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Doctor Watson's Casebook Page 3
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At first, she didn't know where she was. She moaned and held the most delicate of hands against her head.
"Who do you suppose she is, Nakshbad, and what in the name of all that's holy is she doing here? Is she a nurse of some kind?" It was a damn good thing that Khan spoke fair English and had a grasp of basic medicine for my Hindi would never have answered.
"No, sahib look at her…her…" he groped for the word, "her bracelets and the cost of her clothes. She's a warrior's widow - only new married." I didn't ask for a fuller explanation, but the woman was certainly jingling with metalwork whenever we moved her and dressed in highly-coloured, bazaar cloth that looked more suited to a salon rather than this slaughter house. I guessed she was only about seventeen and the blood on her face spoilt the dark rings of kohl that accentuated her wonderful eyes. I don't know what I expected, but as a look of understanding came over her face, a great crash of guns outside the building rent the calm and we could suddenly hear native voices again in full cry, chanting their horrid, bone-chilling prayers or whatever they were. And this gingered her up no end. One second she was sitting there, the next she was bawling as loud as her chums, her almond-shaped face all screwed up in hate, clawing at me with such loathing that I recoiled across the room, crashing against the door and bringing up my arms to cover me.
Luckily, Singh was quick. He grabbed the girl's wrists, shouting at her in some, damn lingo I'd never heard, before he knocked the feet from under her and sat on her splendid behind, pinioning her arms with his knees, grabbing her face and slapping her so hard the she began to bleed again.
"Gods in heavens, sahib!" Singh panted as her knelt above her and the guns thumped, "we have a tiger here!" There followed more jabbering between the two of them and ended in the woman spitting in Singh's face and another slap.
"Alright, Singh, that's enough!" but anymore pleas for mercy were interrupted by the door crashing open to reveal Private Bowler standing in the sunlight, chest heaving and looking even more dishevelled than normal, the noise of the artillery and shouting filling the room.
"Strap back, sir…" even as he came out with that oddest of soldier's expressions, I wondered what it meant, "the Colonel's down, sir, the Colours is surrounded an' the word is that it's every man for himself an' that we've got to make a run for it towards Kandahar…"
"But that's two days' march away, Bowler, you can't mean that?" I asked, almost as if he, a private soldier, had decided upon such madness.
"That's what Sarn't Major Cuppage said, sir. I got it straight from 'is lips just a couple o' minute back, honest, sir. He says that there's a rearguard somewhere over yonder," he pointed vaguely towards the east, "'n we've all got to rally round it. Now bloody come on, Nakshbad, plenty of time for that sort of thing later…" Singh was still straddling the girl, "leave the tart an' let's set sail!"
"No we cannot leave her. This is Alyisha Shah, her dead husband's family is rich and she come to die so that she can be with him," Singh was standing now, pulling Alyisha - if that, indeed, was her name - to her feet and trying to bind her wrists with one of her own scarves as she bucked and jumped like a hooked fish.
"Well, let's give her what she wants, shall we?" Bowler's voice was menacing as he raised his rifle and pointed it at her head.
"No!" both Singh and I yelled.
"She's just a woman!" says I, but Singh's reason for leniency was much more persuasive, "She worth plenty money to her family!" and without consulting me, the pair of them had her out of the hut, ankles bound below Madelaine's belly, wrists tied to the mule's collar and were off at full stretch down the track through the centre of the village even before I'd had time to pick up my rifle and water bottle and stick the smelling salts in my pocket.
Behind us, our people and the enemy were at it full tilt. I just caught sight of the Regimental Colour bobbing about above the top of a packed mud wall, I heard a British cheer almost swamped by tribesmen's screams and the guns, muskets and rifles rose to a new crescendo as we scuttled off. My conscience pricked, should I not return and die alongside my comrades? Yet Bowler had been told to retire by no less an authority than the Sergeant Major, had he not? The Colonel had fallen and all was apparently up with my friends and comrades - would they want me, a doctor not a soldier, to throw myself away, I asked? But then, was this not just the sort of tale that a terrified Private Bowler might invent? Whilst these thoughts raced through my head and my legs - as independent of mind and spirit as they always were - bore me clear of the clash of arms, fate drove any doubts away.
As the four of us scampered along with Alyisha shouting in impotent fury, we passed over a junction and she caught sight of something that the rest of us missed. I suppose that we were just too intent upon saving our skins, but I was suddenly aware of the girl craning round on the back of her mount and raising up her voice in lamentation, followed by shouts and the thumping of feet not far behind us.
I've never been much of a shot (my father despaired of the number of pheasants I scared but failed to hit up on the Dales when I was a boy) but danger's a wonderful fillip. I only had to glance to know that the half dozen braves who were sprinting from behind a wall not more than ten yards away meant us no good at all. It could have been their snarling faces, or perhaps it was the miscellany of swords and muskets that they brandished that gave me a hint of what was intended, but it was enough for me to drop to one knee, swing the Snider up into my shoulder and send one of them sprawling in the dust before my two fellow travellers had even grasped what was going on.
"Good 'it, sir!" yelled Bowler. His helmet had been lost and even as he turned to copy my example I saw him press his spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose in the same way I'd seen him do a hundred times, but never in circumstances quite like this. In a split second, though, he fired just like I had except that the great, powerful Martini ball struck not just one man, but obviously passed through him and winged another - then we were almost on even terms with these savages, causing Bowler to shout, "Sod me, two fer the price o' one! Cummon, sir, let's be at 'em!" and off he set, steel levelled whilst Alyisha screeched from her perch. Well, what could I do? I had no bayonet, my Snider would take far too long to reload, but I couldn't let poor Bowler see these people off all on his own - tempting though it was. I'd been told at school that I could look quite intimidating on the rugby pitch when I put my mind to it, so I gurned as fearsomely as I could, swung my bit of old iron by the barrel and chased after the scourge of Reading who'd already had his bayonet deep in a Ghazi's gut, but was now struggling to free it from where it had got twisted up in the man's robes. To add to his problems, another of these lunatics had attached himself to my orderly's neck, causing him to swear most imaginatively.
I don't know if you've ever hit someone hard on the back of the head with the brass-capped butt of a service long-arm? Even if you're essentially peace loving like I am, it is satisfying, especially the strange, sonorous splintering noise that comes from the bones of the skull when they crack like an egg. Even Bowler was impressed, "Cheers, Doc; thanks for that! But look out…"
I heard all this distinctly, even as I was thrown off my feet by a sensation that felt like a giant fist swiping me down. There was no pain, just a cloud of smoke and a sensation of numbness in my shoulder whilst Bowler and Nakshbad Singh - heaven knows how he reappeared - were shouting together, and clubbing and kicking at a bundle of struggling rags for what seemed like an age until it lay quiet.
"You're 'urt, you are, sir. Now just lay still," Bowler was peering down at me, a splash of blood on his face and on his glasses, "we've dealt with that last bugger."
"Just let me look, sahib," now Singh was rolling me gently and muttering to Bowler and before I knew what was going on, the pair of them were hauling me to my feet - it still didn't hurt - and lifting me behind the girl and onto Madelaine's back.
"'Old on with yer knees, sir and put one arm round Miss Lovely 'ere but don't get no ideas," said Bowler but immediately, I'm ashamed to
say, any finer feelings I might have had for the poor girl deserted me. I could quite see why my two man had not paused to dress my wounds - they needed to get away from the butchery just behind us - but I was now bleeding heavily, splashing the clothes of the lass in front of me and dripping down the mule's side whilst the wretched animal started a cacophonous braying at the weight of two people, one of whom was squealing almost as hard as our mount. If I hadn't been in a state of complete funk at the sight of my vital fluids spurting away and utter fury at why my companions hadn't tipped the blasted girl into the gutter and given me pride of place, I might have found the pathetic little cavalcade quite funny!
I don't know how long we continued like this, but it was long enough for the initial, numbing shock of my wound to wear off and for a deep-seated ache to set in. And, of course, the thing which I should have expected if I hadn't been so distracted by my claret flowing so thickly, a raging thirst. It's a simple fact that as the body loses fluids so it craves for them to be replaced, but all I knew was that any fortitude soon left me and that, out of embarrassment I can only assume, Alyisha and Madelaine both fell silent as I took up the role of vocalist with such stirring phrases as, "For pity's sake, you chaps, we must stop and rest," and, "Dammit, get rid of this harlot can't you?" and other, noble sentiments which were met by Bowler's, "I could say, 'physician heal thyself', sir…" with a wry little laugh, "but that'll do you sod-all good! No, just hang on a tick, you ain't bleedin' too bad, we'll find you some water an' soon get yer fixed up. You don't want any more of them Ghazis trying to stick sharp things up yer jacksie again, do you, sir? An' you don't want to get rid of that bit o' fluff neither, sir? Most blokes would given their eye ‘n teeth to 'ave a shake o' skirt like that on their pommel!" but when I accused him of changing his tune, pointing out that he'd been only too ready to blow the girl to kingdom come not so very long ago, he chuckled and riposted, "but you're the one who's always saying' that we must listen to the natives, sir an' not just treat 'em like 'eathen savages, respecting' their views an' that! Wish you'd make your mind up," and with such clever repartee the journey continued for what seemed like an age.
Chapter Four: The Road to Kandahar
I don't know how much later on it was when I became aware of two horsemen riding up alongside us, because loss of blood now meant that I was slipping in and out of consciousness. Things, though, were certainly quieter and all I knew was, first, that Nakshbad was jabbering away to them, then one of them had pulled Madelaine to a halt and was pressing a water bottle to my lips. I couldn't follow a damn thing that they were saying but, even in my confused, pain-raddled state of mind, I gathered that these two jawans had become separated from their own regiment - the Scinde Horse by the look of their turbans and cummerbunds. I don't know where Bowler had got to, but these two lads dismounted, helped me off the mule and started to treat me with great kindness, one continuing to trickle water into my mouth, whilst Nakshbad tried to clean my wound and get a proper dressing on it. It was a strange thing, for I'd had little to do with the native troops so far. I had my own civilian medical orderlies who were treated in a friendly enough way by the lads of the 66th, yet the same men had no time at all for the Bombay and Bengal sepoys with whom they were meant to be comrades in arms. In fact, there was the most dreadful dislike of the native troops amongst our people, fuelled, no doubt, by the memories of the Great Mutiny. But, I had to say, that had not been my experience for every man I'd come across, especially the native officers, had been smart and punctiliously polite. Now these two soldiers were confirming my impression.
"Hold still, sahib. There is a ball in your shoulder; I can see it like a little pebble just below skin. Your…your clavicle must have stopped it." Nakshbad, keen as ever to show off his medical knowledge, had manoeuvred me into a sitting position and cleaned most of the blood off the area of the wound so that he could get a better look at it. "Here, sahib, take brandy, only little though."
God, I was weak. I choked a sip of the spirit down and felt a bit better.
"Who are these chaps, Nakshbad? Where is Bowler? Has the fighting stopped…" I asked, simply delighted to be off poor, benighted Madelaine's back.
"We've left the Regiment behind, sahib. Bowler sahib took decision to catch up with rearguard wallahs, but we have still not found them, so he's gone off to look. These men are Pathans, sahib, Scinde Horse…" well, I was right about that, at least, "same tribes as Ayoob Khan bahadur's warriors - they speak hill-people's tongue…" he lowered his voice, "don't trust, sahib."
Jesus, what a place this was! Here was my orderly, a Sikh, whose nation had damn nearly whipped my own in the 40s yet whom I'd trust with my life, purging about our own native cavalrymen whose regiment had a reputation second to none in these wild parts. Mind you, it was bloody odd, for the Horse recruited from the very tribes that we were currently fighting under Ayoob Khan's leadership. It was rumoured that some of their patrols had met enemy ones, only to find brothers on opposing sides and both parties had settled down to exchange family gossip! It was all beyond me and I knew that if the bold Private Bowler were around, that he'd treat them in exactly the same way that he treated the girl Alyisha - except for the lechery.
But whilst these thoughts were going through my mind, I became aware of the other Horseman, the one that wasn't bending over me, speaking to the girl in increasingly angry tones. Both of the two cavalry mounts, I noticed, had been tethered to a nearby bush under whose shade I was lying on the side of a stony track. He was a short, very swarthy man with a great, bushy beard jutting out above his stained khaki tunic and he was holding Madelaine's bridle whilst he spat sentences at the girl. She was cowering from the tirade, unable to dismount because of her bonds. But even as I watched this, I saw the trooper begin to loosen the scarf which tied her wrists to the mule's neck.
"What's going on with those two, Nakshbad? All the fight seems to have gone out of our little tigress, don't it?" I could hardly blame the girl. She's put up a splendid struggle earlier on when we'd brought her back to her senses. But, after God knows how far on the back of that moke with my bleeding all over her, if she felt half as bad as I did she was entitled to be a trifle jaded.
"They're arguing, sahib…" that was bloody obvious, "they're speaking too fast for me to be able to follow it all, but it seems that the Scinde man is very cross about the loss of some of his comrades earlier today. Two of his friends got separated and were killed and had their…their glands put in their mouth," I could see why the bearded one might be a bit brassed off. But Nakshbad continued, "he is saying that woman's tribe is all cowards, he knows her family and says his regiment killed her husband…"
Whilst this was being explained, the trooper had grabbed the girl by the throat and was undoing the rope that held her on the back of the mule. As her face was twisted towards me, I could see how her wound had swelled up, but despite this, she still looked damn handsome! Now, I thought, I must be feeling better if I could take an interest in the sort of thing, not so long ago I'd been ready to sign off the ration-roll - but what the hell was the man up to now?
"For God's sake, stop him, Nakshbad, we can't allow that!" I don't know what I thought an unarmed, civilian medical orderly was going to do against two, strapping Irregular Cavalrymen - probably about as much as I was in my enfeebled state, "The bloody savage is going to outrage her!" And that certainly seemed to be the case, for the trooper had snatched the girl's baggy drawers and loin cloth away, turned her over onto all fours, transferred his hold to her hair and was now fumbling at the front o his own breeches.
"Hey, you, stop it, d'you hear?" I was too weak even to try any Hindustani and the authority that I'd leant to put in my voice when addressing our own soldiers had no more effect than to make the rapist pause for barely a second, to look at me and smile, and to make the other Horseman stand up and unclip his carbine from its swivel. Well, here was a pretty thing. I wonder what my mother would have said if she could see me now. I guessed that she'd be reading
the newspapers avidly up there in the vicarage near Glossop, her heart swelling with pride at the accounts of what the old 66th had been up to. I expect she saw me splinting and dressing and wiping a manly paw across my brow as the lead whistled round me - I'm glad she didn't know the truth as Khan and I lay in the dust with one of our own people standing over us, the hammer on his weapon drawn back, cackling at his comrade's bestiality.
Then a shot banged, our guard's shirt billowed bloodily on the front of his chest and he fell heavily, just beside Khan, his spurs scratching at the dust. My ears rang, but I heard boots thudding and the shout, "remember Cawnpore!" in the flattest Berkshire tones and Bowler, scruffy, dirty, bespectacled, splendid, gallant Bowler, came cantering down the track and rammed his bayonet…well, I almost laughed when I saw it, for it was no more than the brute deserved - right up the trooper's naked derriere. Fourteen inches of steel inserted just there makes short work of the intestines and thrust with all the weight that Bowler put behind it, probably reached the heart. In any event, the bearded villain was dead before the blade had been pulled free - but then I saw the damnedest thing.
"Come on, love, come on stand up, our kid," Bowler was kindly, almost paternal, pulling the lass gently to her feet, carefully tugging her drawers up from around her ankles, tying the waist band and smoothing her sari in the way that a man might dress a beloved child. There was no embarrassment on either part, all the hate seemed to have drained from Alyisha and, most wonderful of all, as Bowler tried to wipe her face with a damp cloth that he'd whisked from somewhere, the brave little chit sank to the ground, and pressed her forehead in the dirt at Bowler's feet.
"See, sahib, she makes namasti, the girl shows that she is in Bowler sahib's debt," said Singh, in an awed whisper.