Brothers of the Blade Read online

  BROTHERS OF

  THE BLADE

  Other novels by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Fancy Jack Crossman Novels:

  The Devil’s Own

  The Valley of Death

  Soldiers in the Mist

  The Winter Soldiers

  Attack on the Redan

  Other fiction:

  Highlander

  Witchwater Country

  In the Hollow of the Deep-sea Wave

  Spiral Winds

  House of Tribes

  A Midsummer’s Nightmare

  Angel

  The Navigator Kings triology

  BROTHERS OF

  THE BLADE

  Lieutenant Fancy Jack Crossman in India

  Garry Douglas Kilworth

  CONSTABLE • LONDON

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2004

  Copyright © Garry Douglas Kilworth 2004

  The right of Garry Douglas Kilworth to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 1-84119-821-8

  eISBN: 978-1-4721-0405-2

  Printed and bound in the EU

  This novel is dedicated to Aleix Dorca

  from

  Andorra la Vella Andorra

  in recognition of the many positive comments

  he has made regarding the Crossman novels.

  Author’s Note

  With the place names in this novel I chose to keep

  to modern spellings. However, even modern spellings vary,

  so choices had to be made. I apologize in advance if a choice

  annoys a reader, but one had to be made.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks must go to David Greenwood for his continued interest in

  and advice on Crossman’s adventures. Also to my editor

  Krystyna Green and the whole team at Constable & Robinson

  for their unfailing support of this series of historical war novels.

  Colin Murray too, has been a great prop over the last few books:

  he has an eagle’s eye for fine detail and lurking error.

  Finally, thanks for ever and aye go to Maggie Noach and Jill Hughes:

  two stalwart champions of their band of writers.

  Readers may wish to visit my website www.garry-kilworth.com

  for books new and old, or for more information on the author.

  1

  The market in Chundore was a mass of dark bodies sprinkled with white: grains of salt amongst the pepper. Crossman had never seen anything to match it. He would have liked to think there was a great deal of work going on, that the activity had some purpose, but it seemed to him that the figures, mostly attired in a dhoti, were simply struggling for air space. There was a religious festival in progress – the anniversery of the birth of Sri Ramakrishna – and the air was heavy with incense smoke. Knots of devotees gathered in various places, along with those who were purchasing goods. A native infantry battalion was garrisoned within the town, the sepoys adding to the mass of humans and animals crammed in the square.

  ‘The sooner we get out of here, the better,’ Crossman muttered to King and Gwilliams. ‘Too many people by half.’

  In the colourful jam they found it easier to lead their horses. They elbowed their way between packed bodies. There was one mounted man in the market, but he was at the far end, where the crowd was thinner. The rider was a British officer. He was having difficulty, the noise of clashing cymbals, beating drums and blaring horns making his horse skittish. Crossman guessed it was taking all the man’s skill and energy to prevent his charger bolting, as sudden shrill cries went up from the festival crowds.

  The wind lifted: saris and stall covers billowed like sails. A cloud of ochre-red spice wafted from somewhere. Dust and powder got in Jack’s eyes and nose: he began sneezing. A foul odour came from a huge black vat which bubbled nearby: someone was boiling up ancient cooking fat. All three men shied away from this stink, seeking cleaner air space. Corporal Gwilliams cleared his throat and spat as well as any local, to rid himself of the taste of hair grease, unavoidable as heads bumped his mouth.

  ‘Are we getting anywhere?’ asked Sergeant King, threading his way through asses and bullocks. ‘I’m getting crushed here and the mare doesn’t like it one bit. I’m sick of people breathing garlic in my face. Can’t we get out between that mosque and that stable?’

  Suddenly, something like a wave went through the mass, and on the far side of the packed-earth square came a shout of alarm. Crossman frowned as his gelding jerked on the reins. He tried to see what the problem was, over the heads of the people. There were soldiers at the far end: musket muzzles stood proud above the heads of the crowd. What was going on? Commotion. Bustle and confusion. The officer on the horse had drawn his sword and he was holding it aloft. His mount danced this way and that, as if they were in a gymkhana.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked King, who was shorter than Crossman and unable to get the same viewpoint. ‘Who’s causing a fuss?’

  The ripples in the crowd came and went, initiated at some distant point. Clearly something was wrong, people could sense it, even the newly arrived lieutenant and his NCOs. Those taking part in the festival continued with their noisy music and chanting, which added to the confusion, while stall owners were trying to stand on stools to see what was causing the ruckus.

  As the trio forced their way closer to the officer, an infantry major, they could see he was involved in the disturbance. He was yelling down at someone, possibly one of his sepoys, his face red and his voice hoarse with fury. He was hewing the air with his sword in an angry manner.

  Jack heard a shot. The major’s head jerked backwards. His sword flew from his hand and landed point-first in his horse’s neck. Then the officer seemed to lean forward. A moment later he slid to the ground. His mount whinnied, shook itself free of the blade, ran a few paces, then stopped and stamped. Blood seeped from the wound in its neck.

  ‘What the hell?’ cried Gwilliams. ‘Did you see that, sir?’

  Sergeant King, still not at a vantage point, said, ‘Was that a musket? Who’s firing?’

  Crossman stood there, numbed by what he had witnessed. He could not see who had fired the weapon, but he knew the sound of a Brown Bess when he heard it. Someone had shot the British officer, had knocked him clean out of his saddle.

  The immediate area miraculously cleared and people found space where there was none before, as they always do when danger threatens, no matter how thick the crowds.

  Now there was an open avenue between Crossman and the body.

  The riderless horse bolted, charging with wild eyes down the path which had been cleared, hitting Gwilliams on its way past, spinning him off his feet.

  In the open space stood a sweating sepoy. His Kilmarnock cap was lying in the dust. The front of his coatee was unbuttoned from the waist of his dhoti to his neck. Crossman could see streaks of damp dust on his bare chest as he calmly reloaded his musket. There were other sepoys standing nearby, about thirt
y in number, but they were simply staring at their comrade who it seemed had just murdered a British major. Looking down the now wide gap, through the crowd, the sepoy saw Crossman, King and Gwilliams. He turned to his watching comrades and yelled at them.

  ‘Come and help me, you cowards! Here’s some more sister-violators. Was it all talk in the barracks? Am I the only one to protect our religion from the British? They will make us into Christians. They will make us eat pork fat. Come on, use your weapons. Kill these men too.’

  The sepoy then raised his musket and aimed at the three white men and fired his weapon again.

  Crossman heard the ball hum by his left ear. Somewhere behind him a local man shrieked and fell to the ground. The struck man began writhing in the dust. Ahead, the havildar in charge stepped from the ranks. He made a tentative move towards the renegade sepoy but then hesitated. There was a reluctance there to issue any orders or take care of matters himself. Instead of disarming the criminal he glanced back at his men.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Crossman called to the native NCO. ‘Arrest him. Why are you all just standing there?’

  ‘He is crazy on substance, sir. What can I do?’

  The sepoy began to load for the third time, efficiently enough, but with wild eyes and quick breath. Crossman, King and Gwilliams all had the same idea and started to run towards him. Seeing them coming, the sepoy abandoned his attempt to reload and quickly snapped on his bayonet. Holding his musket at the ready he charged towards them, screaming at the top of his lungs. Crossman stopped in his tracks, drew his revolver and shot the oncoming sepoy in the chest. The first round failed to check the man’s run but the second stopped him dead in his rush. His musket flew from his hands and he dropped almost at the feet of Sergeant King.

  A ripple of sound went through the ranks of the dead man’s regiment. For a moment it seemed the sepoy might have stronger sympathizers than first appeared. Even the havildar was staring angrily at the prone body of the soldier on the ground. Gwilliams took a carbine from its holster and began loading it. King, who had taken to wearing a sword in India, drew the blade. The three firinghi stood there, waiting to see if the sepoys were going to avenge their comrade-in-arms.

  Suddenly the tension was broken by the arrival of a thin-faced young lieutenant, leading a much larger contingent of soldiers. The rebellious sepoys shuffled back into their ranks. Their havildar stepped forward and saluted the British officer very smartly.

  ‘Clear the market place,’ the lieutenant ordered. ‘You there! Havildar! What’s happened here? Is that the major? Oh my good God! Who’s responsible for this? I say, you. Lieutenant? Who are you? Where did you come from? Did you see what occurred here?’

  The square was cleared. The injured local man was taken away for treatment but it looked to Crossman as if his wound was fatal. Sepoys removed their fallen comrade, one on each corner of the corpse. The major’s horse was recovered and his limp body was draped over it, to be taken back to the barracks. Jack explained the events as they had unfolded to him.

  The young lieutenant whose name was Fowler was clearly quite shocked. His face was grey and he shook his head as he said, ‘I don’t know how his wife will take this. The havildar did nothing you say? Are you sure they weren’t just stunned by it all. I don’t know the murderer. Hardly know any of ’em. You know how it is. Don’t understand why he did this. There’s been some grumbling about the new Enfields, but they’re not even using them. I don’t understand it, I really don’t.’

  Crossman said, ‘Could this just be a case of running amuck? I’ve heard of such things happening.’

  ‘But when someone does that, they kill randomly. They don’t pick out white faces to attack. They simply go in wildly, slashing at anyone in their way. This is different . . .’

  Crossman told Fowler who he was and that he was on his way to the North-West Frontier. ‘I’ll write a report for you to give to your commanding officer,’ he offered. I realize there’s got to be a full enquiry over this, but I can’t stay. Special duties.’

  ‘Appreciate it,’ said the snaggle-toothed Fowler. ‘I just don’t understand it at all.’

  Jack then explained that Chundore was their first stop after leaving Bombay and that they were going to recruit coolies in the town as bearers for their journey.

  ‘My sergeant is a mapmaker and I fancy he’ll want one or two men to help him with that task. Any ideas, Lieutenant?’

  ‘You’ll need to go that way,’ said Fowler, pointing to a street which led to the west of the town. ‘There’s an area out on the periphery, near the camel market, where the labour is to be found. Just follow your nose. You can smell a camel market from a hundred miles. Some elephants too, but you want men you say, not beasts? From there, you can see the barracks. You’ll want to stay with us, I suppose, for a few days? I’ll be in the mess this evening, around six. Have a drink with me.’

  ‘Come on King, Gwilliams. Let’s gather ourselves together,’ called Crossman to the pair. King was leading Jack’s horse by the reins, as well as his own. ‘We’re to go this way. The sooner we get this done, the better. I don’t want to be around this town for too long.’

  King and Gwilliams spent the next hour discussing the incident in the marketplace, turning every moment over and over, examining each one, giving their opinions as to the cause and outcome.

  In the labour market were some British officers in full regimental dress, sweating profusely, moving amongst a sea of coolies and lascars. News of the murder had not yet reached their ears and they strode around with great confidence and more than a touch of arrogance. Here and there were batches of sepoys from the Bombay army in colourful uniforms, many of them similar to the Queen’s army. Crossman found himself approached time and time again by civilians who wished to either sell him something, take him somewhere or provide him with information. One man, a Sikh, Crossman was told, came up and saluted him with military smartness and asked if he could be Crossman’s guide in the city and perhaps beyond.

  ‘I have been in the army, sahib,’ said the man. ‘I was naik in a famous regiment.’

  Although he wanted guides, this one when questioned could not recall the name or number of this regiment, how many years he had served in it, and where it was presently located. Crossman decided to do without his services. The procession of local people – and foreigners from other provinces – who wished to help the three white newcomers was endless.

  Crossman was suddenly overcome with weariness. He had not completely shed the lethargic habits of the voyage: almost three months at sea. The clipper had been exciting at first: it was the fastest vessel Crossman had ever been on. But after a while, especially following the storm in the Atlantic, the business of sailing palled. When he was not ill he was missing his wife. A kind of lethargy set in and he did nothing but wander the deck, when it was permitted, or sleep in his cot. His legs, now that he had hit solid ground again, felt wobbly and weak. The land seemed to tilt and rock in the way that the deck of the ship had done.

  ‘Once we find our men,’ Jack told the other two, ‘we need to set out for Ferozepur as soon as possible.’

  Sergeant King asked to be allowed to do the recruiting and the fatigued Crossman let him get on with it. The lieutenant and Corporal Gwilliams went to the barracks to find accommodation. Later, King arrived in front of Crossman’s quarters and told him how many men he had employed. The lieutenant, now relaxed and enjoying a fruit drink on his veranda, was mildly shocked by the figure.

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’ he said to King. ‘We can’t travel swiftly with a caravan that size.’

  ‘Sir,’ said the sergeant, firmly, ‘I need porters, flagmen, chain-men and, as they are called here, perambulator-wallahs – men to push the measuring wheel. We have to have coolies to carry the tents and supplies, so why not get my team of helpers together here and take them with us?’

  ‘Damn it, you aren’t going to map the whole journey?’

  ‘No, of cou
rse not, sir, that would take many, many years. In any event, much of it has already been done on this side of India. But where I see a hole in the present maps, I should like to fill it where time permits. If we’re pushed, then I shan’t, but if we’re making good progress I see no reason why I can’t do some mapping. Route maps are always welcomed by the army. Roads are features that constantly change, fall into disrepair, or improve. I must have my team of Indians, sir, if you please.’

  Crossman fired his line of cannons.

  ‘And who’s to pay for them?’

  King’s jaw dropped. All the fizz went out of him immediately: his firmness and enthusiasm dropped to zero. Clearly this question had not occurred to the sergeant, much less the answer. It was the sort of thing an army sergeant rarely thought about or needed to think about. He paid for much of his own kit, but outside of that someone else paid for the rest: guns, horses, limber, transport, tents.

  ‘Well, the army,’ King said, grasping at the obvious.

  The lieutenant gave him amused look. ‘The army. Who in the army? The Commissariate? I can assure you they will not. Which army? Ours? How about the Indian army? No, I don’t think John Company will fund our little expedition, do you? Who have we got left? Central government? Think again, soldier. That leaves the commanding officer, which is me. Commanding officers, and regiments as a whole, do pay for a lot of equipment and men. Lord Cardigan’s Light Brigade would not have had cherry bums otherwise. So, Sergeant, here I am. Persuade me.’

  King looked so utterly dejected that Crossman burst out laughing, which he knew was patronizing, but he couldn’t help it.

  ‘All right, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll stump up the rupees for your chain-men and perambulator-wallahs.’