The Cannons of Lucknow (9 page)

“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.

I
T 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.

Glancing round to ascertain the cause of his annoyance, Alex saw, by the light of the spluttering flares and torches on the
ghat
, that General Neill had also come to witness the Highlanders' crossing into Oudh. He had several officers with him, including Lionel Stephenson, his late second-in-command, and Palliser and Simpson, with whom he was apparently sharing some joke or anecdote which caused them uproarious amusement.

General Havelock heard their laughter, looked round, and nodded, but made no other acknowledgement of Neill's presence and Tytler grunted resentfully.

“Infernal fellow! I honestly believe he sets out to be offensive and really there's no reason why he should be. General Havelock is years his senior and has already proved that he's the right man in the right place. But Neill expected to be given this command and he won't let any of us forget it. Now he's furious because he's being left here while Havelock leads the advance to Lucknow, but damn it, a force of this size doesn't require two generals. Neill
has
to command the rear.”

Normally a man of mild and even temper, Fraser Tytler bristled with rage when Neill, noticing the group of horsemen under the trees, came trotting over to join them, his smile expansive as he greeted several of them by name.

“I'd no idea your talents extended to mastery of the marine engine, Tytler,” he said. “Congratulations. You have done a magnificent job on the old
Burrampootra
.”

Colonel Tytler muttered something, controlling himself with difficulty. He was about to move away, but Neill's next words brought him abruptly to a halt.

“I suppose the Old Gentleman made his accustomed oration to his departing warriors?” he suggested, and before anyone could reply, he added, chuckling, “I've just heard about the speech he made to the unfortunate Veteran Artillery gunners Spurgin and Dickson brought up with them. Maude's had his eye on the poor fellows, it seems, and they were literally press-ganged into transferring to his field battery, in spite of pleading age and infirmity. The Old Gentleman had them paraded and, in true Napoleonic tradition, thanked them for ‘so nobly volunteering to assist their country in her hour of need.'Whereupon, I'm told, one of their number stepped forward and interrupted him. ‘Beg pardon, sir,' says he, with a regard for the truth that must do him credit. ‘We ain't no volunteers, sir—no volunteers at all. We only come 'cos we was forced to come!' Damnably funny, don't you think, gentlemen?” He laughed, inviting his audience to share his mirth. “I gather the general was lost for words and dismissed the parade with almost indecent haste.”

There was an embarrassed silence which, to Alex's relief, was broken by a burst of cheering as the last of the advance party boarded their boat and, with towlines attached, the
Burrampootra
started to chug toward the opposite shore. The slight figure of General Havelock could be seen standing, cap in hand, acknowledging the cheers of the departing 78th, and sensing that Colonel Tytler was about to explode into wrath, Alex attempted to stave off the threatened outburst.

“The Highlanders are in good heart, General Neill,” he observed quietly. “Listen to those cheers! There can be no doubt that
they
volunteered willingly enough and that they appreciated General Havelock's presence here tonight.”

Neill turned in his saddle, frowning when he identified Alex as the speaker. “Ah, Colonel Sheridan again, is it not?” His tone was restrained but his eyes held an odd, steely glint as he went on, “
Brevet
Lieutenant-Colonel Sheridan, late of the mutinied Third Light Cavalry and also, it seems, of General Wheeler's garrison. You're a mysterious fellow, Sheridan—damme, you are!”