Torrential rain fell the night after the battle, and the British survivors huddled in misery in the open, waiting for the sun to rise. Colour Sergeant Leslie moved amongst the cold and wet troops, offering a word of encouragement and a joke where possible. When he came across Private Owen Williams sitting alone, the man was mumbling incoherently and stabbing at the muddy earth with a long bayonet. Colour Sergeant Paddy Leslie had seen this behaviour many times in his long years with the British army. It was something the horror of war did to many soldiers’ minds, and he could see that Private Owen Williams had reached that point where the mind no longer controlled the body. The army’s cure for such a state was harsh corporal punishment, but Paddy Leslie had never seen that cure any soldier of the malaise induced by combat.
‘Taffy, get control of yourself,’ Leslie snapped as the rain beat down on them.
For a moment Owen paused to stare at the ground. ‘Got to go home, Colour Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Sarn’t Major Curry is out to get me – and so is Captain Forbes.’
Leslie crouched down beside Owen. ‘You have to snap out of this, Private Williams, or you will find yourself tied to the triangle for a lashing.’
‘I don’t care anymore,’ Owen said, tears streaming down his face. ‘I just want to go home. I don’t want to die here.’
Leslie stood, shaking his head. He realised that the soldier was beyond reasoning with and only hoped that when the sun rose he might be thinking more clearly. The word spreading through the regiment was that in the morning they expected to see action near the fortified village of Unao. Leslie knew that he should report Private Williams’ condition, but he had a soft spot for the man he had recruited for the war against the Russians in the Crimea. Owen Williams had been a brave and excellent soldier then, but time had clearly taken a toll on his mind. With cholera and heatstroke impacting so highly on the small force, every man who could hold a rifle was needed to fight under General Havelock on his advance towards Lucknow, a mere thirty-six miles away. Colour Sergeant Leslie walked away in the rain, leaving the afflicted soldier to continue stabbing the muddy earth with his bayonet.
*
The sun rose on the following morning to beat down on the heads of the assembled British force. Captain Ian Steele called for the roll to be read and was satisfied to see that all his company was on parade, albeit wet and weary. On either flank of the regiment other British units were assembling, and laid out before them across a swamp were the walled houses outside Unao. A raised road ran through the swamp to the fortified town, and using his telescope Ian could see that the houses had firing loopholes in the walls.
‘What is happening today?’ Conan asked.
‘General Havelock is sending in the Scots along the causeway,’ Ian replied, lowering his telescope. Already fire pouring from the defences was ripping into the Scottish ranks and men were falling. Ian could see the terrible price the Highlanders were paying for the assault, but he closed his mind to their casualties as he knew that before the day ended it would be his regiment’s turn to face the defences. Havelock’s staff had calculated that there were around fifteen thousand mutineers up against their small force of around fifteen hundred.
The enemy artillery opened fire, adding grape and round shot into the advancing Scots soldiers, who were roaring the ancient slogans of the Highlands as they advanced into the wall of lead and iron.
‘Poor bastards,’ Conan said softly. ‘Straight into a frontal assault against an entrenched enemy.’
‘Rather them than us,’ Ian replied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. The heat was becoming oppressive and Ian wondered how many of his men would succumb to the invisible enemy that dogged them alongside the cholera. ‘We are being held in reserve but as the enemy outnumber us I know we will see our share of action. I will brief the junior officers and senior NCOs in five minutes.’
Conan acknowledged the unspoken order to spread the word about the briefing, and afterward the officers and NCOs marched smartly back to their sections to continue with preparations. Only Colour Sergeant Leslie lingered.
‘What is it, Colour Sergeant?’ Ian asked.
‘Sir, it is a matter about Private Williams,’ he replied. ‘Is there a chance he could be kept back with the regimental HQ when we commence the advance?’
‘Why does Private Williams need to be kept out of the advance?’ Ian frowned.
‘I think he needs a rest from being in the ranks,’ Leslie said. ‘His mind has been touched and I don’t think he will live if he advances as a skirmisher. I have seen this before when a soldier loses his mind.’
Ian thought for a moment, accepting the senior NCO’s many years of soldiering. ‘I will get the CSM to pass on to Private Williams that he is to be assigned to regimental HQ as a runner for the company.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Leslie said, then saluted and returned to his young lieutenant, who would be carrying the colours into battle.
Even as Ian’s company went about their duties, the Scots Highlanders were progressing along the causeway towards the fortified town with their two artillery guns supporting them. The town had deep ditches and new earthworks to overcome in the assault. The battle had well and truly begun and in the next few hours they would either win against the seemingly impossible odds, or forever remain in Indian soil if they lost.
Soon enough the remnants of the courageous Scottish brigade were on the first line of the defenders, pushing through with bayonets and entering the town of Unao. The British forces were aided by the fact that the nearby flooded plains prevented the numerically larger Indian cavalry threatening their flanks.
A runner was sent from Havelock’s HQ to the regiment, and the order was passed down to the company commanders.
Ian turned to his men.
‘Fix bayonets!’ A rattle of long knives being attached to the end of rifled muskets sounded, and Ian roared the next order. ‘Company will advance. Advance!’
Leading the way, he stepped onto the causeway to follow the unflinching Scots into the town. The company acted as the vanguard for the regiment and soon Ian’s men were in the narrow streets, fighting a desperate battle of musket fire and hand-to-hand bayonet combat, as the mutineers quickly deserted their positions. Smoke filled the hot, humid air but Ian noted his men were going about their work well, ever alert to snipers in houses and on rooftops. After many hours clearing Unao they were past the houses and marketplaces and facing their next obstacle: a village called Busserut Gunge which was also heavily fortified.
As night was approaching, Havelock gave the order to bivouac and consolidate the positions they had taken. The small British force had suffered many casualties in the initial assault, and the British general well knew he would take many more on the morrow.
After a rollcall of the butcher’s bill, Ian ensured his company had time to take a meal and to check one another for signs of cholera and heatstroke, and for his officers and senior NCOs to be briefed on the next day’s fighting. Exhausted as all were, they listened, and very few questions were asked as to their duties. It would be another night of little sleep as men contemplated what lay ahead of them.
When the sun rose, Ian was summoned to a regimental briefing and the orders were issued. They were to participate in a second battle for the village of Busserut Gunge. It, too, had the obstacle of a swamp, and a narrow causeway and bridge leading to it. The mutineers had also reinforced the village with earthworks, protecting their artillery and infantry.
Ian’s company was to attack from the left flank.
Weary men looked to their kit and rifled muskets as sergeants and corporals checked the men for their fitness to fight. Cholera continued to stalk the soldiers as surely as the enemy.
Conan joined Ian who was standing alone, deep in his thoughts.
‘Reporting that the company is ready to advance, sir,’ he said smartly, and Ian lifted his telescope to survey the narrow causeway and village ahead.
‘Very good, Sarn’t Major,’ Ian replied, staring gloomily at their target. Around him the other companies of the regiment deployed into their formations and Owen joined them.
‘Order to move out, sir,’ Owen said to Ian.
‘How are you finding your tasks as the messenger at HQ, Owen?’ Conan asked.
‘Can’t complain,’ Owen answered, but his tone was cold, and Conan was hurt by the sullen reply.
‘Very good, Private Williams,’ Ian said. ‘Inform the general staff that we are advancing now.’
Owen saluted, turned and marched back to General Havelock’s HQ behind the ranks of infantry.
‘He does not appear to be very happy,’ Conan remarked.
‘I had no pleasure in reducing him to the ranks,’ Ian said. ‘I am hoping he will redeem himself and get his rank back. But right now we have a fight on our hands. Sarn’t Major, fall in with the colour party.’
Conan saluted and fell back with the regimental standard.
For just a moment, Ian hesitated. Behind him he could feel the tension of the men waiting. ‘Company will fix bayonets!’ he roared. The click of bayonets fitted to the ends of the rifled musket barrels was ominous as it meant the terrible struggle of man on man in a fight to the death. ‘Company will advance! Advance!’
Ian stepped off. He did not hold his sword but a rifle instead, despite the orders issued that all officers would lead with swords drawn. In a holster was his six-shot cap and ball Beaumont Adams revolver, and tucked in his belt was Samuel’s pistol. His sheathed sword was strapped to his belt.
The company of infantry moved in their orderly ranks towards the causeway, and the Indian rebels commenced firing at them with muskets and artillery.
Ian gave his next order before his voice could be drowned out by the rising noise of battle.
‘Company, at the double, charge!’
And so the men following Ian passed through the doorway into a place called death.
*
Colonel Clive Jenkins was in London and pondering the task Rebecca had assigned him. He sat in a deep leather chair in the lounge of his club, sipping a gin and tonic. Around him other exclusive members quietly read The Times, following the mutiny in India before turning to the financial section to observe its impact on their stocks and shares.
‘Sir, your guest, Mr Charles Forbes, is here,’ said one of the club’s uniformed employees.
‘Fetch him to me,’ Jenkins said. ‘And bring me another G and T. Also a whisky straight for Mr Forbes.’
When Charles arrived, he sat down in one of the big leather armchairs opposite Jenkins.
‘Good to see you, old chap,’ Jenkins said. ‘If I remember correctly, whisky is your poison, so I have taken the liberty of ordering one for you.’
‘A little early for me, but I thank you for your courtesy,’ Charles replied. ‘Your invitation to meet this early in the morning is rather unusual, Colonel Jenkins.’
‘I know you are a busy man, Mr Forbes, but this matter is important,’ Jenkins replied. ‘How well do you know Lady Rebecca Montegue?’
Charles accepted the tumbler of whisky brought to him on a silver platter by the waiter. He was startled by the question, so directly asked. ‘I have only been in the company of Lady Montegue at social occasions – I barely know her – although she has a striking resemblance to a village girl I once knew.’
This revelation caused the hair on the back of Jenkins’ neck to rise. He did not know why, but there was something in the statement that made him suspect he’d found the seed for Rebecca’s intense dislike of this man.
‘You say that the woman you knew has a remarkable resemblance to Lady Montegue,’ Jenkins said as casually as he could. ‘Where is she now?’
‘I was last informed that she had run away from the village near our country manor,’ Charles replied with a frown. ‘No one has had any news of her whereabouts since; she might be dead for all I know. As a matter of interest, the woman was reputedly pregnant to my brother . . . or should I say, to the man pretending to be my brother, the man you command as Captain Samuel Forbes.’
Jenkins raised his eyebrows at this snippet of gossip. ‘What is the name of this woman?’
‘Her name was Jane Wilberforce,’ Charles said, taking another sip of the whisky.
‘You say she was with child to Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins said. ‘How did you know that?’
Charles paused. ‘Your questions seem a little strange, Colonel,’ he frowned. ‘Why are you so interested?’
Jenkins could see that he had hit a raw nerve with Charles and decided it was best to discontinue his line of questioning.
‘Because of Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Know your enemy, as they say.’
His response seemed to settle Charles, and their conversation turned to matters financial. Two more drinks and Charles excused himself to attend a luncheon with members of a bank board.
Jenkins watched him leave and ordered another gin and tonic. There were clearly intricate threads that would need to be tied together before he could understand why Lady Rebecca Montegue wanted to see Charles Forbes dead.