Dust and Steel. Patrick Mercer

Hume pulled a sheet of paper from the breast of his jacket, cleared his throat and, in a high, clear voice, started to read, ‘Verdicts and sentences of a court martial convened at Fort George, Bombay on the second of June Eighteen Fifty-Seven under the presidency of Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Hume, Companion of the Bath, Her Majesty’s Ninety-Fifth Regiment.’ Hume paused; every man, even those who didn’t understand a single syllable of what he was saying, were straining to hear him. ‘The three prisoners are charged with: having at a meeting made use of highly mutinous and seditious language, evincing a traitorous disposition towards the Government, tending to promote a rebellion against the State and to subvert the authority of the British Government. Private Shahgunge Singh, Bombay Sappers and Miners: guilty. Sentence: transportation for life.’

      Morgan looked at the third prisoner, who was only lightly bound; he hung his head and trembled slightly, but he made no other outward sign of relief.

      ‘Drill-Havildar Din Syed Hussain, Bombay Marine Battalion: guilty. Private Mungal Guddrea, Tenth Bombay Native Infantry: guilty.’ Hume looked at the native troops who faced him. ‘Sentence: death by gunfire, to be carried out forthwith.’

      The 95th, who could hear the details of what their commanding officer had said, shifted a little as they continued to point their weapons at the sepoys; there was a murmur of quiet satisfaction as they cuddled the butts of their rifles even closer.

      No sooner had Hume pronounced sentence than Commandant Brewill spurred his horse slightly forward of the 95th and in slow, distinct Hindi repeated what Hume had said. A sigh swept up and down the waiting ranks of the sepoys, and a ripple of movement, almost as if the understanding of the news had slapped the Indian troops across the face. The drill-havildar tried to yell a desultory slogan or two, whilst his companion stood silent, his face lifted up towards the sun, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. The crowd had been listening intently too, one or two voices protested but most stood in awed silence.

      ‘I’ll have Bolton’s outer guns loaded, with your leave, sir?’ Morgan knew that two of the four guns would have to be used to execute the prisoners, but the pair pointing at either end of the sepoys’ ranks could do great damage, sweeping the lines of troops with an iron storm of canister, if things got out of hand.

      ‘Aye, do that, please, Morgan. Cant ’em in a bit so that they catch the rascals in enfilade, if needs be…’ Hume’s words sent Morgan off to speak to Bolton. Then, in a parade bellow the colonel added, ‘Sar’nt Ormond, carry on, please.’

      ‘Sir!’ Ormond, as calmly as if he were checking the men’s oil bottles, gave a few, quiet instructions that saw a pair of brawny, red-coated lads grab each prisoner by the elbows and hustle them towards the waiting guns.

      ‘Numbers One and Four guns, with case shot…load,’ Bolton, on Morgan’s instructions, gave the word of command to his outer guns, and the lance-bombardiers, who had been toying with the linen bags for the best part of an hour, slid the deadly projectiles into the barrels of the guns, followed by a well-practised push with a rammer from each waiting gun-numbers. Again, Morgan saw how the Indian line flinched as the yawning black muzzles were turned ready to rake them.

      ‘Don’t bloody struggle, Havildar; it won’t make a blind bit of difference.’ Lance-Corporal Pegg showed scant sympathy for his sweating prisoner. The non-commissioned officer seemed to have shrunk in his clothes – now his manacled wrists and ankles were as thin and bony as a famished child’s – as Pegg and Private Beeston dragged and pushed the prisoner towards the gun.

      Any cockiness had quite gone from the native NCO. Morgan had thought how confident he’d looked as the party had approached down the hill, the havildar keeping up a stream of defiant yells, hoping, he supposed, that his friends would come to his rescue. But now the moment of reckoning was here and there was no sign of any action from the sepoys. Even the crowd had fallen quiet.

      ‘Excuse me, sir.’ McGucken stood to attention beside his commanding officer’s stirrup leather. ‘It’s no’ right to let this mutinous filth die in British red, is it, sir?’

      Hume looked down from his saddle at the colour-sergeant, taken aback by the intensity of his words. McGucken, like most of the other long-serving NCOs who had seen more blood and killing than they cared to remember, was usually taciturn, passionless in circumstances that would have more callow men at fever pitch.

      ‘Aye, Colour-Sar’nt, you have a point. I don’t see why this scum should dishonour our uniforms.’ Hume paused for a second before adding, ‘Get those coatees off their backs if you’d be so kind, Sar’nt Ormond.’

      Sepoy Guddrea already had both feet and one hand tied to the struts of the wheels of Number Two gun by stout, leather thongs. Lance-Corporal Abbott and Private Scriven were pulling his right arm back for the waiting gunner to complete the last set of bonds when they heard the order. So the coatee was dragged off Guddrea, the lining of one sleeve showing a greyish white as it was turned inside out. Rather than loosen the tethers on the prisoner’s other wrist, though, Scriven produced a clasp knife fron his haversack and the sleeve was briskly cut away.

      ‘Right, Havildar,’ sneered Pegg, ‘you won’t be needing this where you’re a-going,’ and he pulled the coatee roughly off the second, condemned man.

      At the Indian’s feet two gunners kneeled, tying his ankles hard back against the gun’s wheels. As Pegg and Private Grimes held his arms for the gunners to complete the job, Morgan noticed his toes digging into the dust and the gun’s brass muzzle pushing the flesh at the base of the prisoner’s spine into a bulging, coffee-coloured collar.

      ‘Prime!’ At Bolton’s word of command, the bombardiers at both guns slid copper initiators the size of a pencil into the touchholes, before attaching lanyards to the twists of wire that emerged from their tops. Once the strings were jerked, the rough wire would rasp against the detonating compound in the tubes, producing a spark that would fire the charge.

      The pair of sepoys were stretched like bows over the ends of the barrels, their limbs strained tight against the wheels of the guns by the leather straps, their chests – with the skin pulled tightly over their ribs – directly facing their comrades. They would have seen guns being loaded many times and now they must know exactly what was about to happen, thought Morgan, as he watched the havildar arch his head slowly back, eyes closed, the knot of hair on the top of his skull hanging loose, his mouth open below the drooping moustache, waiting for the last word that he would hear.

      Both lanyards were drawn tight, the bombardiers looking towards Bolton, whose horse skittered and pawed the dust. The crowd remained quiet; even the crows in the trees seemed to be keeping a respectful silence, thought Morgan.

      ‘Ready, sir,’ Bolton reported.

      ‘Fire by single guns, if you please, Captain Bolton,’ said Hume, with exaggerated courtesy.

      ‘Sir.’ Bolton looked towards the crew to his left, making sure that they were quite ready before shouting, ‘Number Two gun…fire!’

      The concussion thumped Morgan’s ears. The crows and scavengers rose from the trees in a black bruise, tattered wings beating in alarm, cawing and squawking, whilst the crowd gasped and the horses gibbed and pecked. Morgan expected the gun to recoil until he realised that, with only a blank charge, there was nothing to hurl it back on its wheels. Then, as the smoke hung around the muzzle in the still air, he saw the crew clawing at their faces.

      Naked arms and legs were still attached to the nine-pounder’s wheels by their leather straps, raw chopped meat at the end of each buckled limb. But when the piece had fired, the vacuum created by the explosion had sucked a fine stew of blood and tissue back over the gunners. Their white, leather breeches were now pink with matter, their helmet covers a bloody smear, whilst their faces were flecked with the same gore. Each man wiped frantically at his eyes and cheeks in disgust.

      But there was worse to come. As Morgan and all the others gawped, so a tousled football fell from the heavens and bounced towards the 10th Bengal Native Infantry, their ranks swerving and breaking to avoid Sepoy Gudderea’s bounding, blistered head. Ripped from its shoulders, the man’s skull had