The Maharajah's General

Book 0: Jack Lark

by Paul Fraser Collard

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

A riveting tale of battle and adventure in a brutal land, where loyalty and courage are constantly challenged and the enemy is never far away.

Jack Lark barely survived the Battle of the Alma. As the brutal fight raged, he discovered the true duty that came with the officer's commission he'd taken. In hospital, wounded, and with his stolen life left lying on the battlefield, he grasps a chance to prove himself a leader once more.

Poor Captain Danbury is dead, but Jack will travel to his new regiment in India, under his name. Jack soon finds more enemies, but this time they're on his own side.

Exposed as a fraud, he's rescued by the chaplain's beautiful daughter, who has her own reasons to escape. They seek desperate refuge with the Maharajah of Sawadh, the charismatic leader whom the British Army must subdue. He sees Jack as a curiosity, but recognises a fellow military mind. In return for his safety, Jack must train the very army the British may soon have to fight....

Release date: November 21, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 338

Sample

Second novels are supposed to be torrid affairs, written with great angst and with much gnashing of teeth. I am happy to say that was not the case for me, and the second instalment in Jack’s adventures was written with great relish and barely a moment of hesitation or anxiety.

Without doubt, the fact that there is a second book at all is down to the tireless efforts of my wonder-agent, David Headley, who never fails to greet my endless barrage of questions and fanciful ideas with anything other than a patient smile and perceptive advice. He is the one who made all this happen and I owe him a great deal indeed.

My editor at Headline, Flora Rees, has worked incredibly hard to make this story so much better than I could on my own. I am exceptionally fortunate to have been granted the help and the insight of such a professional and understanding editor for my work. Headline is a great organisation to write for and I am deeply indebted to the efforts of Flora, Ben, Emma, Tom and the rest of the team who have worked so very hard to make this book what it is today.

My family are what makes everything worthwhile. My three fabulous children, Lily, William and Emily, keep my feet firmly on the ground, no matter how grand my plans or ambitions and they have my love and my thanks for always. My mum and dad never fail to offer every support and my friends and family are a constant source of encouragement. To Dan, Mandy, Harry and Kayla all I can say is thank you for everything and roll on the next trip to Florida or France. It cannot come soon enough for me.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my father-in-law, Alan, for his support and friendship over the last twenty something years. I often bore him with rambling plot summaries and half-baked ideas but no matter how much I witter on he is always encouraging and supportive.

My work colleagues continue to keep me sane and I am forever grateful for their companionship. The camaraderie at work is the best thing about coming into the office every day and I would like to publically thank them for their backing. I must also thank my counterparts in the repo market for their supportive reaction to my attempts to become a writer. I am proud to know them all and to call so many friends.

As a debut novelist I was amazed at the warm welcome I received from fellow authors as well as from the many bloggers and reviewers who give up their time to read, and more importantly to review, new books coming to the market. They are a wonderful collection of individuals and I look forward to getting to know them better. Without doubt I owe them a large thank you.

Finally, to Debbie, thank you. Enough said.







The British officer gripped the window frame tightly as the dak gharry lurched and scrabbled its way closer to the city of Bhundapur. He held fast until the wild pitching ceased, the action instinctive after so long incarcerated in a seemingly never-ending procession of carriages, palkis and dolis. His exhausting journey had taken weeks, and now, as he finally neared his destination, the officer felt the stirring of unease deep in his gut.

He tugged nervously on the hem of his scarlet shell jacket with the green facings of his new regiment before running his hand over his unfashionably short hair. He had dressed at the caravanserai where he had spent the night. Unlike so many of the British officers he eschewed any form of facial hair and that morning he had shaved closely, meticulous in his preparation, the ritual of preparing for the day ahead deeply ingrained. Now he was anxious that he looked travel-worn and unkempt, so he brushed at his uniform, doing his best to straighten out the inevitable creases and remove the most obvious specks of dirt.

He was reaching the end of the last leg of a journey that had started far away on the Crimean peninsula. Months of travel had led to this moment, to the last hours before he caught up with his fate. He patted the pocket of his scarlet coat, checking for the umpteenth time that his documents were still in place. They had brought him this far. The next few hours would tell if they would see him safely ensconced in his new home and in his place as a commissioned officer in one Her Majesty’s regiments.

The precious papers, now creased and worn, named the officer as Captain James Danbury of Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. A captain was a man of station and importance. One who would be expected to take his place in the British establishment that ruled a land so far from home.

The 24th’s newest officer sat back amidst the cushions and pillows of the dak and thought on what he knew of his new command. The 24th was a regular army regiment. It was stationed in India to bolster the forces of the East India Company, the mercantile company that administered and ruled the country in the name of the Queen. The East India Company ostensibly borrowed, and paid for, the regular troops who were spread amongst the three presidencies into which the country was divided.

Each presidency boasted its own army. The bulk of each force was made up of native infantry regiments composed of locally recruited soldiers, led by British officers. Alongside these native regiments were a number of European infantry battalions, whose ranks were filled by British and Irish recruits. The officers of both held commissions granted by the East India Company, rather than by the Queen. It led to a social distinction between the Queen’s officers in the regular army regiments, and those only holding a commission granted by the EIC. The officer had only been in the country for a few short weeks, but already he had learnt that snobbery was rife, the intricate layers of society guarded with a diligence and a jealousy that would shock even the snootiest London matriarch.

The man possessing the papers of Captain Danbury would take his place in the 24th’s hierarchy, assuming command of a company of redcoats. It was a precious responsibility, but not one with which he was unfamiliar. He had commanded a company in the Crimea, at the tumultuous battle at the Alma River. There he had learnt what it truly meant to lead men, the responsibility that came with the shiny gold buttons and being called ‘sir’. Being an officer was a position that few deserved and even fewer earned. Yet the man in the dak gharry had travelled thousands of miles for the opportunity to once again command the men so cruelly titled ‘the scum of the earth’, risking his life for the sake of a tattered parchment and the power it ordained. For Captain James Danbury was dead. His name, identity and uniform now belonged to Jack Lark, an impostor, who sat in the lurching dak gharry, his guts screwed tight with tension as he anxiously waited to discover if his newest identity would pass muster, or if he was simply being transported to denunciation and a cold, lonely dawn on the scaffold.

Jack cursed as the dak lurched, forcing him to grab at the seat opposite to avoid being thrown into an undignified heap on the floor. As he recovered his poise, he saw a small, dark-faced child capering in the scrubby field beside the road, clearly entranced by an imaginary game. Jack smiled as he watched the boy at play, envying him his freedom.

He looked past the boy, his attention taken by a forbidding tower on the skyline. It dominated the small village that clustered around its skirts, casting a long shadow across the sorry collection of drab mud and thatch houses. The tower was battered, a relic of a distant past. Yet there was a dignity to it, a grace that belied the pockmarked walls and broken stone. It had endured through the centuries, its lonely vigil immune to the machinations of men. It was a symbol of what had been, and Jack shivered as an uneasy chill ran down his spine. He hid his own past away, refusing to dwell on the dark memories that lurked in the corners of his mind, and forced himself to think of what was to come. He had journeyed far, chasing a future that was not his own. He was fast approaching the time when he would confront it and discover his fate.

Sujan saw the tiger, yet he felt no fear. The huge beast crept through the thick grass and would have passed by unnoticed were it not for the warrior who guarded his family’s goats so diligently.

Only the bravest could take up their spear and move silently towards the mighty hunter, whose power terrified lesser men, men who would run screaming in fear at the merest glimpse of his shadow. Sujan hefted his weapon, feeling the balance in its beautifully crafted shaft. The weight was reassuring in his hand, and his fingers curled around the lovingly polished wood, his fingertips caressing the intricate carvings that had taken the best craftsmen in the village days of toil to create. Slowly, patiently, he eased his way to where the huge animal had stopped, its mouth open as it tasted the air. He took no chances as he manoeuvred stealthily to free up a clean shot for his spear, taking his time, his eyes never leaving his target.

Then the tiger saw him, and roared.

A weaker man would have fled, his precious goats left for the beast to devour. Yet Sujan rose fearlessly from his haunches, his muscles stretched tight as he pulled back his arm. With every ounce of his strength he flung his spear at the huge animal, an involuntary grunt forced from his lips. Driven by a skill only the mightiest of warriors possessed, the spear exploded through the grasses, the razor-sharp tip at its point tearing through the tiger’s powerful body, embedding itself in the animal’s heart, killing the fearful beast in an instant.

Seeing his foe struck down, Sujan leapt to his feet, his arms flung wide in celebration, his face creased in a triumphant scowl, his voice screeching in delight. The high-pitched wail scared an ancient vulture into reluctant flight from where it had watched the contest from a nearby rock, the sudden movement silencing the hero’s wild roars of victory.

Sujan walked forward, bending low to retrieve the thin, splintered stick, the only weapon his grandfather trusted him with to guard the ten flea-bitten goats in the family herd. With his hand scratching busily under his langoti, Sujan turned his back on the boulder he had slain. The fearsome tiger was nothing more dangerous than a moss-covered rock that had taken the small boy’s fancy as he idled away the long afternoon waiting for his grandfather to appear to help him drive the meagre herd back to their home on the far side of the village. At seven, Sujan was left alone for most of the day with just the sinewy goats for company and his eager imagination for entertainment.

The small boy pulled aside his loincloth, carelessly emptying his bladder into a thorny bush as he tried to conjure up another game to while away the lonely tedium of another hour. He looked around sharply as he heard the sound of a dak, his thin stream of urine meandering across the dusty soil as he turned.

His face twisted with hatred as he saw the dak gharry bouncing its way along the trunk road to Bhundapur. He caught a glimpse of a white face staring in his direction – another firangi officer on his way to join the foreigners’ camp outside the city. The officer lifted a hand in greeting, his cold grey stare disconcerting even from a distance.

Sujan turned away, spitting into the dust, just as his grandfather did whenever he talked of the pale firangi who had come from the cold lands to rule over them. Sujan did not understand why men like his grandfather had allowed the foreigners to take control of their country, but he had learnt not to ask. He was cuffed around the head too often enough already. At least the white men and their fat women were good for the village. They came in small parties to stare at the tower, the loud, red-faced men and their shrieking, brazen woman gazing in wonder at the place where the villagers had taken the bodies of their dead relatives since time immemorial. The firangi were easy prey for the sharp-minded locals, who charged an extortionate fee for their meagre offering of hospitality and grew fat on the money. No other village in the valley could hope to match their wealth.

Sujan finished pissing and went back to his goats, yelling at one that was drifting too far on its tireless quest to find food. He looked at the sky and saw that it would be hours yet until his grandfather returned, so he closed his eyes and tried to conjure the image of a wandering vagabond, an interesting challenge for the warrior who was charged with defending his family’s precious herd.

He opened his eyes as he heard the sound of movement. He expected to see another dak on its long journey to the British cantonment at Bhundapur, but his eyes widened in horror as instead he saw his imagination given life, though he had never conceived of a horde such as the one that had appeared over the crest of the ridge to the south of the village. Forgetting his goats and the duty his grandfather had beaten into him since he had first learnt to walk, the boy ran.

For the wild men had come down from the hills. The bandits, the dacoits and the thugs. The landless men. The bitter and the disappointed. The unloved and the unwanted.

They came in a mob, a wave of hatred that washed across the dusty ground, smothering the sun-bleached soil with fear. The villagers watched in horror as the end of their precious existence arrived, their wealth and pride the bait that had lured the monster from out of the darkness. The silent tower now set to bear witness to the bandits’ desire for vengeance on those who had condemned them to the bitter life of the banished.

They were led by the one they called the Tiger. Some said he was not a man at all, but a god, or a prince of the darkness that shrouded the godless. No mortal man could stand against him. Those that tried were killed. Struck down by his merciless hand or by his word, a curse from the lips of the Tiger certain to bring only lingering agony followed by death.

Yet men flocked to his banner, intent on theft, on rape and on revenge on the world that had forgotten them. The Tiger offered them all a home. A sanctuary. Uniting them in hatred against the Maharajah of Sawadh, who had condemned them to their loveless fate and who ruled their land with an iron rod. Men found guilty of any crime were sentenced to mutilation, death or banishment, the living death that was so much more painful than a swift beheading or precise strangulation.

Now the Maharajah had learnt of their band. He had pledged their annihilation, his honour stained by their very being. So the bandits lived a life of fear, always moving on, never staying in one place for too long as they tried to outrun the retribution that was sure to find them. The village and its precious tower would offer them rich pickings, providing food and shelter for a week, perhaps two. They would strip it bare, using its people and feeding on its abundant supplies before they moved on to the next place. They did not fear the tower or its white-robed priests. The Tiger and his men had long left behind the superstitious world of religion and its many and various gods.

Their souls were already lost, and they swept through the village like a plague.







‘Captain Danbury, what a delightful surprise.’

Jack Lark did his best to look composed as he was led into the office of his new commanding officer. He nodded his thanks to the khansama who had ushered him into the spacious room. The shuffling figure bowed obsequiously, his hand fluttering across his face, his discomfort at being thanked obvious.

‘No need to thank the damn steward. You quite made his day by not cuffing him around the ears.’ The officer seated behind the monstrous mahogany desk rose to his feet, his wide-backed chair scraping noisily across the highly polished wooden floor.

‘Proudfoot.’ He thrust his hand forward forcefully.

‘Danbury.’ Jack did his best to hide his amusement at the curt introduction, giving his assumed name with as much confidence as he could summon. He took the hand offered to him, shaking it firmly whilst wondering at the strange figure welcoming him to his new post.

Proudfoot was close to a foot shorter than Jack. Behind the bushy beard and thick moustache his face bore the evidence of a long time spent in the East, a craggy network of creases, folds and wrinkles that made him appear older than his forty-one years.

Yet it was not his premature age alone that made him fascinating. Jack studied with growing amusement the strange attire his new commander wore, the contrast to his own regimental uniform stark. Proudfoot chose to dress as a nabob, with a flowing, richly decorated tunic over baggy pantaloons. A fine web of coloured thread spread over the cream linen, creating intricate patterns that rippled and moved as he returned to his seat behind the slab of mahogany that was more comparable to a dining table than the humble working desk of an official in the East India Company.

A slight grimace of distaste on his face made it clear he had noticed the wry scrutiny of his choice of clothes.

‘Take a seat.’ Proudfoot indicated a fine leather chair opposite his own. He followed the invitation by bellowing at the pankha-wala, a young boy of no more than ten who sat in the corner of the room, pulling on a thick cord that moved the large sail attached to the ceiling back and forth, wafting a gentle breeze down on to the official and his guest. Chastened by his master’s rebuke, the boy bent his head so that his forehead was an inch away from the floor, whilst his wiry arms increased the tempo of the fan’s motion.

‘Now, to business.’ Proudfoot gathered up the documents he had been working on and shuffled them into an ordered pile before placing them neatly to one side. He took a moment to line them up so they were perfectly perpendicular to a small stack of similar thick cream papers waiting for his attention. ‘So, Danbury. Why aren’t you dead?’

The question was delivered deadpan, without a trace of humour or warmth.

Jack’s face remained collected while he thought about the odd question, even though his heart was racing ten to the dozen as he felt the strings of his new life unravelling before it had even begun. ‘Would you care to explain that remark, sir?’

‘What I mean, my dear fellow,’ Proudfoot smiled, but with little evidence of good humour, ‘is that I received a letter just a few days ago regretfully informing me that the recent purchaser of the vacant commission in the 24th had died in the Crimea, and that I was to expect notice of a new purchaser within the month. You are meant to be dead, Danbury. Quite dead.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but as you can see, I’m very much alive.’

‘Indeed. So I see. The paperwork will be quite incorrect now, damn it,’ Proudfoot cursed, his irritation obvious. ‘Well, I suppose it cannot be helped. I shall be forced to write a letter to the Governor’s office to let them know of the change of circumstances. It really would’ve been simpler if you were dead.’

Jack smiled. ‘Not for me.’

Proudfoot stared hard, his eyes searching Jack’s face for a sign of insubordination. He scowled, clearly displeased with whatever he saw there, then turned his attention to his steel pen, fastidiously wiping clean the nib, meticulously removing every vestige of ink. When he was quite satisfied, he placed the pen on the top of the closest pile of documents, his hand immediately returning to it to fussily ensure that it was lined up at right angles to the top of the papers.

‘Welcome.’ Proudfoot delivered the belated greeting with gusto, as if he had resolved to start the conversation afresh and put Jack’s inconvenient health to one side. ‘Welcome to Bhundapur.’

‘Thank you. I’m pleased to be here at last. It has been a long journey.’ Jack hid his relief. He felt his unease begin to fade. It was unsettling to hear that Proudfoot had not been expecting Danbury’s arrival, but he had a feeling the wheels of government would run slowly on the frontier of the Empire. He could only hope that Proudfoot’s letter would create enough confusion to make sure he was safe, for the time being at least. Once settled at Bhundapur, he could do his best to make sure that confusion continued, and hope that no one would look to find a replacement for an officer who had already arrived.

‘Indeed. We are glad to have you with us.’ Proudfoot eased back in his chair, more comfortable now the conversation had turned towards less irregular matters. ‘We are a small band but we all rub along quite nicely. As I’m sure you are aware, I’m the only political officer here. I report directly to the Governor, but other than that, I am pretty much left to my own devices.’ He shrugged his shoulders in a theatrical gesture of modesty, before shaking his head as if unable to comprehend quite how he managed to cope with such a challenging remit. ‘When you think that this area is the size of half a dozen English counties put together, you will begin to understand the task at hand. As you will know, I run the affairs of the Company in Sawadh. I am the commander of all the forces here, both military and police. I am both magistrate and superintendent of law and I am even in charge of the jail itself. I run the treasury and am responsible for all our accounts whilst also being both the assessor and collector of taxes. For all public works I am executive engineer as well as superintendent. I am postmaster, commissioner of the ordinance and I even supervise the mule train and the company bullocks. In short, Danbury, I am king, general, judge and jury.’

Jack did his best to seem impressed. ‘It sounds interesting.’

Proudfoot’s face creased into a frown at the mild response. He shook his head again before resolving to carry on. ‘Let me show you the lie of the land.’ He disappeared momentarily from view as he rummaged in the bottom right-hand drawer of his enormous desk. When he re-emerged, he unrolled a creased and well-used map covered with a network of pencilled comments and a web of different-coloured lines and circles.

‘Here we are.’ He thrust his ink-stained thumb into the dead centre of the unrolled map. ‘Just north of the region we know now as the Bundelkhand Agency, an area ruled by a menagerie of misfits and despots until we finally forced them to cede power to us back in ’02. We now run the place but we allow most of the damn maharajahs to keep their titles so long as they give us free rein and sign their ikrarnama.’ Proudfoot paused as he looked up to check that Jack was paying full attention. He was pleased to see him staring hard at the map, his face creased in concentration.

‘We are here in Bhundapur,’ Proudfoot continued, ‘slap bang in the centre of Sawadh. To the north is Oudh, the only other state that is still nominally independent. Over here to the west is Jhansi, the biggest of the local states, with a bitch of a rani called Lakshmibai on the throne. We have at least been able to annex the damn place, and it now falls under the control of the Central India Agency, which also runs the states in the Bundelkhand. The old rajah died without an heir, so we were able to apply Lord Dalhousie’s doctrine, taking the place properly under British rule. It is so much simpler that way, although allowing the rani stay on is a mistake in my opinion. The little strumpet is bound to cause trouble sooner or later. I have written to the Governor, but for the moment that is how things stand. Otherwise I find myself very much in agreement with Dalhousie’s policy. The management of the country will be safer and more efficient if we can reduce the number of these damn feudal states by annexing as many as we can. Do you agree, Danbury?’

Jack was beginning to feel out of his depth. He had learnt a little of the politics of the country during his journey, but there were still wide gaps in his knowledge. He would have to learn fast. ‘I believe we must do what we can to improve the lot of the poorer classes, sir. I would say that is our duty, and if annexation allows us to achieve it, then I believe that is the path we must follow. I understand these maharajahs are a whimsical bunch. Under their rule the people have no protection, and that cannot be a happy state of affairs.’

‘Whimsical!’ Proudfoot found Jack’s choice of word amusing. ‘I have never known a more decadent, lazy, conceited and callow collection of creatures than these maharajahs. We must take them all firmly under our control. We have already been successful by annexing Jhansi, Satara and Nagpur, and I see no reason why we should not do the same here.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Have you heard much of the Maharajah of Sawadh?’

‘Only a little. I understand that he rules here under your supervision as resident.’

‘Well, you are correct on that point.’ Proudfoot smiled in recognition of his own status before his face quickly creased into another scowl. ‘Sawadh became one of our princely states after the fall of the last of the Marathas. The previous Maharajah saw sense and signed his treaty with barely a quibble when he saw what happened to anyone foolish enough to stand against us. The agreement allows his family to continue to rule here, but under my supervision. I won’t bore you with the details, but in short it allows us to make a great deal of money through loans from the Maharajah to our treasury, and by charging for the presence of our forces here.’

Jack did not have to feign his interest. The complicated network of treaties, agencies, annexation and agents was still foreign to him and he was keen to learn more. ‘So it sounds like we have what we want here?’

‘Not at all!’ Proudfoot revealed what he thought of Jack’s naïve observation with a theatrical wave of his hand. ‘We do well enough financially, but we lack full control. Added to that, the Maharajah is a damn pest. Not that I’m granted more than a moment in the great man’s presence. Never more than once a month anyway, and that’s only if he leaves his citadel out in the middle of nowhere and actually deigns to come to Bhundapur. When we do meet, he nods and smiles and says all the right things. Yet he is constantly pushing against my authority, making appointments without my approval, building up the defences at that palace of his or sending his army here, there and yonder without my permission. The damned man is a thorn in my side.’

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘A good question, Danbury.’ For the first time Proudfoot smiled with genuine warmth. ‘I rather think Dalhousie’s doctrine can also be applied here. That will make things,’ he paused before smiling wolfishly, ‘neater.’

‘Does the Maharajah have no heir? I rather thought that was a requirement for us to be able to annex a state upon the death of its ruler.’ Jack was doing his best to show what little he knew of the doctrine named after Lord Dalhousie, the governor general who had first introduced it. He had listened carefully to the conversations of the other officers on the steamship that had brought him to Calcutta. If he recalled correctly, Dalhousie had decreed that when a ruler died without an heir, his state would be annexed and placed under direct British rule. It was a controversial policy that ignored the tradition of childless rulers adopting an heir. But men like Proudfoot and Dalhousie were not ones to let such a trivial matter stand in the way of ensuring the efficient government of the country.

‘Oh, he claims to have an heir.’ Proudfoot flapped his hand to wave away Jack’s observation. ‘These princes breed like damn rabbits, whelping brats on any of the thousand harlots they have at their command. But I cannot believe for one moment that he is legitimate. The Maharajah knows the rules as well as anyone. He has concocted a cock-and-bull story about his wife dying in childbirth, which is all very tragic I am sure, but that doesn’t mean I have to believe it. He would be a fool not to claim some bastard as his heir and ensure the line of succession. But he did not count on dealing with someone like me. I shall not be fooled!’

Jack scowled. ‘That would seem a little harsh, sir. What if this boy truly is the Maharajah’s son?’

‘Well, what of it! I am not here to mollycoddle some brat just because a damn fool tells me to. It will be neater for us all if the state of Sawadh is annexed. Then it too can fall under the control of the Bundelkhand Agency and this circus can end. The Crown will rule here unfettered, Danbury. It really is better for us all.’

‘So we are intent on the annexation?’

‘Of course.’

‘No matter if we have a legitimate right to do so or not.’

‘I understand, Danbury. I am an Englishman too. But this isn’t some damn game of cricket. We have to leave our sense of fair play back at home.’ Proudfoot looked suitably grave, as if the notion of unsportsmanlike conduct caused him pain. ‘They don’t play by the rules out here and so neither can we. If we turn our backs for an instant then we leave ourselves open to revolt and anarchy. I will not allow that.’

‘I understand, sir.’ Jack did his best to keep his voice level, hiding his true feelings.

‘Good fellow. It takes a while to become acclimatised to our ways out here on the frontier of the Empire. It is not the simple soldiering you have been used to. It requires a more subtle understanding of the people.’

‘I’m sure it does.’ Jack’s expression was neutral, but there was a trace of scorn in his tone. It was not lost on Proudfoot.

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