Patrick Mercer - Dust and Steel

‘You look at the murderin’ bastards if you want,’ whispered Beeston to whoever cared to listen.

‘…and we need the help of the civilian population, especially for the intelligence that they will give us about who is and who isn’t a mutineer, where the enemy is located, what his plans are, and a host of other details. Now, most of you have seen harder knocks than anything that this bunch of ragamuffins will be able to throw at us, and you always behaved yourselves.’ There was just a slight question mark in Morgan’s voice. ‘I expect the highest of standards from you: an’ Christ help anyone who steps out of line. Any questions?’ Morgan scanned the crowd of sun-burned faces. ‘No, right, Colour-Sar’nt.’

But before Morgan could hand over to McGucken, a boot stamped on the deck and a hand shot out, seeking permission to speak. ‘Sir,’ Pegg’s Wirksworth accent cut the sea air, ‘’ow d’we know ’oo is and isn’t a bleedin’ Pandy? The papers say they tek their uniforms off if it suits ’em an’ just bugger off into the villages and pretend to be ordinary folk.’

There was a hint of nodding heads from the other men at their self-appointed spokesman’s words.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Corporal Pegg. These ain’t Muscovites fighting fair and even, but we can’t assume that everyone’s an enemy – it’s going to be difficult,’ Morgan answered firmly.

‘Aye, sir, but these bastards ’ave murdered women an’ nippers, an’ stabbed us in the back.’ Pegg wouldn’t be silenced. ‘It’s all right for some windbag politician to tell us to be Christian kind to the Pandies, sir, but they won’t ’ave to do the fighting, sir, will they?’

McGucken stepped forward to shut Pegg up, but Morgan stopped him as he saw a ripple of support and concern spread throughout the troops.

‘You’re right, Corporal Pegg.’ Pegg’s face relaxed at his officer’s tolerant reply. ‘But that’s our job; we’ve got to do the dirty work whilst shiny-arsed politicos blow words into the wind. So, we’ll just have to get on with it, won’t we; an’ if you find a bit of grog an’ gold in the process, the colour-sar’nt and me won’t be asking too many questions.’

It wasn’t much of a quip, but it worked well enough for Morgan as the men greeted it with a laugh until McGucken brought them to attention as he strode off.

As he groped for the rail that led him below decks, Morgan paused for a moment and stared at the shore, which was now quite distinct. White surf marked a strip of sand topped with dusty-green jungle, and he wondered just what danger and peril lay in front of them all.

‘No ’eathen mut’neers ’ere then, Corp’l?’ Beeston, footsore and bored after three hot, uneventful nights on the march said what everyone had been thinking.

‘No, not so far, Jono. Just these buggers an’ a stink o’ shit,’ Pegg replied disappointedly.

They had all got used to a cloud of Indian servants and bearers who had done the men’s every bidding for a daily pittance back in Bombay, but only a handful had greeted them at the desolate quayside at Mandavie, due, they all assumed, to the imminence of battle. But there had been no sign of the mutineers; indeed, there was little to be seen of anything as they marched in the cool of the night on the muddy tracks beside ditches and drains bordered by scrubby jungle.

‘We’ll be in Bhuj in a couple o’ hours, won’t we, Corp’l?’ Beeston asked, his voice flat with the tedium of marching and the lack of sleep snatched in the midday heat between double sentry duties as they waited for the attack that hadn’t materialised.

‘An’ d’you think they’ll let us put us smocks back on – this jacket’s so bloody ’ot,’ Beeston continued. The men had not been allowed to shed their red coats in favour of the much lighter canvas smocks for no good reason that the troops could see.

‘Naw, they’ll keep us dressed up like they did out East till someone saw some sense…Aye, we should be there soon,’ Pegg replied dully. ‘Hark at that lot. You’d think they were on bleedin’ furlough, you would.’

It was true: the four companies of the 10th Bengal Native Infantry, who had disembarked alongside the left wing of the 95th, had sung and chanted rhythmically from the first pace they’d taken. Whilst the 95th had started in fine form bellowing ‘Cheer, Boys, Cheer’, their own especially ribald versions of ‘The Derby Ram’ and countless, sentimental Irish ballads, they had soon lapsed into moody silence as the miles dragged slowly by in the dark nights. The sepoys, meanwhile, had maintained a simple enthusiasm, great gusts of laughter occasionally reaching the ears of the tramping British as some witticism was passed up and down their scarlet columns.

‘In fact, I reckon those are probably the lights of the town yonder.’ But no sooner had Pegg spotted a line of guttering lanterns in the distance than the cry went up from behind them that was repeated by McGucken and the other non-commissioned officers.

‘Get off the road, Grenadiers. Horse coming through!’

And as the foot soldiers took to the thorny banks of the road and leant on their rifles, easing the weight of their knapsacks, columns of bearded men in dark, loose-fitting kurtahs, brown leather belts and bandoliers, curved tulwars at their sides, carbines bouncing behind their saddles and deep red turbans on their heads, came trotting past.

‘’Oo’s that lot, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Pegg asked McGucken as they both stood and watched the horsemen jingling past.

‘Scinde ’Orse, Corp’l Pegg.’ McGucken pulled the short clay pipe from his mouth and rootled in the bowl with the tip of his little finger.

‘Right little tatts they’re on, ain’t they?’ Pegg ventured, stuffing a fresh quid of tobacco into his cheek.

‘Well, they’re not like our ’Eavies; more like scouts and reconnaissance troops on sort o’ polo ponies,’ McGucken answered, ‘but there’s two squadrons of ’em an’ they’ll be right ’andy against any rebel cavalry that we meet.’

As the last of the Indians clattered by, the NCOs had the men on the road again, plodding forward towards the lights of Bhuj, the vinegary smell of fresh horse dung now sharp in their nostrils.

‘I didn’t get a wink of sleep, did you, Morgan?’

When fatigue took some of the edge off him, Carmichael could be almost pleasant, thought Morgan.

‘A wee bit, but those Sappers made a God-awful din when they arrived, didn’t they?’ Morgan replied.

As the wing of the 95th had arrived at the little town of Bhuj some three hours before dawn and been shown to a mixture of reed-shelters and dak bungalows by staff officers, where they had sunk gratefully onto mats and charpoys, other troops had streamed in. The wing of the 10th BNI had been hard behind them, more than two hundred sabres of the Scinde Horse were already milling around in the dark, and then, just before dawn, Captain Cumberland’s Royal Engineers had come rumbling into camp on the squealing, solid wooden wheels of innumerable bullock carts.

‘They did,’ Bazalgette wiped at his plate of curried goat with a piece of rubbery chapatti, ‘but this has the makings of quite a formidable little column, don’t you think?’

‘No, gentlemen, don’t stand up, please.’ Colonel Hume was just too late to stop the group of captains and subalterns, all working hungrily at a tiffin of rice and meat, from dragging themselves to their feet. ‘Good to see a bit of civilisation again, ain’t it?’

Morgan marvelled at the man. It was all he himself could do to cast a rudimentary eye over the crude shelters allotted to his company when they’d arrived a few hours ago before a quick, ‘…Carry on, Colour-Sar’nt,’ as he scuttled off to the officers’ bungalow and stretched himself out to sleep. Not Hume, though. His red-rimmed eyes showed that he’d been far too conscientious for slumber whilst all the other units in the column had been arriving, and now he even had time to play down the wretchedness of the camp and its amenities.