Dust and Steel Read online

  Dust And Steel

  Patrick Mercer

  To my wife, Cait

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  ONE Bombay

  TWO Bombay Brothers

  THREE Bombay to Deesa

  FOUR The Battle of Rowa

  FIVE Clemency

  SIX The Relief of Kotah

  SEVEN Presentiment

  EIGHT Jhansi

  NINE Pursuit

  TEN Kotah-Ki-Serai

  ELEVEN Gwalior

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Maps

  ONE

  Bombay

  ‘Get into four ranks, yous.’ Six foot tall and completely poised, McGucken pushed and shoved the first couple of dozen men onto the jetty into a semblance of order. At thirty-two, the Glasgow man looked ten years older. A life spent outdoors had left a wind-tan and myriad wrinkles on his face that his whiskers couldn’t hide, whilst his Crimea medals – both British and Turkish – and the red-and-blue-ribboned Distinguished Conduct Medal spoke of his achievements and depth of experience.

  ‘They look quite grumpy, don’t they, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Captain Tony Morgan tried to make light of the situation. He, too, looked old for his years. He was shorter and slimmer than McGucken: school, much time in the saddle or chasing game, and Victoria’s enemies had left him with no spare flesh, whilst a Russian blade at Inkermann had given him the slightest of limps. He was twenty-seven and by girls in his native Ireland would be described as a ‘well-made man’, dark blond hair and moustaches bestowing a rakish air that he wished he deserved. On his chest bobbed just the two Crimea campaign medals but a brevet-majority – his reward for the capture of The Quarries outside Sevastopol two years before – was worth almost fifty pounds a year in additional pay.

  ‘Better load before they push those sailors out the way, don’t you think, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Morgan watched as the mob surged forward. ‘Must be three hundred or more now.’

  ‘No, sir, them skinny lot’ll do us no harm. They’ve not got a firelock amongst ’em; they’re just piss an’ wind.’ McGucken had been at Morgan’s side through all the torments of the Crimea, watching his officer develop from callow boy from the bogs of Cork into as fine a leader as any he’d served under. Muscovite shells, and endless nights together on windswept hillsides or in water-logged trenches had forged a friendship that would be hard to dent, yet there remained a respectful distance between them. ‘Let’s save our lead for the mutineers. We’ll push this lot aside with butts and the toe of our boots, if needs be.’

  Morgan knew McGucken was right, and as the next boatload of men shuffled their way into disciplined ranks, he reached down the ladder towards his commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Hume. He was another old Crimea hand whose promotion and Companion of the Bath had come on the back of the efforts of some of the boys who now jostled in front of him in the heat of the Indian sun.

  ‘Right, Morgan, as soon as your men are ready, let’s get moving to the fort. The other companies will follow as soon as they’re ashore, but gather these sailors in as we go. They may be useful.’ Hume stood no more than five-foot seven and wore his hair and whiskers long. At thirty-eight, he was young to be in command of an infantry battalion.

  Morgan looked quizzically towards the angry crowd.

  ‘Come on, we’ve got the Honourable East India Company to save. Then you’ll be wanting your dinner, won’t you, Corporal Pegg?’ chaffed Hume.

  ‘Nice quart o’ beer would suit me, sir,’ replied the chubby corporal. Pegg was twenty, a veteran who had been with the Grenadier Company for his entire service, first as a drummer and now with a chevron on his sleeve.

  The piece of sang-froid worked. It was as if the crowd simply wasn’t there. Morgan had seen Hume do this before – he would defuse a crisis with a banality, speaking with an easy confidence that was infectious. Now all uncertainty vanished from the men and at McGucken’s word of command, the ninety-strong scarlet phalanx strode down the jetty and fanned out into column of platoons as they reached the road. As the dust rose from their boots, the crowd melted away in front of them, the cat-calling and jeers dying in the Indians’ throats as the muscle of a battle-ready company of British troops bore down upon them.

  ‘Morgan, this fellow, Jameson, here, knows the town and the way to the fort.’ Hume had grabbed one of the sailors who, along with the rest of his and two other civilian crews, had been the only armed and disciplined force available to help the slender British garrison of Bombay when the talk of mutiny had started.

  ‘I do, sir. Commanding officer of the Tenth is waiting for you there.’ Jameson had seen Colonel Brewill of the 10th Bombay Native Infantry just a couple of hours before, when he was sent to guide the new arrivals over the mile and a half from the docks up to the fort. ‘Mr Forgett as well, sir.’

  ‘Who’s he, Jameson?’ asked Hume.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir, he’s the chief o’ police. Rare plucked, he is. Been scuttling about dressed like a native ever since we got ’ere, ’e as, spyin’ on the Pandies at their meetings an’ their secret oath ceremonies.’ The squat sailor’s eyes shone out of his tanned, bearded face. ‘Things was fairly calm till yesterday when he arrested three of the rogues, ’e did, an’ took ’em off to the fort. Then the crowds came out an’ the whole town’s got dead ugly.’

  The company tramped on towards the fort, red dust rising in a cloud behind them, their rifles sloped on their right shoulders, left arms swinging across their bodies in an easy rhythm. They were an impressive sight. The Grenadier Company still had the biggest men of the Regiment in their ranks, and at least a third of them had seen fierce fighting before. At the very sight of such men even the parrots fled squawking on green and yellow wings from the thick brush that lined the road into the centre of Bombay.

  ‘Bugger off, you mangy get.’ Only a pye-dog with a patchy coat had chosen to stay and investigate the marching column, but with a shriek, and its tail curled tightly over its balls, the cur ran off towards a drainage ditch as the toe of Lance-Corporal Pegg’s boot met its rump.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’orrible, sir. Did you see all them sores on its back?’ Pegg was adept at casual violence, particularly when the recipient posed little threat to himself.

  ‘I did, Corporal Pegg, but I should save your energies for the mutineers, if I were you.’ Reluctantly, Morgan had grown to value Pegg, for whilst the young non-commissioned officer lacked initiative, he was always to hand in a crisis.

  ‘’Ave this lot of sepoys gone rotten then, sir, like that lot up by Delhi?’

  On board ship news had been scarce. The first mutinies in the Bengal Presidency in Meerut, Delhi, Cawnpore and Lucknow had started in May, rumours of terrible battles and massacres filtering down to the British. Now, a month later, no one was sure whether the native troops across Madras and especially the three sepoy battalions here in Bombay were fully trustworthy or not. So news that the Polmaise had been diverted from her journey to the Cape, with half a battalion of experienced British troops aboard, had been extremely welcome.

  ‘I don’t know, Corporal Pegg, but we shall find out soon enough, if we can get past those things,’ replied Morgan, as the company approached the arched timber doors of the City Fort, where four camels and their loads of hay were jammed tightly together.

  ‘Com…paneee, halt!’ McGucken brought the men to a stamping stop that sent two great brown and black scavengers squawking out of the nearby peepul trees. ‘It’ll take a while to get this lot clear, sir.’ There was no sign that the cam
el drivers, despite liberal application of their sticks, were clearing the snorting creatures from the gateway. ‘Think this is deliberate, sir?’

  ‘What, to stop us getting into the fort, Colour-Sar’nt?’ The idea hadn’t occurred to Morgan, who had been too busy watching the strange swaying animals to think of any subterfuge.

  Now he looked up above the gate to the crenellated sentry points where two sepoys gazed down at the new arrivals. Both had their rifles pointing over the walls over the heads of the British.

  McGucken had noticed them as well. ‘Don’t like the look of that pair either, sir. Shall we load?’

  But before Morgan could make a decision, pushing low beneath the bellies of the camels came a young Englishman in scarlet shell jacket and the white trousers, which instantly marked him out as an officer of one of the Bombay regiments. His shoulders brushed the camels’ underbellies, and as he straightened up he subjected the drivers to a stream of what sounded to the 95th, at least, as remarkably fluent Hindi. His comments were met with redoubled efforts with stick and slaps, followed by renewed complaints from the animals.

  ‘Where’s your company commander, you?’ the officer asked the nearest soldier. Unfortunately for him, it was Corporal Pegg, who studiously ignored him, preferring to stand at the regulation position of ‘at ease’, weapon tucked comfortably at his shoulder, left foot forward, hands clasped over his belly.

  ‘You, are you deaf? Where’s your company commander?’ the Bombay officer repeated in a impatient growl.

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir.’ Pegg suddenly came to life, his left thumb casually stroking the pair of Crimea medals on his chest. ‘Thought you must have been talking to some native. My name’s not “you”. I’m Corporal Pegg of Her Majesty’s Ninety-Fifth. Captain Morgan’s yonder, sir, with Colonel Hume…’ Pegg pointed over his shoulder to where both officers stood, before adding, very quietly, ‘…you cunt.’

  With a sidelong glance the young officer passed down the ranks, before seeing Morgan and Hume and stamping to attention, his hand flying to the peak of his white-covered cap.

  ‘Sir, I’m Lieutenant Forbes McGowan, adjutant, Tenth Bombay Native Infantry. My commanding officer, Commandant Brewill, has asked me to bring you into the fort, but to keep the men outside.’

  ‘If that’s what your colonel wants, McGowan, of course I will.’ Hume immediately took charge, ‘But would it not be better to get my boys within the fort?’

  ‘The commandant doesn’t want anything too unusual at the moment, sir. Things are pretty tense, what with the arrests last night; the slightest little thing might set the sepoys off.’ As if to illustrate the young officer’s fears, a ripple of sharp cracks sounded from within the fort. The sentries on the walls whirled round, eyes wide with alarm, rifles brought to the aim in an instant. The British troops, too, started and tensed at the noise.

  ‘It’s all right, sir. It’s just the bloody workmen that are stripping planks off the old barrack roofs and chucking them to the ground. But you see what I mean…everyone’s as tight as whips at the moment. Can you just get your men to wait here, sir, brew tea or anything that looks normal? Please don’t do anything that might unsettle our people further; just act as if everything’s harmony and bloody light, please, sir.’

  Leaving the men under McGucken’s charge, Hume and Morgan followed McGowan back under the bellies of the still wedged camels, just as one let go a great stream of steaming, yellow liquid, much to the delight of the waiting men,

  ‘Better to be pissed off than pissed on, ain’t it, sir?’ yelled Corporal Pegg as the officers crouched and scrambled into the fort’s interior.

  Inside the high stone walls, the sun beat down on a deserted parade ground of packed, dusty soil. At the far side, some two hundred paces away, were two flagpoles, one naked whilst at the head of the other, motionless, hung the colours of the Honourable East India Company. Just beyond, were the main buildings of the fort, white-washed offices on two storeys set behind porched verandas. Two sentries mechanically paced their beats, slowly marching towards each other before facing about, perfectly in time, and strutting back to their grey-painted, wooden watch-boxes.

  As the three officers approached, the sepoys halted and faced their fronts before bringing their rifles to a smart present.

  ‘They look trim enough, McGowan,’ Colonel Hume said quietly as he, as senior officer, returned their salute. ‘Why d’you think they might be wobbly?’

  Certainly, there was nothing in the men’s bearing that suggested unrest. Both were clean and smart in white trousers and cross-belts over old-fashioned scarlet, swallow-tailed coatees. Their peakless shakos and sandals looked odd to the Western military eye, but the new Enfield rifles were well oiled, their fixed bayonets glittered in the sun, and both men – smaller than their typical British counterparts – looked alert and intelligent.

  ‘Aye, sir, they probably are…’ McGowan broke off, telling the sentries to order arms, ‘…the problem seems to be just amongst a few hotheads, but I’ll let Commandant Brewill tell you everything before the court martial starts.’

  ‘No, it’s not been like that here in Bombay.’ Colonel Brewill, commanding officer of the 10th, had been defensive with Hume and Morgan from the moment they had been ushered into his office.

  On the upper floor of the fort, the room was spacious enough, though darkened by the slatted blinds at the windows, shut against the midday sun. Above their heads a four-by three-foot rush screen, or punkah, swung on hinges, flapping gently backwards and forwards on a string pulled by a boy who crouched on the veranda outside.

  ‘Our men are very different from those up in Bengal. I’ve always said that you mustn’t keep all your high-caste men together in one company or battalion. The Bengal officers have always had a wholly misplaced conceit – in my eyes at least – in the fact that all their people come from the higher castes and classes. That’s all very well, but some of those buggers are touchy as hell. Why, I’m told that some of the Brahmins regard their food as being defiled if one of us walks past and lets his shadow fall upon it whilst it’s being prepared. No, we recruit from across all castes, and whilst our fellows might not be as big and well set up as those northerners, they’re the better soldiers for it,’ Brewill continued.

  ‘Ain’t you got any high-caste men in your regiment, then, Brewill?’ Hume asked, genuinely trying to grasp the size of the problem.

  ‘Yes, but not as many as the Bengal regiments tend to have, and there’s always been a tradition of slackness and mollycoddling of the jawans up there that would never be tolerated in this Presidency,’ Brewill replied sniffily.

  Despite a lack of solid news during the voyage, Hume had done his best to explain to the officers the situation that they were likely to face when dealing with the mutiny. They were fully aware that there were three Presidencies, through which ‘John’ Company ruled and administered British India. So far, the outbreak of trouble had been confined to only one of them – Bengal.

  ‘At the same time that the first mutinies started last month, we issued the latest Enfields and I expected drama when the troops had to draw new cartridges. The rumour in Bengal was that they were greased with pork or beef fat – both degrading to Musselmen and Hindus when the paper cartridge is torn open with the teeth – in a deliberate attempt to break the men’s caste before forcing them to adopt Christianity. That shave spread like wildfire with mysterious bloody chapattis being hawked around the place as some sort of mystical sign that British rule would come to an end one hundred years after it started.

  ‘The dates were right – it was the anniversary of Clive’s victory at Plassey in 1757, but the rest was complete balls, of course, but in the light of all the trouble, we allowed our men to wax their own rounds with whatever they chose, and there were no difficulties. Then, a couple of weeks ago we got orders to start warlike preparations for operations against the mutineers around Delhi, and that’s when the boys got a bit moody. It was one thing for the men to be outraged
by the news of the fighting, but quite another to be told that they were going to have to fight against their own people, no matter what their caste or background.’ Brewill was doing his best to present his own regiment’s conduct in the most benign light.

  ‘But we’ll need every armed and disciplined man in India, won’t we, sir, if we’re going to crush the mutinies?’ Morgan asked. He was trying to keep up with Brewill’s account, but was struggling to understand the niceties of caste and religion, of what was taboo and what was not. He thought they had difficulties with some of the papists in his own regiment, but clearly it was nothing compared to this. ‘So are all the native regiments here in Bombay suspect, sir?’

  ‘Well, the Tenth seem sound enough, but we’re less sure about the Marine battalion, and the Sappers and Miners…’ Brewill obviously hated to malign his command, but he knew friends of his and their families who had been murdered and hurt by their own men, apparently loyal and trusted sepoys alongside whom they had fought and campaigned for many years. Reluctantly he recognised that the same could happen in Bombay.

  ‘…but let Forgett here explain in more detail.’

  A short, slight, sun-browned man in his early thirties, wearing dun native pyjamas had come quietly into the room. His black hair was slicked back, his moustache and beard worn a little too long in the native fashion, whilst around his waist was a broad, leather belt with a tulwar on his left hip and an Adams revolver clipped on his right. His bright, intelligent eyes flicked across all of them.

  ‘Gentlemen, allow me…I’m Forgett, thanadar of Bombay police. I’ve a little over three hundred native constables and sergeants at my hand, but they’re as good as useless whilst there’s unrest amongst the troops – they’re mostly low caste and in thrall to the sepoys.’ Forgett looked at Hume and Morgan to see if they were taking in what he was telling them. ‘But what they are good at is tittle-tattle. They let me know that a series of badmashes, from way up country around Cawnpore, were at work amongst our troops and by dint of good intelligence—’