The Cannons of Lucknow (8 page)

“No, no, hold on, if you please.” Neill's smile returned. “Let Charlie Palliser take 'em, for God's sake, and ride in with me. I've remembered who you are now—General Havelock mentioned you in one of his letters. Damme, you're the sole survivor of the Cawnpore garrison, are you not?”

“As far as can be ascertained, the survivors are myself and a Commissariat clerk, General,” Alex admitted reluctantly. He hesitated, anxious to phrase his request so as not to give offence but determined, as much for Neill's sake as his own, to make his escape before he could be subjected to a barrage of questions. “If you would not consider it a discourtesy, sir, I'd like to remain with my men. I've been given a week in which to turn them into cavalrymen and I should be failing in my duty if I did not utilise every hour of daylight I have at my disposal for their instruction. They've a lot to learn, as I fear you will have observed.”

“Yes, of course,” Neill agreed, with unexpected readiness. His tone, as well as his smile, was friendly. “Congratulations on your escape, Sheridan. No doubt there will be another opportunity to talk to you about it when you're less pressed for time. But spare me Charlie Palliser, if you will—he can bring me up to date with the news before I present myself to General Havelock.”

The column moved off with Palliser riding happily beside his old commander, and Alex led his crestfallen troopers back to the cavalry lines. He made a point of talking to them individually during the short ride across the flooded plain, offering advice and encouragement and, assisted by young Fergusson and Nujeeb Khan, supervised them at evening stables. The men began to recover their spirits. Drenched and saddle sore though most of them were, they groomed and bedded down their horses with more enthusiasm than Alex had expected, and he made them a brief speech before dismissing them to their own quarters.

“It's not quite as easy as it looks, serving in the Cavalry, my lads,” he warned them. “If you've only volunteered in the hope of saving your legs on the way to Lucknow, you may well wish you'd stayed with your own regiments before I've done with you. But you've all had to do with horses before—you know they must be fed, watered, and groomed before you can attend to your own needs, however bone tired you are at the end of a march.” There was a murmur of assent from the assembled men. Alex outlined the training programme he hoped to arrange for them and ended with a few words of praise for their efforts during the afternoon, at which they brightened visibly. “I'll make cavalrymen of you,” he promised, smiling. “But I shall have to make you work as you've never worked before. If any man is not prepared to give me all he's got during the next week, I would rather he said so now and I'll return him to his regiment without holding it against him. I want you to understand that a man who is unable, for any reason, to reach the standard I require will be a liability to his comrades—so think well, all of you.”

He waited, but, after glancing from one to another of them, saw only one man step forward in response to his challenge, hesitate, and when no one else followed his example, step sheepishly back into the ranks again. He was a stocky, grey-haired private with a face the colour of teak, whose name, Alex learned from his list, was Cullmane. He was a good horseman, which made his change of mind the more puzzling, but he said no more and Alex let him go with the rest, making no attempt to question or single him out. As he himself was preparing to make his way to the mess tent, however, he found the stocky figure of his reluctant recruit barring his path.

“If I moight have a word wit ya, sorr,” the man said, his voice betraying his Irish ancestry. “I'd take it as a favour.”

“Certainly.” Alex halted, eyeing him searchingly. “Before you do, though, I think I should tell you that you appear to be one of the best riders we have. And you did your horse well—you obviously know your way about a stable. What were you in civilian life, Cullmane, a groom?”

Private Cullmane's brown face split into a gap-toothed grin. “I was whipper-in to the ‘Gallant Tips'—the Tipperary Hunt, sorr, in me younger days.”

“Then there's not much I can teach you about horsemanship, is there, lad? You'll only have to master the drill, and you shouldn't find that beyond your capabilities.”

“No, yer honour,” the man admitted. “But 'twas what ye was sayin' about being a liability—'twas that made me step forward. I wouldn't want to be lettin' yez down, sorr. But there's this …” He pulled back the sleeve of his mud-spattered red jacket to reveal an ugly wound which extended from forearm to elbow. It was partially healed and evidently of recent origin, and the elbow joint was so swollen that he had difficulty in bending it. “I got this at Aong, sorr, and 'tis me roight arm, ye see. I'll not be a great deal of use if I can't handle me sabre, will I, sorr?”

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.”