Dust and Steel. Patrick Mercer

or perhaps soldiers from another battalion, though I doubt that.’

      ‘Oh, I see, you’re probably right.’ Now the aggression had gone out of Carmichael, who lowered the pistol and even stooped to pick up Puran’s cap.

      ‘May I suggest an apology to the man, Carmichael?’ Morgan asked. He could see how this story would spread like plague back to the ranks of the 10th, the very men whose trust they were trying to restore.

      ‘Apologise to some damned…’ Carmichael blurted, whilst the Indian brushed the grit off his rifle and rubbed his bruised forehead with offended gusto.

      ‘Yes, Carmichael, apologise to a man you’ve wronged, even if he is a private soldier and a mere native.’ Morgan thought the apology just as important for McGowan to hear as for Puran.

      Carmichael looked hard into Morgan’s steel-blue eyes, opened his mouth to object, but then changed his mind. ‘Er…I’m very sorry, my man.’ He was still holding Puran’s cap; now Carmichael brushed the dust off it before handing it back. ‘Hasty of me and needlessly rough.’ He thrust his hand out to the soldier whilst McGowan translated.

      Puran looked perplexed at the big, pink mitt. McGowan uttered something more before the sepoy awkwardly put his rifle between his knees and made namasti, cocking his head to one side and grinning so widely that his teeth flashed below his moustache.

      Carmichael was equally confused. Not to be outdone, he grasped both of Puran’s hands that were now pressed, palms together, in front of his face and gave them a vigorous waggle. ‘No hard feelings then, old boy,’ he said, just as he might have done after accidentally tripping a fellow team player at Harrow.

      ‘Right, thank you, Carmichael. I’m sure that’s soothed the poor fellow,’ McGowan said with a note of sarcasm. ‘I doubt that these troops have been involved in this outrage, but they may well have turned a blind eye to those who did. After all, whilst we accepted Forgett, he was a policeman; the executions were pretty well all his own work. The colonel will want this investigated.’

      Women and babies getting torn to bits; what sort of a war is this? It’s going to be a nasty bloody bitter fight that’s not really any of our business. We should have left it to the John Company boys to sort out. After all, they got themselves into it…thought Morgan as the little group of officers trudged back to the mess, skirting the horror of the bungalow.

      All eight hundred men of the 10th Bengal Native Infantry stood in two ranks arranged in three sides of a square whilst Commandant Brewill, the British officers and McGowan, the adjutant, stood in the middle of the fort’s parade ground in the early morning cool. The sun had hardly risen, the dust lay still, whilst the monkeys blinked sleepily from the branches of the trees that peeped from just beyond the high stone walls.

      The men had breakfasted on dates and chapattis before parading by companies and filing down to the square under the voice of the subadar-major; now they waited for the word of their commanding officer.

      ‘Boys…’ Brewill’s Hindi was clear and firm, if not especially grammatical, for he had learnt it from the lips of the men with whom he’d served over the past thirty years rather than from any babu, ‘…yesterday Forgett sahib was murdered in his bungalow here inside the fort. Some baboon slew him with a butcher’s meat cleaver and left a pig’s tail in the dead man’s mouth.’ There was complete silence from the troops, not a flicker of emotion. ‘As if that’s not bad enough, memsahib Forgett was dishonoured and murdered as well; and there’s worse: their baby daughter was beaten to death by these same criminals.’

      Where the chief of police’s death had caused no reaction, a quiet ripple of disgust and dismay came now from the throats of the 10th.

      ‘Men, you know how bad things are in this country and how many sins have already been committed, but the death of women and babes-in-arms is unforgivable, and I pray you to tell any details that you know,’ Brewill continued.

      ‘What the fuck’s ’e on about, Corp’l?’ Private Beeston and Lance-Corporal Pegg had made it their business to collect Captain Skene’s and Ensign Keenan’s chargers as well as the little bat-horse from the syce in the stables when the urgent message had come down to the Grenadier Company’s lines. The visitors were in a sudden hurry to return to Jhansi; their mounts needed full saddlebags and their pony had to be carrying enough fodder for three days’ march, whilst Pegg and Beeston wanted to see their old pal and boon companion – now a grand officer – James Keenan before he disappeared. Now they waited outside the officers’ mess, reins in hand, watching the 10th.

      ‘Dunno, Jono.’ Pegg could hear the passion in Brewill’s speech without understanding a word. ‘But ’e’s layin’ into ’em. It’s about that peeler’s murder, ain’t it?’

      ‘So they say. Them sods did it – revenge for the executions – but the wife and nipper as well…’ John Beeston could understand the desire to murder any officer of the law, but the death of white women and children was too much.

      ‘Aye, it’s out of order an’—’ Pegg was about to produce some solemn judgement when voices and clattering spurs came from within the dark entrance of the mess. ‘Stand up!’

      Pegg brought Beeston to attention and saluted as Skene and Keenan came hurrying out.

      ‘Well, Charlie Pegg, ye fat wee sod, as I live an’ breathe; what about ye?’ Ensign James Keenan recognised his old friend instantly.

      ‘Doin’ rightly…’ Pegg did his best to imitate Keenan’s brogue, ‘…your honour!’ Pegg swept down from the salute and the two men clasped each other’s hands and slapped shoulders as if no chasm of rank now existed between them.

      ‘An’ Jono Beeston, heard you was both out here with the Old Nails.’ There was more delight from Beeston and Keenan. ‘Ain’t it just the devil’s own luck that I’ve not time for even a swally with ye?’

      ‘No, lads, I know how much you’d like to keep Mr Keenan here with you…’ Captain Skene was obviously eager to get moving, pushing one foot into the nearside stirrup of the horse that Beeston held and reaching up to the saddle’s pommel, ‘…and talk about old times, but the Twelfth have turned in Jhansi and it’s going to take us twelve days or more to get back; I knew we shouldn’t have left the garrison when things were so bloody touchy.’

      ‘What’s happened, sir?’ Pegg asked.

      ‘We don’t know, exactly, but the news came over the telegraph in the early hours and some clown of an operator didn’t want to disturb us too early, damn him,’ Skene continued. ‘A fire had been started near the royal palace. Most of the Europeans – and that’s not many – turned out to fight it, and whilst the officers were away, the sepoys stormed the armouries and marched on the Rhani’s quarters and the officers’ cantonment.’

      ‘Ain’t your missus there, Mr Keenan, sir?’ asked Beeston without an ounce of tact.

      ‘No, t’ank the Lord. She an’ the wee boy are up-country with some of the other ladies an’ a horde of the Rhani’s officers to look after them,’ Keenan replied calmly. ‘They’ll be fine. And anyway, with Commandant Kemp in charge, it’ll all be sorted out. He’ll cool any hotheads sooner than you can say jildi-rao, so he will.’

      Keenan, too, swung up into the saddle. So intent had they all been in the conversation that the quiet arrival of two more figures on the veranda of the mess had gone unnoticed. Still buckling on their sword belts and settling their caps came Bazalgette and Morgan, on their way to the 95th’s lines for morning inspection. Both officers hesitated when they saw the group before them.

      ‘We got all that, Skene. Keenan, you’ll need every ounce of that gold to smooth things over, won’t you?’ said Bazalgette, full of earnest concern.

      ‘Aye, it should come in useful, provided we can get there fast enough,’ replied Skene.

      But as the two officers spoke, Morgan’s eyes met Keenan’s. They both knew that they’d deliberately