment, the 5th Madras Light Cavalry. He drew it about him and led the way out into the rain-wet darkness. “They auctioned poor Stuart Beatson’s effects this afternoon,” he added, his voice muffled. “I bid for one or two items I’ll be happy to share with you, Alex. There’s a splendid new cloak which I intend to hang on to, so you’re welcome to this one, if you want it. The darned thing fitted me when I was a newly joined cornet—it doesn’t now. And there are some shirts and cotton tunics and a very good pair of boots. If you come to my tent, I’ll hand over anything you need.”
Alex thanked him. The news of the death of the force’s adjutant-general had not been unexpected—poor Beatson had been suffering from an attack of cholera since leaving Fatepur and had followed the advance in an ammunition tumbril—but nevertheless it came as a shock to him. And it would be a cruel blow to William Beatson, also, when he learned of his younger brother’s sad end. Like so many brothers in the East India Company’s service, the two had seen each other infrequently but they were the best of friends and had corresponded regularly. In the Crimea, Alex recalled, Stuart Beatson’s letters had been read and read again by his onetime commander and closest friend. Disconsolately, he followed Lousada Barrow into his tent, where the garments he had purchased at the auction of the dead officer’s effects had been laid out neatly on a folding camp bed.
“He was popular,” Barrow observed. “The bids were high and the general bought a number of items, so there’ll be something to send on to the poor fellow’s wife and family. Not that it will console them for his loss.” He sighed, slipping off his cloak. “Here’s this thing. I’m sorry it’s so wet but it will be an improvement on the horse blanket you’ve had to make do with, perhaps. Take anything else you require—your need is greater than mine.”
“I shan’t be able to pay you until the paymaster arranges a draft,” Alex warned. “You see, I—“Lousada Barrow cut him short. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alex! I don’t want any payment and the cloak’s a gift, in any case. Help yourself.”
“I can’t do that unless you’ll allow me to repay you, Lou.”
“All right, if you insist—pay me when you are in a position to do so. Try those boots; they’re too small for me but I should imagine they’re about your size.”
Alex obediently measured the sole of one boot against his own. “They’re fine,” he said. “If you’re sure you don’t want them.”
“I only wish I could get into them. Even these, which I’ve worn for years, seem to have shrunk.” Barrow kicked off his own boots with a grunt of relief and, seating himself on the bed, gestured to the pile of shirts and native-made white uniform jackets. “Poor devil, he evidently expected a long campaign! He had rallied, you know, and Dr. Le Presle was hopeful that he’d pull through. He and Sydenham Renaud were both moved to a building known as the Savada Koti, which has been taken over as a temporary hospital. It was near the Nana’s camp, I believe.”
“Yes,” Alex confirmed. “He kept some of his European captives there.” He hesitated. “How is Renaud? Someone told me the surgeons were afraid they would have to take his leg off.”
Barrow shrugged despondently. “They died within an hour of each other, I’m sorry to say. The funeral is tomorrow, with full military honours for them both. The Movable Column has suffered a great loss, Alex, in those two.” He sighed. “They say no man is indispensable, don’t they? All the same, they will be hard to replace, Stuart Beatson in particular. He was one of the best organisers I’ve ever met in my life.”
“Has anyone been appointed in his place?”
“I heard that the general is to appoint his son, Harry, but I don’t know if that’s true.”
Alex selected a shirt and two jackets. He waited, offering no comment, and Lousada Barrow went on, a thoughtful frown drawing his bristling dark brows together, “You haven’t asked about Harry Havelock but I’ll tell you anyway. He’s young and he’s a hothead but he’s as brave as a lion and I think he’ll go a long way. When he first came out, he ran himself into debt and, I’m told, caused his father a great deal of anxiety—he’s not well off, you know, the general. He could never afford to buy his steps in rank; he won them all on merit, and it took him a long time. You can’t blame him for giving his son a step up, in the circumstances … he’s devoted to the boy, in spite of those earlier scandals.”
“I did not say I blamed him, Lou,” Alex pointed out mildly.
“No, you didn’t. But I could see you wondering.”
“Perhaps I was. It’s an important job, adjutant-general to a force like this. I just hope young Havelock’s up to it.”
“Don’t we all!” Barrow’s tone was dry. “Well, I’ve brought you up to date with the news, good and bad, so perhaps we’d better call it a day. Those are the things you’re taking? Good—then I’ll have you wakened at midnight. Unless you’re too tired and would rather sleep?”
“No.” Alex denied it. “I want to watch the crossing.”
The Nana would almost certainly have crossed into Oudh, he thought, as he made his way, wrapped in Lousada’s cloak, to his own nearby tent. If, that was to say, the treacherous swine was still alive. His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. The Nana, Azimullah, Tantia Topi, Jwala Pershad … all of them were still at large and all of them would have to be defeated and brought to justice. The Moulvi of Fyzabad also, for he, perhaps, was the evil genius on whom must rest responsibility for both the mutiny of the Oudh troops and the Nana’s betrayal.
Alex groped his way over the recumbent forms of the two officers who shared the tent with him. They were sleeping deeply and neither stirred. Within a few minutes of casting himself down beside them, he was sleeping as deeply as they.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS STILL raining heavily when Lousada Barrow led his small party of Volunteer Cavalry to the Baxi Ghat just before midnight, to find General Havelock and his Staff already there and the scene one of feverish activity.
The embarkation point was situated within sight of the wrecked pontoons of the old Bridge of Boats, which had once linked two small islands—both now under flood water—and carried traffic between Cawnpore and the Lucknow road. On a mound, sufficiently high above the landing stage to cover the approaches to it, the stark outline of the new entrenchment could just be discerned through the driving rain, the muzzles of two heavy-calibre guns protruding from the wall on the river side. General Havelock, Alex thought, eyeing these, had certainly wasted no time … and he was wasting none now.
The deluge had turned the riverbank into a quagmire, but in spite of it, the embarkation was proceeding with remarkable speed and efficiency. The small river steamer, the Burrampootra, in which Captain Spurgin, with a hundred Madras Fusiliers and two small guns manned by veterans of the Invalid Battalion, had battled his way from Allahabad, had already taken her complement of Highlanders on board. Under the expert hand of her commander, the gallant Indian marine lieutenant, Dickson, she was drawing away from the bank, smoke pouring from her single funnel and her ancient paddles noisily churning up the dark, muddy water of the swollen Ganges.
Colonel Fraser Tytler, the Force’s A.Q.M.G., emerged from a native hut in which he had sought temporary shelter from the downpour and, a hurricane lamp held high above his head, watched her departure apprehensively. His normally immaculate white uniform was covered with oil stains, Alex observed, and his arms, bare to the elbow, were liberally coated with the same substance, but he beamed as he watched the little steamer swing round, holding her own against the current. General Havelock, recognising him, doffed his cap in salute and the Highlanders lining the upper deck gave vent to excited cheers.
Their comrades, waiting to embark in the small boats which the Burrampootra would take in tow, squatted down under the dripping neem trees in glumly contrasting silence as the native boatmen manoeuvred their craft closer to the ghat. Soaked as they were, they did not relish the prospect of wading out waist deep in order to board the budgerows provided for them, and several voices were raised in complaint when the order came for them to move. Havelock heard them and, dismounting from his horse, went across to speak to them. The swearing ceased the instant that the men saw the dapper little figure of their general picking his way through the squelching mud toward them, and they greeted him eagerly, clustering round him like a crowd of small boys unexpectedly vouchsafed a glimpse of their hero.
Alex was too far away to hear what he said to them, but the effect was heartwarmingly evident. The men lost their sullenness and cheered him spontaneously; Havelock, soon as wet and uncomfortable as any of his Highlanders, led them down to the ghat and stood, smiling encouragement, as they splashed into the water and, packs and rifles held above their heads, boarded the waiting boats.
“That, gentlemen,” Colonel Tytler’s voice said from the darkness, “is what I call leadership!” He was on horseback now, his stained uniform covered by a cape, but his handsome, patrician face still bore traces of his day of toil in the Burrampootra’s engine-room. He reined in between Alex and Lousada Barrow and went on quietly, “He’s always had that quality, allied to a first-class brain and greater courage under fire than any man I’ve ever met. But until now, Henry Havelock has never been appreciated for the exceptional soldier he is … which is yet another argument against the buying and selling of commissions in Her Majesty’s Army, I suppose.”
“You’ve known him for a long time, have you not, Colonel?” Barrow suggested.
“For almost twenty years,” the deputy assistant quartermaster-general admitted. “We were both in the Afghan campaign, although I, thank God, wasn’t in Cabul in ’41. We both started off as ADCs—Havelock to Sir Willoughby Cotton, with the Bengal Column, and I to Sir George Pollock, with the relief force. Havelock had just obtained his substantive captaincy in the 13th Light Infantry, without purchase … and with twenty-three years’ service as a subaltern behind him!” He sighed reminiscently. “He was the moving force at Jellalabad, you know—not Sale, although Sale was subsequently given all the credit for it. A K.C.B., promotion to major-general … and eulogies from Lord Ellenborough fell to Sale’s share, and Havelock, somewhat belatedly, was given a brevet-majority and a C.B. There’s no justice, is there? But at least General Pollock had the good sense to appoint him adjutant-general to McCaskill’s division—which he virtually commanded—and he had the satisfaction of helping to avenge the slaughter of the Cabul garrison. That was when I came to know him … and poor Henry Lawrence too. He was another who never got the rewards he richly deserved, and now, alas, it’s too late for him. But at least it’s not too late for General Havelock and—” the Colonel broke off, swearing under his breath.
