The Partisans E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 321

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The sixteenth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country made of blood, passion, and dreams. Michael knows that he cannot outrun his past, yet it is the longing for freedom that keeps him alive. Australia… For some, a land of opportunity where bravery and honour rule the once savaged wilderness, for others, a brutal prison where even the best of men are driven to commit some of the cruellest acts in the name of freedom. Michael Wexford is aware that his past follows him wherever he goes, yet Kitty and Patrick Cadogan are determined to clear his name, no matter the cost.

Leseprobe

The Partisans

The Australians 16 – The Partisans

© Vivian Stuart, 1985

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

Series: The Australians

Title: The Partisans

Title number: 16

ISBN: 978-9979-64-241-1

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

1

Having fired the customary salute, the Galah steered a careful course through the crowded roadstead and came to anchor in Singapore’s harbour.

The passage from Sydney had been uneventful, save for three days and nights of gale force winds in the Java Sea, when the frigate had been reduced to a close-reefed main topsail and had lost a young seaman in a fall down the after hatchway at the height of the storm. Earlier, in the Sunda Strait, a sudden tropical thunderstorm of unusual violence had turned day into the blackest of nights, taxing Red Broome’s navigating skill to the limit. But, staunch vessel that she was, the Galah had come through these not unexpected perils undamaged and without the loss of a spar, and Red was well pleased with her performance and that of his ship’s company.

He had left Sydney with regret, when the survey ship Herald had arrived as his relief, bringing orders for him to proceed to Singapore to pick up troops destined to augment the military force engaged in the war with China. He was to convey them to Hong Kong, where the Galah would join the flag of Rear Admiral Sir Michael Seymour.

It had been a wrench leaving Magdalen, so soon after the birth of their daughter, whose christening, in the names of Jessica Rachel, had had to be brought forward to the day before his departure, to enable him to attend. . . . Red smothered a sigh. Mother and child had been pictures of health, but Magdalen, understandably, had been distressed and had hinted, for the first time since their marriage, that perhaps the time had come to bring to an end his naval career.

Red repeated his sigh and banished the unwelcome thought. The sea was his life, and for all Magdalen’s wistful hints, he could not imagine himself existing permanently ashore . . . and certainly not as a farmer, which had been one of his wife’s tentative suggestions. Besides, there were compensations to be considered; the war with China promised opportunities that were lacking in peacetime, and he had battled with the Chinese before, as a young officer serving under Henry Keppel in the frigate Dido. There was a rumour, Denham of the Herald had told him, that Keppel was on his way out to China in command of the fifty-gun Raleigh and with the rank of commodore. It would be more than good to see—aye, and fight with—his old chief again.

“Sir—” His first lieutenant and brother-in-law, Francis De Lancey, broke into his thoughts. “There’s a boat putting off to us. Looks like the Governor’s barge, unless I’m much mistaken, sir.”

Surprised, Red turned his glass on the approaching boat. There was a civilian, in a white tropical suit and panama hat, seated in the sternsheets. A young man . . . too young to be the Governor, but probably an aide or a secretary, he decided, after a brief scrutiny.

“Be good enough to receive our visitor, Mr. De Lancey,” he instructed. “I’d better change, in case I’m required to call on His Excellency right away. I’ll be in my cabin if I’m wanted.”

The visitor proved, as he had supposed, to be a civilian secretary, a friendly, good-looking young man, who gave his name as Mark Adamson. He accepted the offer of a glass of Madeira, and then—again as Red had anticipated—he voiced the Governor’s desire to see the Galah’s commander at once.

“Fresh orders for you, I believe, sir, and rather urgent ones. So if you could come with me to Government House now, H.E. will be greatly obliged.”

There was a carriage waiting on the wharf when they landed, with a Chinese coachman on the box, and they drove up to what was known as the Hill at a spanking pace, passing the pleasant residences of Singapore’s wealthy merchants, each with its well-kept, luxuriant garden and wide expanse of lawn. Government House stood at the summit of Flagstaff Hill; it was a rambling, commodious edifice, with a magnificent view of town and harbour, and uniformed sentries on guard outside.

The Governor was waiting in his office, and Mark Adamson introduced Red to him. With him was the commanding officer of the 14th Regiment, Colonel Pooley, and both, Red saw, looked grave-faced and worried, as if the news they were about to impart to him was anything but good.

“India, Commander Broome,” Governor Blundell announced grimly, “is in the grip of anarchy. Most of the native sepoy regiments of the Bengal Army have broken out in mutiny. In Meerut, after some disaffection concerned with a new issue of greased cartridges, all three sepoy regiments turned on the Europeans, cut down their officers, and murdered white women and children, in what appears to have been an orgy of slaughter and arson. The British regiments stationed there were heavily outnumbered, and—due, it is rumoured, to the ineptitude of the general officer in command—the mutineers were permitted to march on Delhi. There they were joined by the native garrison, and similar ghastly scenes of carnage took place. The surviving British civil and military officers and their families were compelled to flee for their lives, leaving the mutineers in possession of both the city and the fort. It is understood that they have proclaimed the last of the Moghuls, the Shah Bahadur, as Emperor, and—” He glanced at Colonel Pooley and added somberly, “As may be imagined, Commander, British prestige in India has suffered disastrously, and the Governor General, Lord Canning, has made an urgent appeal for troops to be sent to his aid.”

Red heard him with a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach, his first, panic thought of his sister Jenny, who, with her husband, William De Lancey, must by this time have reached the station in the recently annexed kingdom of Oudh, where William’s new command was garrisoned. What had been the name of the place? He frowned, trying to recollect the address Jenny had given him, written on a scrap of paper, which he had stowed with his personal journal in his cabin on board the Galah. Pirpur, Sitapur, Ranpur . . . it was something like that, an outstation some fifty or sixty miles from Lucknow, the capital of Oudh, William had said.

Pooley was enlarging on the military situation, talking with equal gravity of the British troops presently quartered throughout the Province of Bengal and in its capital city, Calcutta.

“India has been drained of white troops—they have had to be sent to China, to Burma and Persia, and to the Afghan border. There are barely forty thousand in the whole of India, Commander Broome, and about five thousand British officers serving with the East India Company’s native regiments.” He shook his head in a despairing gesture. “The sepoys in the three presidency armies—in Madras, Bengal, and Bombay—number in excess of three hundred thousand, with the bulk of the artillery in their hands. As yet it appears that only the Bengal Army has mutinied, which narrows the odds to a certain extent, provided the Madras and Bombay armies remain loyal. But you will understand, I am sure, the extreme urgency of the Governor General’s request for more British troops.”

Red inclined his head, still conscious of his own fears on Jenny’s account. She had not wanted to go to India, he recalled, but she had gone, because Will De Lancey had expected it of her and because she loved him. Lucknow was in Bengal, Will’s regiment a Company regiment of Oudh Irregular Cavalry, and—

“Lord Elgin, the new plenipotentiary to China, left here two days ago for Hong Kong on board Her Majesty’s ship Shannon,” the Governor said. “Before leaving, he instructed me to hold troops bound for China, pending their redirection to Calcutta. The troopships Himalaya and Simoon, with the Fifth and Ninetieth regiments on board, have already been so redirected. Only the troops you were ordered to pick up here and convey to Hong Kong have proceeded to their original destination. Lord Elgin took them with him on board the Shannon, which, as I mentioned, left here two days ago. However, before he departed, his lordship confided to me that he ultimately expected to go to Calcutta himself, in order to assess the situation in India and consult with the Governor General. The news from China is good . . . you probably have not heard that Commodore Elliot destroyed the Chinese fleet in Escape Creek, and Commodore Keppel, a very short while afterwards, fought a brilliant action at Fatshan. Indeed—”

Colonel Pooley spoke up, a hint of impatience in his voice, “Your Excellency will recall the reason why Commander Broome was summoned in such haste—the engineer detachment at present under my command, sir.”

“Ah, yes, the engineers,” the Governor echoed. “Eighty men of the Royal Engineers, to be exact, whose commanding officer is a railway expert, Colonel Pooley tells me. They too were en route to Hong Kong, but it seems to both of us, in view of the Governor General’s appeal and Lord Elgin’s parting instructions, that there is a greater need for them in India than anywhere else. I understand that a rail link between Calcutta and Allahabad is in the process of construction—isn’t that so, Colonel?”

“I believe so, sir, yes,” Pooley confirmed. “I am not sure whether the line has yet reached Allahabad, but to the best of my knowledge, it is the intention of the Indian government that it should. And these men, these Royal Engineers, would provide skilled help to that end, if they can be conveyed at once to Calcutta.”

“You want me to give them passage, sir?” Red questioned. “Aboard the Galah?”

“Precisely,” the Governor returned. “I shall take it on myself to change your orders, Commander. Your ship, if she is required on the China station, can proceed to Hong Kong as soon as you have set the engineer detachment ashore in Calcutta. Unfortunately there is no senior naval officer here at present, whose agreement I might have sought, so that I must act on my own authority in the matter. Er—I trust you will accept my authority?”

Red’s hesitation was brief. The change in his orders was admittedly unorthodox, but the Governor’s argument was entirely convincing, and he signified his willingness to accept the change.

“Of course, Your Excellency. I can take on water and supplies and be ready to sail as soon as the engineer detachment is embarked. By noon tomorrow, sir, if the detachment is ready and my supplies can be made available at once.”

“I will ensure that they are, Commander. And the men, Colonel?”

“They will be at the quayside tomorrow morning, sir,” Pooley promised. “Their commanding officer is a young Scotsman—Captain Fergus Maclaren. I’ll send him out to your ship this evening, Commander, if that is agreeable to you.”

“I will have him to dinner on board the Galah,” Red offered. He prepared to take his leave, by no means ill pleased, in the circumstances, by his enforced change of destination. It was likely that, in Calcutta, he might obtain news of the situation in Oudh and of Jenny and her husband; of necessity, the Governor’s information could not be up to date, and perhaps, God willing, by this time the mutiny in Bengal might already have been quelled.

The Meerut outbreak had clearly been serious enough, and the fact that Delhi had fallen to the rebellious sepoy regiments did not augur well, but . . . Red accepted the written order Governor Blundell offered him and came formally to attention.

Returning to the quayside in the carriage that had brought him to Government House, he had no eyes for the ordered beauty of his surroundings, as he attempted to bring to mind the map of India. Delhi was hundreds of miles to the northwest of Lucknow, he thought, and Sitapur . . . Ranpur—devil take it, why couldn’t he remember the address Jenny had given him? At all events, William’s native regiment formed part of the garrison of an outstation, fifty or sixty miles from Lucknow, and there were surely British troops, a British regiment, in Lucknow. It was the capital of Oudh, with—yes, had not William said that Sir Henry Lawrence had been appointed chief commissioner of Oudh, with his headquarters in Lucknow? Sir Henry was a man Will had appeared greatly to admire.

“He is held in high esteem by both Indians and British, ” Will de Lancey had said. “If any man can reconcile the adherents of the old King to the annexation of his kingdom, that man is Lawrence. . . . ”

Red learned more during the meal to which he entertained Captain Fergus Maclaren on board the Galah. The Royal Engineer officer was a tall, dark-haired man of about thirty-four or -five, with a grave manner and the soft, lilting accent of a Highland Scot. It turned out that he had served for seven years in India, two of those years in a military station fifty miles from Lucknow—Cawnpore, on the Ganges River. He was able to locate Ranpur and, as befitted his profession, drew an excellent sketch map of the area, offering illuminating comments as his pen moved deftly across the paper. He noted place names, roads and rivers, and the site of the proposed railway, which, it seemed, had been planned during the time he had been stationed in Cawnpore.

“The Ganges River and the Great Trunk Road are the principal means of communication between the port of Calcutta and the northwest,” he explained. “As yet the rail system covers barely a hundred miles—the railhead is here, at Raniganj, d’you see, sir? After that, all troop reinforcements going up-country to Benares and Allahabad will have to proceed by river steamer, or by dak or bullock stage, or they’ll have to march . . . and that takes time. There is a proposed rail link between Allahabad and Cawnpore, further inland, but to the best of my knowledge it ends here, at Lahonda—forty miles from Allahabad. It had just been started when I left to go to Scotland on furlough. And you’ll realize the distance between Calcutta and Lucknow is seven hundred miles by road and about a thousand by water. And in the monsoon, when the rivers flood and the roads become well-nigh impassable for wheeled traffic, delays are inevitable.”

“What have you heard of the present situation in Delhi and Meerut?” Red asked. “From what the Governor and Colonel Pooley told me, that’s where the mutiny began. And the mutineers took Delhi almost a month ago.”

The engineer officer shrugged. “H.E. is probably in possession of more up-to-date information than I am, Captain Broome. But Delhi is, of course, likely to become the focal point of any uprising—if it’s not that already. I imagine that every conceivable effort will be made to recapture it. But not from Calcutta—the distance is too immense. I understand that there’s a force being assembled at Ambala, which is here—” He pointed to the map. “It’s in the hills, near Simla, where the commander-in-chief, General Anson, has his hot weather headquarters. But again, sir, transport will be the problem. An army, even a relatively small army, on the move in India requires a vast number of coolies, beasts of burden, carts, ammunition tumbrils, tents, water tankers. Stores have to be carried, forage for the animals, and—” He repeated his despairing shrug. “It will, I fear, be a good long while before Delhi can be retaken. And until it is once again in British hands, there’s just no knowing what will be the effect on the sepoy troops throughout India and particularly in Bengal. Oudh could go up like a powder keg when a naked flame is applied to it!”

He talked on, giving the facts as he knew them, and continuing to illustrate his words by recourse to a swiftly sketched map.

Returning to the situation in Oudh, he laid stress on the dangers where most outstations were garrisoned exclusively by sepoy troops.

“Cawnpore had the Queen’s Thirty-second when I was there, Captain Broome, but I understand the regiment has been posted to Lucknow—which augurs well for Lucknow but badly for Cawnpore, which will be left with three native regiments and”—Maclaren made a wry grimace—“the so-called Nana of Bithur, claimant to the throne of the Mahrattas.”

“What of him?” Red questioned. “He’s an Indian prince, isn’t he—a rajah?”

“A very embittered one, I fear—although he affected great friendship for our countrymen in the garrison when I was there. In fairness to him, I have to concede that he has reason for bitterness. He was the adopted son of the last Maharajah, Baji Rao—the Peishwa—but because he was not related by blood, the title and the old Peishwa’s very lavish pension were denied him, in line with the late Governor General’s policy, of which you’ve no doubt heard. Annexation and lapse, it was called.” He went into brief detail, an odd little smile curving his lips.

“It sounds like barefaced robbery,” Red exclaimed.

“It was indeed, sir,” Maclaren agreed cynically. “Under Lord Dalhousie’s governorship, the East India Company added something like two hundred and fifty thousand square miles to British-Indian territory in eight years. We—the British—have something to answer for, I’m afraid. The Nana made numerous appeals to the East India Company’s Court of Governors, but all were dimissed. All he inherited from Baji Rao were his debts—which were considerable—his palace at Bithur, a private army, and a host of retainers and ageing dependants, said to number about fifteen thousand. Frankly, sir, if there is an uprising and the Army of Bengal does mutiny, I’d repose no trust whatsoever in the Nana. He has nothing to lose and everything to gain if he throws in his lot with the sepoys.”

It was logical, Red reflected, his anxiety for his sister and her husband in no wise assuaged by the picture Fergus Maclaren had painted. Poor little Jenny! God grant that she would not live to regret her decision to accompany Will De Lancey to India. Uneasily, he questioned Maclaren as to the likelihood of mutiny breaking out in the Oudh outstations, which, like Ranpur, had entirely native garrisons.

“It’s impossible to predict, sir,” the engineer officer answered flatly. “Every Company officer I’ve met believes heart and soul in his own regiment’s loyalty, and it remains to be seen if their faith in their men will be justified. A lot depends on individual officers and the relationship they’ve built up with the men they command. But even before I went on furlough, attempts were being made to stir up sedition among the native troops. Hindu priests were secretly visiting the sepoys, warning them that the Company policy was to convert them to Christianity by destroying their caste system. And it was rumoured that they had revived an old prophecy, which forecast the end of the Company’s rule on the hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Plassey. Which—” Maclaren swore, and brought his clenched fist down on the mess table in sudden alarm. “For God’s sake, that’s today, isn’t it? Today’s the twenty-third of June, and Clive’s victory was exactly a hundred years ago, unless my memory’s at fault. June the twenty-third, seventeen fifty-seven!”

Red stared at him, startled by his vehemence. “No,” he corrected. “Today is the twenty-fifth.”

“Then the day will have come and gone. There was some talk of a comet that was to be seen in the night sky—I wonder if it was? And if the uprising was timed for the twenty-third?”

“They did not wait for any damned comet in Meerut,” Red reminded his guest. “Well, I suppose we shall soon find out, my friend. We’ll sail as soon as your detachment is embarked, and, granted fair winds, we should be setting you ashore in Calcutta within a couple of weeks. Less, if we pick up a decent wind in the Straits of Malacca—which is not beyond the bounds of possibility.”

Red’s forecast proved to be accurate. A strong and favourable wind was picked up in the Straits of Malacca and carried all the way to the mouth of the Hooghly River. On July 8, the Galah anchored for the night in Diamond Harbour, and next day, under the direction of a Bengal marine pilot, she proceeded slowly up the dull and muddy waters of the great river. There was thick, luxuriant jungle on either bank, broken by mudflats and innumerable small islands, which, with their tangled vegetation and basking crocodiles, looked anything but inviting.

As they neared the city of Calcutta, the east bank of the river—known as Garden Reach—became more attractive, with its well-kept gardens and pleasure grounds and whitepainted bungalows, occupied, the pilot said, by officials and well-to-do merchants, who appeared to live in considerable style. On the opposite bank, stone-built temples stood at the head of long flights of stone steps, which were crowded with a motley throng of natives, bathing and filling their earthenware chattis with water, which the women, in colourful saris, bore away on their heads. All paused to stare at the ship, and a few waved in greeting. A little later, while passing beneath the gun batteries and green slopes of Fort William, the Galah was loudly and excitedly cheered by the fortress’s red-coated guardians.

At five o’clock, she dropped anchor off the Esplanade after firing a nineteen-gun salute, and scarcely had she done so than a resplendently uniformed aide-de-camp came on board, with a summons for Red to repair at once to Government House, where Colonel Birch, the military secretary, was anxious to speak with him.

“His Excellency Lord Canning is at Barrackpore, sir,” the young officer explained. “But we are expecting him back this evening for dinner—to which, of course, you and the officer commanding your military detachment will, I am sure, be invited.”

A carriage was waiting—a much more luxurious equipage than the one furnished by the Governor at Singapore—drawn by two fine matching bays, with a coachman and a scarlet-uniformed footman, in addition to an escort of two splendidly mounted troopers of the Governor General’s bodyguard. In its cushioned interior, Red, accompanied by Captain Maclaren and the young aide, took in with interest the colourful scene about them as they left the dockside, with Fort William’s castellated heights above, and drove across the green, tree-shaded expanse of the park called the Maidan. At this hour, it was thronged with the evening parade of Calcutta’s wealthy society, seated in their stylish conveyances or astride well-groomed hacks, with a military band playing lively airs in a wrought-iron bandstand bedecked with flowers, about which were grouped white-painted tables and chairs, beneath the shade of brilliantly striped awnings.

It looked quite unlike a city threatened by anarchy and rebellion, the Europeans going about their pleasurable business seemingly without a care in the world. But, the young aide asserted gravely, Lord Canning was deeply concerned, for the news reaching him from up-country was almost daily more alarming. He did not dwell on this, however, leaving the harrowing details to his military superior, and when the carriage drew up outside the imposing entrance of Government House, he hurried them through the great, marble-paved hallway and up a side staircase to the military secretary’s office on the first floor.

Colonel Birch, thin, grey-haired, and bewhiskered, received both Red and his passenger warmly.

“You are the answer to prayer,” he stated, with evident sincerity, when Fergus Maclaren introduced himself. “And your men worth their weight in gold at this critical time, believe me! I will arrange for you to go up-river first thing tomorrow, to place yourself under Colonel Neill’s command at Allahabad. The Colonel is leading a relief force of his regiment to Cawnpore, which is under siege by an estimated seven thousand mutinied sepoys under the treacherous Nana Sahib of Bithur.”

Maclaren exchanged a swift glance with Red, as the military secretary went into details of the siege. Just as the engineer captain had prophesied, the last of the Mahrattas had betrayed the trust reposed in him by the commander of the Cawnpore garrison, General Sir Hugh Wheeler.

“Sir Hugh is one of our most esteemed general officers,” Colonel Birch added, with tight-lipped restraint. “But at Cawnpore he has, I fear, made two disastrous errors. Firstly, of course, he depended on the Nana’s loyalty and seeming friendship. Then, instead of occupying the magazine—which would have been impregnable—he chose to set up his defences at a site close to the Allahabad road, behind a mud wall, with only two substantial buildings on it, in the belief that reinforcements would be sent to him from here.” He sighed heavily. “Well, we endeavoured to send him reinforcements, but I gravely fear that Colonel Neill will be unable to reach Cawnpore in time. Close on a thousand of our people—almost half women and children—have been under siege for almost three weeks, and with every hour that passes, our fears for their continued safety increase.”

Observing the look of stunned dismay on Maclaren’s face, the colonel broke off, to eye him from beneath frowning grey brows.

“You know Cawnpore, Captain Maclaren? You have friends there?”

Fergus Maclaren nodded wretchedly. “Indeed I have, sir—a great many. I was stationed in Cawnpore before I went on furlough.” He and the military secretary went into lengthy discussion, to which Red listened in appalled silence, as the desperate situation in which the Cawnpore garrison had been placed slowly became clear to him. By comparison with that of Lucknow—where, it appeared, Sir Henry Lawrence, the commissioner for Oudh, had made careful preparations to withstand attack by rebel forces—Cawnpore’s fate seemed virtually sealed, the garrison’s only course a humiliating surrender unless relief could reach them very soon.

“Brigadier General Havelock was sent for posthaste from Persia,” Birch went on, “but he was delayed by a shipwreck—fortunately without serious loss—and arrived here only three weeks ago. He left for Allahabad on the twenty-fifth of June. Since then we have been informed by the electric telegraph that Lucknow is under siege . . . and Havelock has but two European regiments—less than two thousand men—with which to relieve both Cawnpore and Lucknow. And, as I said, Colonel Neill’s advance force has not yet reached Cawnpore.”

The catalogue of woe continued, Birch holding out little hope. Red was shocked to hear that General Anson, the commander-in-chief, had died of the cholera while on his way to Delhi with the hurriedly formed field force from Ambala.

“Frankly, gentlemen,” Birch admitted with a sigh, “until Delhi is once more in our hands, I fear that this insurrection will spread throughout the length and breadth of the province. Even Calcutta may come under attack, unless we can obtain substantial reinforcements in very short order.”

He talked on, with unconcealed despair, as much to himself as to his two silent listeners, and then, with a sudden, unexpected change of tone, he turned to Red with a crisply voiced question as to his orders.

“I was under orders from Their Lordships to proceed to China, sir, to join Admiral Seymour’s flag in Hong Kong,” Red told him flatly. “My orders have been changed, but—”

“But Governor Blundell took it on his own authority to send you here with Captain Maclaren’s detachment?” Colonel Birch put in.

“His Excellency based his decision on the recent consultation he had with Lord Elgin, sir, who left for China on board the Shannon just before I made port in Singapore. He informed me, sir, that in view of Lord Elgin’s parting instructions, he believed himself justified in ordering me to convey Captain Maclaren’s detachment to your aid.”

Colonel Birch nodded vigorously in approval. “The Governor General has been in touch with Lord Elgin, Captain Broome. The latest information we have had is that he is to come here in person, on board the Shannon, and accompanied by two other naval vessels with a contingent of Royal Marines to reinforce the defences of this city. We anticipate his most welcome arrival within the next three weeks—sooner, God willing, if that is possible. The war with China would seem to be in a state of stalemate, and for that praise be to heaven, since it will mean that some of our reinforcements will be troops diverted here from that theatre. In view of which—” Birch paused, eyeing Red pensively. “It is not improbable that, when His Excellency the Governor General returns, he may follow Governor Blundell’s example and decide to commandeer your vessel. A fast frigate, Captain Broome, would be of inestimable value to us at this crucial time, particularly as a means of conveying troops here from Madras. I take it, Captain, that your frigate is fit to put to sea if required?”

Red inclined his head. “I shall need water, sir, and some fresh provisions. Once these are loaded and Captain Maclaren’s detachment has disembarked—”

He was interrupted by a staff officer in infantry uniform, who burst into the office, white of face and clearly agitated. “Colonel,” he announced without preamble, “a message has just come through on the telegraph from Allahabad. It’s from General Havelock, sir, and I’m afraid it’s very bad news.” He thrust a sheet of paper into the military secretary’s hand, and Colonel Birch, after studying it for a moment, read the message aloud, his voice harsh with strain.

“ ‘A report of the fall of Cawnpore received from Lawrence but is not believed by the authorities here. A steamer with a hundred Europeans armed with Minie rifles and two six-pounders starts tomorrow to endeavour to relieve Wheeler.’ That is the first message, gentlemen. But the second, sent at dawn this morning, is indeed the most tragic news.” He swallowed hard, and, Red saw, his hand was trembling visibly as he held up the sheet of paper to the light from the shuttered window at his back. “ ‘The news of the entire destruction of the Cawnpore garrison confirmed by messenger, who, carrying letters from Lucknow to Allahabad, witnessed an act of treachery, resulting in a massacre of . . . all defenders.’ This—God in heaven, this is appalling! I—I—” Birch recovered his composure and turned to the officer who had brought him the telegraph. “John, this must be given to His Excellency without delay.”

“They’ve not returned yet, sir. I thought—”

“Don’t think, man—send a mounted orderly to meet him. No, better still, go yourself. They must be nearing the city—H.E. has a dinner party tonight. He said he would not be late, he—” The clatter of hooves from the driveway below sent Birch and his staff officer rushing to the window. Drawing back the shutter, the military secretary exclaimed in relief, “His Excellency is here! Excuse me, gentlemen, I must go to him at once.”

Both officers vanished, and Red, left standing there, looked at Fergus Maclaren. He noticed, without surprise, that the engineer captain’s eyes were filled with tears.

“What did the colonel say?” Maclaren managed wretchedly. “A thousand of our countrymen—our countrymen and women, Broome—massacred by that treacherous swine the Nana of Bithur! When I think of them, when I see their faces, I—God, I am sickened. Poor, bloody old Wheeler and his daughters! I used to dance with Amelia. . . .”

Red put an arm about the younger man’s shoulder, moved by his grief. What, he wondered dully, was the situation now in Ranpur? Were Jenny and Will even now in the same danger of betrayal and mutiny as those poor souls who had died so hideously in Cawnpore? Or had they, perhaps, reached Lucknow, where Sir Henry Lawrence had made preparations to resist a siege? But Lucknow was under siege, Colonel Birch had said. Under siege but still able to send messengers to Allahabad, and with a British regiment, the Queen’s 32nd, to fight in its defence.

“Merciful God,” Red prayed silently, “spare my beloved little sister and her husband. I beseech Thee to keep them safe from harm. In-in Lucknow, if it be Thy will.”

Fergus Maclaren got heavily to his feet, and Red said decisively, “We’ll go back to the ship, Maclaren, and arrange to disembark your men. And I’ll have to break the bad news to my first lieutenant. In any case, we won’t be wanted here while this crisis is on. If the Governor General bids us to dine, we can come back.”

“Yes,” the engineer officer agreed. “Sitting here and just thinking about it would be more than I could stomach! By heaven, though, I hope we can be on our way up-country without delay! I have a burning desire to hit back at the treacherous devils who turned on those poor, unhappy souls in General Wheeler’s entrenchment. Death is what a soldier faces, but to make war on women and children puts the Nana and his mutinous sepoys beyond the pale! I’ll gladly give my life to avenge their martyrdom, and count it well spent.”

“I envy you,” Red confessed wryly. “Since all I can do is command a troop transport. But—let’s be on our way, shall we?”

They were met in the great, echoing hall by the young aide who had summoned them to Government House.

“I’m to escort you back to your ship, sir,” he told Red. “And to tell you that His Excellency cordially invites you to dine here this evening, when he will receive you in private after the meal. The invitation does not include Captain Maclaren—Colonel Birch, sir, is putting your orders in hand,” he added, addressing Maclaren. “You may expect transport to the railhead for yourself and your detachment within a matter of hours. You will be given the first priority, the colonel says, sir, to carry you to your destination with all possible expedition.”

Maclaren’s expression relaxed. “And what is my destination, sir?” he asked quietly.

“Lahonda, sir,” the young aide answered readily, and Red saw that his companion was smiling.

“I could ask for no more,” he exclaimed. “By God I could not!” With sudden impatience he grasped Red’s arm and hurried him to the waiting carriage.

Dinner, that evening, was in the nature of a banquet, and Red was faintly shocked by the pomp and ceremony of the occasion, which far outshone any similar occasion he had experienced in Sydney’s Government House. The guests numbered well over a hundred—wealthy, elegantly attired civilians, the women bedecked with jewels, the men in white ties and tailcoats, and the military in a variety of uniforms, from the scarlet of the Queen’s regiments to the magnificent gold-and-silver-laced blues, greens, and greys of the East India Company’s colonial levies, almost outlandish in their splendour and the seeming arrogance of their bearing. Red felt comparatively sober in his naval full dress, and saw only two others like him, both junior officers of the Company’s Marine.

The Governor General and his handsome, vivacious wife received their guests in the ballroom, responding courteously to the bows and low curtsies as the long line progressed slowly in front of them, each guest announced by name and in stentorian tones by a majordomo in a splendid livery of scarlet and gold. Beside them on the low dais was a tall, bewhiskered figure in the blue and silver of the Madras Presidency Army, his tunic ablaze with stars and orders. Red identified him as General Sir Patrick Grant, lately summoned to the capital of Bengal from his own command to act as commander-in-chief.

To the music of a military string orchestra, the guests passed beneath glittering chandeliers into a vast banqueting hall, its tables set with gold and silver plate, and an army of liveried Indian servants lined up against the picture-hung walls, waiting to serve the meal.

For Red, despite the excellence and variety of the food and wine set before him, the dinner was a strain on his nerves and patience. His neighbours were civilians, two married couples of the wealthy merchant class, who, after one or two probing questions aimed at ascertaining his rank and social standing, talked among themselves of matters so far from his ken that he found himself virtually excluded from their conversation. They wasted few words on the events following the sepoy mutiny—clearly the news of the fall of Cawnpore and the massacre of its defenders had not yet been made public—and the siege of Lucknow seemed not to concern them. The rebels’ seizure of Delhi was dismissed in a brief condemnation of the evident unpreparedness of the Meerut command, and the admission that the disaster could have far-reaching effects unless the Governor General took firm action and the military bestirred themselves.

To Red’s shocked surprise, they did not appear aware of any threat to Calcutta, the younger of the two gentlemen declaring, with some annoyance, that he had offered his services to the recently formed militia and been refused a commission.

“For the Lord’s sweet sake, Henry,” he informed his older counterpart, “the idiots made one of my clerks a damned lieutenant, on the strength of his having served for six months in some yeomanry regiment in Yorkshire! I couldn’t put myself in a position where I’d have to take orders from him, could I? So I let them have a brace of my polo ponies and bowed out. I just hope I get the ponies back undamaged, when the scare’s over.”

“Do you think it will soon be over, Ritchie?” one of the elegantly dressed ladies asked, a note of displeasure in her voice. “It’s disrupting things so. I’ve even heard that H.E. wants to cancel the evening band concerts, so that he can send the bandsmen to swell the garrison in Benares! As if fiddlers and horn players would be of the smallest use as fighting men!”

“It will all fizzle out,” the man she had addressed as Ritchie declared assertively, “if Sir Patrick Grant takes decisive action and demands that the European troops we need are sent here. They’re not required in Burma or Persia any more, or in China either, come to that. And the Punjab’s quiet, with the Sikhs ready to fight for us. But for God’s sake, what use is a commander-in-chief who skulks here, in Lord Canning’s pocket? He should be off up-country, commanding the damned troops!”