Brothers of the Blade

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

After the final dreadful battle in the mud and cold of the Crimea, there could hardly be a greater contrast - 'Fancy Jack' Crossman, minus a hand, and newly promoted to Lieutenant, finds himself taking ship for the heat and excitement of India. He is to assist the East India Company Army in gathering intelligence at a time when there are ominous signs of restlessness amongst the native troops. Crossman lands at Bombay, expecting to make his way north to the Punjab region where he will be seconded to the irregular infantry force known as Coke's Rifles. Accompanying him is Sgt Farrier Jones, a military cartographer. Jones is a highly intelligent man, educated at a village church school. Yet Crossman, himself risen from the ranks, sees nothing of his former self in Jones and believes the sergeant is reaching too high. The two men do not get on. Then Crossman meets the Maharaja of Rajputan who offers him a third companion on his journey to the Punjab, a tall and sullen Rajput, who has no desire to be the bodyguard of a British officer. The unlikely trio undergo several trials and adventures before being swept up in the Indian Mutiny of 1857 and the march to relieve Delhi.

Release date: September 1, 2012

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 160

Sample

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 anniversary 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 thirty 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 course 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.’

‘Oh, no sir, you – you couldn’t do that. Could you?’

‘Well, I’m not a rich man in my own right, I must admit, but I do have a rich father-in-law who’s generous to a fault. The family coffers are reasonably full and I have carte blanche to draw on them. I don’t suppose your men will break the bank, King, so yes, you may have them. What you say about helpers is no doubt true. We’ll probably lose a few of them on the way for various reasons. Let’s see how we go along.’

‘Thank you,’ cried the sergeant, his enthusiasm returning. ‘I’m most grateful. May I shake your hand, sir?’

‘No, you may not. It’s against regulations, or damn well should be.’ A flying beetle the size of a sparrow was battering at the lamp glass, threatening to break it with its ceramic-hard wings. The distracted Crossman smacked it with his cap, sending it like a bullet out into a night full of the sounds of crickets and other rhythmic creatures. ‘I hope you’ve recruited wisely. We don’t want any badmashes. I hope they’re good honest Indians, who won’t rob us and run off, once we bed down for the night. Understood?’

‘I’ve done my best, sir, but who can tell character at a glance? There’re one or two of them I believe to be trustworthy. The rest have to be vouched for by those one or two.’

‘All right, Sergeant.’

In fact, King was no fool and had found a cotton exporter from Aberdeen who lived close to the barracks in a large private house. The expatriate Scot had soon fixed him up with a team of Indians, some of whom had already assisted on surveying expeditions.

‘All Hindus. Not that ye often get too much trouble between Hindus and Muslims, but it helps if your whole team have their festivals on the same days, otherwise they’ll all take advantage of both sets of holidays and ye’ll find yourself idling your days away waiting for them to finish one ceremony or the other. There’s one Jain amongst ’em, to handle pay and money matters. The Jains are very good with money and they won’t cheat ye. Ye won’t get the better of them in a bargain, but they’re more likely to be honest.’

Their numbers even included an older man, a Hindu who had been a flagman with Andrew Waugh and his artificer, Saiyid Mir Mohsin. Waugh was known to Sergeant King from his studies: a mapmaker who had taken over from Colonel George Everest, the man who had extended the Great Indian Arc of the Meridian up the whole length of the Indian subcontinent to the foothills of the Himalayas in the thirties and forties.

‘You are the compass-wallah, sir?’ enquired the man. ‘I am called Ibhanan.’

King, much to the astonishment of the furniture maker from Aberdeen, had shaken the Indian’s hand. ‘Compass-wallah,’ mused King, ‘I like the sound of that. Is that what they call surveyors here?’

‘Some do, sahib,’ replied Ibhanan, smiling.

‘Well then, that’s what I am, the compass-wallah.’

Ibhanan then told him how he had assisted Waugh until that man became Surveyor-General. He had even worked with the great Everest who had taught him the use of the heliotrope, a round mirror some eight or nine inches in diameter fixed to the top of a pole. It had been Ibhanan’s job to set the heliotrope on to a mountaintop or high point so that it could be used as a marker by Everest’s surveyors located at various different compass points.

‘But sahib Everest, he would shout at everyone,’ said Ibhanan, with a wry smile. ‘He was very bad-tempered man.’

The Scot intervened here. ‘Ye be careful ye don’t malign people.’

‘Oh, I not malign him, sahib. Everyone says it.’

King and Ibhanan liked each other straight away, seeing something of the brass and glass in each other’s soul. King made Ibhanan his head man. Anyone who had touched the iron hem of Everest’s Great Theodolite, that monstrous metal beast which had been dragged by oxcart the length and breadth of the Indian subcontinent, was akin to a disciple of the Lord so far as the sergeant was concerned. Ibhanan was one of the apostles and he, Sergeant King, had come immediately after. He wanted to hear stories, of traversing jungles, of crossing droog country, of temple towers crowned with night lights, of gullys and gorges choked with vegetation. Here was a man who helped build the holy grid-iron of the triangulation tree which grew from the south of India to the north, spreading its webbed branches from coast to coast as it grew, flourishing only on sweat and death.

Once he had his team together, King set out to purchase a pair of camel carts to carry the men and his equipment. He knew Crossman, his new commanding officer, wished to get to the North-West Frontier as soon as possible. Personally, King could not see what the almighty hurry was, but then he granted that Crossman had more knowledge of the situation in India than he did himself. He just wished that Crossman was not such a man of excitable character. The lieutenant seemed to him to be a rash of enthusiasms, few of which he appeared to have explored in any great depth. King could not comprehend why Crossman was interested in so many things, from auxometers to zambombas, yet failed to fix that interest. He was one of those gentlemen – a class which King held in mild contempt – who collected everything they could lay their hands on and displayed them in glass cases for the admiration of their visitors. Seashells, dried monkey brains, antipodean flutes, Polynesian war bonnets, volcanic-lava jewellery.

All right, King conceded, he had not actually seen one of those cases in Crossman’s house, but he would not put it past the officer to have a display room into which he showed only his own circle.

King, on the other hand, had one great passion, mapmaking, and he would sacrifice everything – even at the risk of his life – to go into a region which was uncharted. He knew all the names of the famous pioneers of mapmaking in India – James Rennell, the naval officer who had begun the great affaire; Francis Wilford, of the Bengal Engineers, an ex-clerk who had become bored with life in England just as King had done; the initiator, William Lambton, of course, whose shoulder had been behind the Great Trigonometrical Survey; and finally, George Everest himself. Those men, and the multitude of Indian surveyors whose names were not yet known to King, had drawn the sergeant to his present post. He felt it was his destiny to map an unknown region, a place where the length, breadth and height of the topography was still merely guesswork. He wanted to put exactitudes down on a chart, show the actual course of a river, tell the real height of a mountain, track a vague road through wild country so that strangers might follow it without fear of becoming lost or of taking a false trail.

The closer he came to the forbidden region of Tibet the better he liked it, for he would take any chance to enter the fastness of that territory. There were no accurate charts of Tibet. The man who mapped it, measured its mountains, traced its rivers, would be famous. He had made the mistake of mentioning this to Lieutenant Crossman, who spoke very firmly to him, telling him that any attempt by Sergeant Farrier King or any of his disciples to cross the border into Chinese Tartary would be met with severe disciplinary action. King had nodded gravely, saying it had never entered his mind that he should be the one, while at the same time he nursed the dreadful desire, the longing, the determination, to be the first mapmaker in those mountains.

He reported back to his commanding officer who seemed pleased with his efficiency.

‘Camel carts, eh? Well done. We shall have our horses, of course, but we won’t be able to work them too hard in this heat. We’ll start the journey north early tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

King went back to the barracks, contented with himself.

Crossman, whose limbs and back ached, went for a hot bath in a tub out in the yard. While he was in the tub, to his great astonishment an Indian slipped under the curtain which screened a man’s bathing from prying eyes. The man, a sleek gentleman wearing dark clothes, stared at him with a smile on his face, until Jack became exasperated.

‘Who sent you? I need no one to scrub my back. I’m quite capable of doing that myself with the loofah.’

The man’s palms came together and he bowed his head.

‘No, sahib – I am no washing-man. I am an assassin by trade. Do you need someone killed? I will kill anyone you wish – anyone at all. If you need promotion, I will kill the next higher officer, to make a space for you. You owe money? I will kill your creditor. Is there some family business left unattended? A sister violated? I will kill her lover. Ah, I see you have lost your hand. I could kill the man who took it from you, in his bed, so that when they come in the morning they will think he has passed on in his sleep. A sword through a mattress from underneath. Anyone. Anyone at all. My fees are very reasonable, sir. If it must look like an accident, then it is of course more expensive. I am an expert with a knife. A thin blade through a door or mud wall, as a man leans against it to light his pipe. Simple. I can strangle a victim with a knotted cord and he will make no sound. Poisons? I know them all. A kerchief soaked in a potion and a man will blow his nose and die convulsing. Please, if you require my services, tell me now.’

Crossman’s astonishment did not leave him.

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name, sahib?’ the man in black smiled. ‘I am not shy, like some of my profession. My name is Arihant. It means one who kills his enemies. But I do not only kill my enemies, I kill anyone.’

‘So you said. No, I can’t think of anybody I wish to get rid of at this time. Sorry.’

Arihant bowed again. ‘Not to worry, sir. If you do, before you leave this place, come to the coffee shop in the main square. This is where I sit every day. Peace be with you.’

‘And with you.’

Arihant slipped out, leaving Jack wondering if he should keep his revolver with him at all times. What if he had been the victim? Was it so easy to hire a murderer here in India? His bathwater could be red with blood by now and it would be goodbye Fancy Jack Crossman.

Once he had soaked out the weariness and had dressed again, he was visited by the subaltern, Fowler, of the Balooch Battalion.

‘Shall we tiff?’ asked Fowler. He looked around as if expecting to see a shadow standing near. ‘Where’s your boy?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Can you get your boy to fetch us luncheon?’

‘Oh. Actually, I don’t have an Indian man-servant – not yet anyway.’

‘You won’t be able to do without one here, you know old chap. No one can. Well, I can eat later. This stifling heat destroys the appetite anyway. Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes. The Dum-Dum rumours. I heard today that there’s been a mutiny at Berhampur. There’s quite a bit of disquiet in India at the moment. I put it down to soft handling. Wouldn’t happen in my battalion. We treat them with firmness. Besides, my men love their colonel. You often hear them saying so. They would lay down their life for him.’

‘What do you call that incident in the market?’

Fowler frowned and seemed annoyed. ‘That? Just an isolated case of a sepoy being intoxicated by some drug or other.’

‘Really? Nothing to do with a rebellion?’

‘Why would it be? We’ve been in India for so long,’ argued Fowler. ‘Our government of them is just. We do so much to improve their lot. They were served far worse under the Mughals.’

‘Still, it must be expected, especially from disgruntled individuals.’

‘Changing the subject, how many men have you got?’

‘What men? You mean coolies?’

Fowler was aghast. ‘No, I don’t. I mean armed men. You’re surely taking a troop of sowars with you? Yes please, another chotapeg would fortify the spirit for the walk back to my own bungalow.’

Crossman gave him his second dram of brandy.

‘We’re travelling as light as possible,’ admitted Crossman. ‘Just myself, my corporal and a sergeant who makes maps. We’re all the military men on the expedition. Sergeant King has a number of his own Indians to assist him with his mapmaking, but apart from them . . .’

‘But there are all sorts out there, man. Fierce tribesmen, bad-mashes, dacoits, thugs, tigers – the list is long. I suppose,’ granted Fowler, ‘as a small party you might slip along virtually unnoticed. There is that to your advantage. Personally, I would never ride such a distance. It’s nearly a thousand miles to the Punjab. It’d take me a year to be carried there.’ Fowler laughed. ‘Anyway, old chap, beware of blue turbans . . .’ He went on to explain what he meant by that and Crossman listened intently.

Crossman poured himself a glass of water. He found himself forever thirsty in this land of heat and dust. He was also getting bored with Lieutenant Fowler. At first he had been grateful that a brother officer had taken the time to visit him: for the most part he had been ignored by the Bombay army. It was true he had been to tea at a colonel’s house, where the colonel’s wife had cornered him for two hours and had twittered in his ear about all the terrible things she had to bear, which included her servants, in ‘this dreadful country which I hate beyond anything’. He had met a major who was so enthusiastic about India and the Indians you would have thought he had died and gone to heaven. And he had spoken briefly with the colonel himself, who seemed preoccupied with the current relationships between the maharajahs, nawabs and the Company.

But whatever Crossman had to say was of little concern to any of these people. In fact, they talked over the top of his replies to their questions, interrupting him without listening to what he had to say. They were Company men, not Queen’s army, and they really were not interested in him.

But Fowler’s attitudes and idiosyncrasies were playing on Crossman’s nerves.

He said, hardly paying attention now, ‘You said earlier you wouldn’t travel if you weren’t carried. What did you mean by that?’

‘Why, in a palanquin of course. No one walks, old chap. Hardly anyone rides. Then you don’t even have to find your own way. You just say to your head man “I wish to be in Bunpoor for the hunt on Tuesday” and leave it to them. Well, I can see you’re tired. Good luck, old boy.’ Fowler threw back his dram and held out his hand. As Crossman shook it