Dust and Steel. Patrick Mercer

back through the dust, a regulation fifteen paces.

      To Morgan and McGucken’s bemusement, the three sepoy companies suddenly cawed with delight, hands clapping in appreciation, feet stamping in the dust in noisy admiration for the precision of the British troops.

      ‘What are those cunts laughing at?’ Pegg, already sweating hard and slightly out of breath after even a modest dash in the afternoon heat, went through the dry drill of reloading his rifle, steel ramrod rasping on the rifling of the barrel.

      ‘Ready,’ he and half the company bellowed.

      ‘Bang!’ boomed the other half before, ‘Moving now,’ to be greeted by more ecstatic applause and cries of admiration from the 10th.

      ‘Boggered if I know, Corp’l,’ panted Beeston as he sped past Pegg who, in time with the rest of the leading rank, was just bringing his rifle to the present. ‘Must think we’re fuckin’ off back to England,’ he added drily.

      ‘An’ so on until contact is broken with the enemy…’ McGucken’s voice brought the precisely regulated, darting ranks to a halt, all of them puffing with exertion as their equipment banged on their hips and the dust roiled around them in the heat of the day.

      ‘Now, the advance to the enemy…’ the colour-sergeant paused for translation, ‘…is exactly the same but the other way round.’ The subadar looked confused by that phrase. ‘Och, just watch,’ and with a few simple commands the skirmish line advanced back to the point from which it had started, as precisely as it had fallen back, to the intense and noisy pleasure of the audience.

      ‘Well, Mellish, I’m not quite sure why we’ve caused such a stir with your lads,’ Morgan said to the 10th’s senior captain, ‘but d’you think they’ve grasped the principle?’

      ‘Yes, of course. You don’t understand them yet, Morgan: they delight in anything new; they’re impressed by organisation and regulation. It’s what makes them such a pleasure to command but also leaves them so vulnerable to big-mouthed badmashes who can exploit their religious beliefs better than we can. Let’s see if they’ve hoisted the idea aboard, shall we?’

      With remarkably little fuss, the British officers gathered the sepoys around them, talking to them in quiet Hindi almost as a schoolmaster might speak to his most promising pupils. The jemadars and subadars spoke rapidly to the havildars and naiks and in no time the ranks were numbered off, kneeling attentively and waiting for orders. There were a few hesitations and some mistakes, but very quickly the sepoys were trotting and crouching, loading almost as smoothly as the well-practised 95th.

      ‘Looks like this lot picks things up dead quick, don’t it, sir?’ Corporal Pegg and the rest of the company were standing on the edge of the yard in the shadow thrown by the white-washed buildings, sucking greedily at their big, blue-painted water bottles once the order had been given. All of their grey flannel shirts were stained wet at the armpits and down the spine, and they pulled at the damp crotches of their blue serge trousers.

      ‘They seem to have got the hang of things remarkably well, Corp’l Pegg. I imagine we’ll be glad of their help when we meet Pandy,’ Morgan replied.

      ‘Aye, an’ they’ve ’ardly broke into a sweat, ’ave they?’ Beeston said. ‘But what’s that noise they’re mekin’, Corp’l?’

      ‘It’s just the sound that these wallahs mek rather than “bang” like a good Christian would,’ Pegg explained as the sepoys smacked their lips to simulate the firing of their rifles. ‘All sorts of strange ’abits, these foreigners, you know, Jono.’

      ‘Aye, but the officer’s right: they’ll be ’andy to ’ave alongside when we get to Delhi,’ Beeston added, a note of grudging respect in his voice.

      ‘P’raps, but pound to pinch o’ shit they’ll be no bloody use at all when the lead begins to fly, you mark my words,’ added Pegg, his twenty years and single chevron weighing heavily.

      ‘So, who’s your man, Mellish?’ asked Morgan.

      The afternoon’s exertions had left the sepoys excited and delighted by their new-found skills, and the 95th utterly exhausted. Now, as the next stage of bringing the two battalions together before they had to face the trials of battle, the 10th BNI had decided to entertain the British soldiers with some roasted goat and mutton, and a wrestling challenge. Colonel Hume, knowing the reputation of Private Lawler, a vast, Lincolnshire bruiser from Carmichael’s company, much loved and admired by the men, had accepted Commandant Brewill’s suggestion with alacrity, knowing that he was on a safe wicket.

      ‘Oh, Sepoy Ranjiv Nirav from our Light Bobs,’ Mellish answered casually. ‘There’s not much of the lad, but you’d be surprised at the speed and strength of some of the Brahmins who are bred to this sort of thing.’

      ‘Indeed I would,’ replied Morgan as the two antagonists strode to their respective corners of the ring, which had been marked by a rope pegged in the dirt.

      ‘Now, don’t sneer at our boy, Morgan.’ Forgett, the policeman, had come to watch the spectacle as well. ‘Just because he’s half the weight of your great monster, don’t underestimate him. Those who choose to wrestle spend hours perfecting their skills and I’ve got the marks to prove it. Soon after I arrived here in Bombay I decided to impress my command with my martial skills…’ Morgan saw how Mellish chortled at the memory of Forgett’s story, ‘…and that was a mistake, I can tell you. One of my lads – another of these full-time wrestlers – had me in the dirt in seconds; chucked me about like a child’s doll; had me begging for mercy and then stood over me and made the lowest namasti you’ve ever seen. I promoted him the next day – best thing I ever did. So, I’d be a bit cautious about putting too much money on Private Swede-basher over there.’

      Private Lawler was broad and squat; wearing a pair of cotton drawers and canvas shoes, his milky white torso stood in almost painful contrast to his tanned face and lower arms where his uniform had left him exposed to the sun. Now he stretched his limbs, massaged his shoulders and rotated his head to ease the pressure in his neck, whilst another soldier stood ready with a bucket and towel.

      Opposite was Sepoy Nirav. Barefoot and thin, Nirav was easily a stone and a half lighter than Lawler, narrow where the Englishman was broad, nimble where he was stolid. The sepoy, in nothing more than a loincloth, had coiled his long hair up into a knot on top of his head and now he stood on one leg, pulling at the toe of his other foot in a gesture that reminded Morgan more of Sadler’s Wells than the Fancy. Like his opponent, Nirav was attended by another soldier, an even shorter man, very dark-skinned, with drooping moustaches.

      ‘Ah don’t give much for that Pandy’s chances once Terry Lawler gets a grip on ’im, d’you, Corp’l?’ Beeston was sitting on a mat, cross-legged as he’d seen the natives do, nursing a china mug of rum and water in both hands.

      ‘Naw, our Terry’ll bloody murder ’im,’ Pegg replied. ‘’E won’t see the end of one round, ’e won’t.’

      The officers were of much the same opinion. As Morgan, Forgett and Mellish studied the form, Carmichael sauntered up. ‘My feller was runner-up in Dublin last year.’ He was suddenly proprietarily interested in a soldier who might reflect well on him. ‘Saw off Shand from the Dragoon Guards. You’ll remember him – quite a celebrity in his day.’

      ‘Shand…yes, I do recall him; beat the Navy’s top boy in ’fifty-two, if I’m not wrong. But watch Nirav: he’s as fast as a snake,’ replied Mellish, sticking to his man.

      It was all too much for Morgan’s sporting blood. ‘Twenty rupees says Lawler’ll best yours inside a round.’

      Carmichael glanced disapprovingly at his vulgar brother officer, whilst Mellish pulled his hand from his pocket to shake Morgan’s with no hesitation at all. ‘Aye, make it forty, if you like,’ he said.

      ‘Forty rupees! Why, that would keep my family in clover for a month, that would,’ exclaimed Forgett.

      ‘Forty