David Gibbins - The Tiger warrior

“I’m sure Hamilton will keep him in his place,” Wauchope murmured with a smile, slouching back against the side of the boat and lighting his pipe again.

“Our muttadar is convinced that one of those men over there on the riverbank is Chendrayya, the rebel leader,” Howard said. “If so, Hamilton has been led into a vipers’ pit by Bebbie. I told Bebbie not to trust their guide, but Bebbie will not listen to God Almighty, let alone to a mere sapper subaltern.” Howard closed his eyes. Another musket ball smacked into the funnel. He opened his eyes, nodded at Sergeant O’Connell, and raised his left arm. Then, sensing a commotion on the river, he quickly peered through his glass again. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “I think I see Hamilton.” They all followed his gaze. Half an hour earlier he had ordered the steamer’s boat out into the river ready to pick up the returning party, and now they could see the boat coming around a sandy bluff at the river bend, concealed from the village. The four lascar seamen were pulling like fury against the current. In the middle was a throng of Madrasi sappers with their bayonets fixed, and the pith helmet of a British officer was visible at the stern. Behind them on the sandy bluff, loinclothed men with long matchlocks began to materialize out of the jungle and they heard cries and a ragged crackle of musketry. White smoke rose where the rebels had been firing and joined the river mist, briefly concealing both the boat and the rebels. When the smoke cleared the rebels had gone from the bluff, and Howard caught a glimpse of the last of them running along the sandbank toward the throng below the village, brandishing their matchlocks and whooping and hollering. A few moments later the boat had pulled around to the protected lee side of the steamer. There was a clatter as the men disembarked and came on deck, immediately slumping down below the railing. They reeked of sweat and sulphur, and looked exhausted. Hamilton, the last on board, made his way over to where Howard and the others were standing. He took out his Adams revolver and swung out the cylinder, dropping the empty cartridge cases. His hands were shaking, and his face was streaked with the greasy residue of gunpowder. He looked drawn, but exuberant. He was the youngest subaltern on the Madras establishment, and this was his first taste of the sharp end of soldiering.

“We were camped for the night, deep in the jungle,” he panted, squatting down as he reloaded the revolver. His voice was hoarse, and he took a few deep breaths to control it. “We were told by our guide that a gang of a hundred rebels was at a nearby village. We marched at three a.m. to surprise them at dawn. Our guide brought us out into a small clearing in front of the village, where we were spotted. He disappeared and we never saw him again. A shot was fired at us, followed by five or six in quick succession. I got the men into skirmishing order and opened fire on the rebels; they quickly retreated into the jungle. Once there, the rebels, knowing their way about, had a decided advantage on us. If only they’d stand and fight in the open, we could put down this rebellion in a week.”

“This happens every time we try to engage them,” Howard murmured to Wauchope. “Go on.”

“We were getting short on ammunition. They were trying to draw us deeper into the jungle. I decided to retreat, and after a lull they followed, keeping up a hot fire on us all the way. Sometimes they were visible as they flitted from tree to tree, and we were able to pick a few off Twice I halted the sappers and confronted the attackers with heavy fire, but they always took refuge behind trees. Altogether we expended over a thousand rounds, but we accounted for only ten of the enemy for certain. Frequently the rebels have been encountered in this way, and got off with small losses in killed and wounded. I think, if our men had used buckshot cartridges, the effect would have been greater.”

Howard nodded. “Very well. Put it in your report.”

“What’s the butcher’s bill?” Walker asked.

“Their matchlocks don’t have much power beyond about fifty yards. One of the sappers has a ball embedded in his skull.”

“Let’s be having him then.” Walker gave a ghoulish grin and rolled open a pouch of forceps and pliers from his belt, taking out the largest and wiping it on his apron. “A real wound after that stinking mess below.”

Hamilton pointed to one of the sappers with a bloody bandage around his head and Walker got up. Hamilton then turned back to Howard and Wauchope, his eyes gleaming feverishly. “We did score one small victory though.” He nodded at the sapper standing behind him, who dropped a burlap bag containing something heavy at Howard’s feet. “Tamman Dora. We shot him in the village yesterday. One of the sappers is a Ghurka and has a kukri knife. Here’s the proof.”

“Good God, man.” Wauchope recoiled, holding his nose. “It stinks like rotten meat. Get rid of it.”

Hamilton kicked the bag aside, then squatted down, looking at them intently. “Apparently he was one of the rebel leaders. This could be just what we need. Show that lot we mean business.” He jerked his head toward the riverbank.

“Who told you he was a rebel leader?” Howard said quietly. “Your guide?”

“He was convinced of it. And the man put up a hell of a fight. I emptied my revolver into him and he still kept coming.”

“You mean the guide who led you into an ambush? Couldn’t he just have been using you to settle some old score?”

Hamilton glanced at the bag and then back at Howard, flustered. “Someone else can confirm the identification. Your muttadar”

“You’ll be lucky if there’s anything identifiable in that bag now,” Wauchope said.

“I maintain that we have killed a rebel leader,” Hamilton insisted, urgently now.

“Very well,” Howard said, pursing his lips. “You must write an account to go in my report to Colonel Rammell, when we finally get off this wretched sandbank.” He paused, looking at the sappers, then looked back at the empty boat. “I’ve just realized. Someone’s missing. Where’s Bebbie?”

“I was coming to that. Struck down by cholera.”

“Alive?”

“Just. You know how quickly it can take a man. He was prostrate by the time we reached a place to hold out near Rampa village. Then the most curious thing happened. He picked up a Koya arrow and managed to cut himself We thought he’d be done for. But the arrow had some kind of paste on it, not the usual poison. Apparently they prick themselves with it. Within half an hour he was on his feet again. We’ve all noticed that the natives seem immune to the worst depredations of the fever. But by late evening the effect wore off, and he became delirious. When we marched on the rebels he insisted on staying at Rampa. He wanted to parley with the village headmen. I left four sappers with him and a promise to return. It was all I could do.”

“Confound the man,” Howard muttered angrily. “If only he’d parleyed with these people six months ago, none of this would have happened.” He looked at Hamilton. “You’ll have to go back. I won’t leave any of our sappers out there. Have your havildar break out another ammunition box and get your men some water.”

“Done.” Hamilton nodded to his havildar, who had understood and immediately marched off.

“Now’s the time to go, if you have to,” Wauchope said languidly, angling his pipe toward the riverbank. “I don’t think any of that lot will notice you leaving. The palm wine is flowing freely.”

“One of us will accompany you,” Howard said.

Hamilton turned to Howard. “I’d like both you and Robert to come. It would be a chance for Robert to go up-country and get a taste of it. And there’s something else I want you to see. Robert, you have a bent for things ancient, don’t you? And, Howard, you’re always going on about old languages?”