Land of Hope and Glory (19 page)

Jhala had said to him, ‘This type of enhancement is more to do with the imagination than yoga, but your power can assist you. Be wary, though. It is unreliable and not to be trusted.’

He breathed slowly. His trance deepened and the surroundings now faded to a translucent white. He drew in more sattva and the sweet smell grew stronger. Far away, pain unfolded in his chest and his lungs felt bruised. He shivered. He couldn’t hold on for much longer.

He tried to imagine he was William, tried to think like his friend. They’d been close for fourteen years, shared a tent on campaign, fought together, tracked the enemy in the mountains, drank together, ate together. Jack had known everything about William, but had his friend changed? Did he think differently now? William had joined the mutiny – William, the loyal soldier. He must have changed a good deal to betray the army like that.

Jack tried to clear his mind of doubts. He had to believe he was William.

He imagined himself at the rebel camp, hearing that the enemy were riding towards them. He shouted to his men to mount their horses. He led them through the forest and then to the fork in the path.

And then what did he do?

He stopped and looked back. The enemy were near, but invisible through the trees. He made a decision. He knew they couldn’t win in a fight. They couldn’t defeat the siddha officer and they couldn’t escape from Jack, who would track them wherever they went. But he was also sure it was him they wanted – he was the rebel commander, the Ghost. He would sacrifice himself. He would ride off on his own to draw the enemy after him and leave his men to continue the fight without him.

And so he rode to the west and his men to the east. That was what had happened. Jack was sure.

Jack slipped out of the trance and the pain thumped him in the chest. He gasped for breath so loudly Kansal and two of the cavalrymen jumped to the ground and rushed to his side. Still sitting cross-legged, he slumped forward and coughed up strings of spit. One of the cavalrymen handed him a canteen and he swallowed a mouthful of warm water. He felt a little stronger now and managed to stand.

He turned to face Sengar. The Captain’s moustache was tight and his eyes were tiny glints in the dim light.

‘He went this way.’ Jack gestured towards the path heading west. ‘Alone.’

Sengar grinned slowly. ‘We’ve got him.’

They spurred their horses down the path. The way widened enough for them to ride two abreast and Sengar rode alongside Jack. The trail was still fresh – William was only around twenty minutes ahead of them.

At each tread of his horse, Jack felt a jab in his chest. It would be typical of William to sacrifice himself; he’d always had a strong sense of dharma and loyalty to his company. That was why he’d been such a popular sergeant and why the men had followed him without question, even when they distrusted the Rajthanan officers above him.

The path climbed and arced about a hill so that eventually they were travelling north. They burst out of the trees and into the open. Ahead, the path cut across a grass-covered slope. Below them the scarp fell away into a valley, while above it was dotted with scrub and rocks all the way to the summit. William’s trail continued along the path.

They galloped forward, following the curve of the hillside. Forest appeared ahead in the distance. William must have already made it into the cover of the trees.

A blast ruptured the hill. A wall of air smashed into Jack from behind and threw him forward, his mare slipping away from under him. For a long moment he was flying, then the grass rushed up at him and he landed on his side with a crunch.

He couldn’t breathe. Pain welled on one side, in his ribs. He smelt sattva and his ears whined from the explosion.

He gasped for air, took some in. He swallowed and breathed again, then sat up, flinching at the pain.

Looking around, he felt he’d been plunged into a dream. The previously empty hillside was now engulfed by dust and a fine golden powder that shimmered in the sunlight. Dimly, he could make out men and horses lying in the grass, some moving, some still. He heard shouts and screams.

What the hell had caused the explosion?

Brittle musket fire started. Up the slope, figures moved like phantoms in the dust, crouching and darting behind rocks and scrub.

Another ambush.

Dabs of flame erupted at each shot and bullets peppered the slope. He was completely exposed as he lay in the grass, and he looked around quickly for cover. Thirty feet above him was a line of rocks. Although they were only waist height, they were his best hope at that moment. He went to crawl towards them, but pain streaked along his side as he moved. He looked down and felt along his tunic, finding no tear in the material or signs of blood. At least he hadn’t been hit, so far as he could tell. He might have broken something, though.

A bullet hushed past his cheek. He would have to get up to those rocks as quickly as he could.

He started to crawl again and the pain lanced his side. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on. His breath came in jagged clumps, and tremors crossed his chest.

As he drew closer to the rocks he could see that the surviving cavalrymen were now huddled there in a row, firing blindly up the slope. Grey smoke squirted from their pistols.

He hauled himself up and sat leaning against a low boulder. The French were spread out to his left, but in the haze he couldn’t tell how many they were. They emptied their firearms in rapid succession and then fiddled about with powder flasks, percussion caps and ramrods. They used the new multi-chambered pistols, which could fire six shots without reloading, as well as carbines.

The glittering dust from the explosion was drifting away, but was being replaced by clouds of powder smoke. Bullets rattled and screamed on the rocks. Jack’s chest felt pressed by a heavy weight.

The nearest Frenchman peered over a boulder to fire and then jerked as a shot smacked into his head. He staggered back, grasping at the side of his face, slipped on a clump of grass and rolled downhill a few feet. His body came to a halt and lay still, half hidden by the wreaths of smoke.

The Frenchman’s pistol lay where it had fallen, less than five feet away from Jack. It gleamed softly and the intricate engravings along the barrel seemed to shift in the grainy light.

Jack turned, the pain shooting through his side. Finally he could get something to defend himself with. He began to drag himself along the line of rocks.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He jumped slightly, looked behind him and saw Lefevre with a greedy smile on his lips. The Sergeant’s cheeks were flushed and alive with red filigree. He shook his head. ‘You leave that to me,
Ros Porc
.’

Jack’s hand crept towards the concealed knife. Lefevre was unarmed and seemed to have lost even his scimitar in the explosion. Jack was breathing hard. He wanted that pistol and he wouldn’t mind having a try at Lefevre either. But he was also weak and he wasn’t sure he could win in a fight – the Frenchman could easily take the knife and use it against him.

The Sergeant grunted, and Jack let him push past and crawl towards the pistol.

Lefevre stopped when he reached a gap between the rocks – he would have to cross that gap to get at the firearm. He waited a few seconds, shifted on his haunches, then shot out across the open space. But he stopped suddenly halfway, bent double and slid to the ground. A red welt expanded across the middle of his chest. He put his hand to the wound, then lifted it and stared at the blood on his fingers.

Jack crawled along until he reached the edge of the gap. Lefevre was clawing at the earth, but didn’t have the strength to drag himself out of the line of fire. He made gasping sounds and when he looked up blood filtered from his mouth, down his chin and into his beard. ‘
Ros Porc
.’

Jack glanced around. The closest Frenchmen were fifteen feet away at least and almost concealed by the smoke. Nobody had noticed Lefevre get hit – they were all too busy trying to survive themselves.

Lefevre’s face seethed as he strained to raise himself further. His eyes locked on Jack. ‘Pull me over there.’ His voice was etched out of granite. ‘Now.’

Jack clenched his hand into a fist. Why should he risk his life to help Lefevre? A bullet struck the side of the rock near his head, producing a puff of grit. Another two bullets were sucked up by the ground.

‘
Ros Porc
.’

Then a shot hit the Sergeant in the throat, flinging out a spray of blood. A droplet landed on the back of Jack’s hand. Lefevre slumped to the ground. His chest still moved faintly and with each breath a high-pitched wheeze came from somewhere. His fingers twitched.

Jack edged back from the opening. He could still see the pistol, but the bullets were hailing down and he couldn’t risk trying to get across to it. He coughed and the pain in his side made him moan. Black spots spun before his eyes. He heard Lefevre groaning like a wounded bull and he even felt sorry for him . . . but only for a moment.

Then he caught a dark flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something leapt over the boulders and slipped up to the path a few feet above. He raised himself until he could see through the gap in the rocks.

What on earth?

Sengar stood on the path, directly in the line of fire, with his scimitar raised in defiance. He held his left hand before him and jerked it in a circular motion. The rebel muskets spat bullets down the slope, but a crackling netting rushed out from Sengar’s outstretched palm and spun about him like strings of fireflies. The bullets sparkled and vanished as they battered the netting, and Sengar remained unharmed.

Now the Captain balled his hand into a fist, muttered some words, then opened his hand again and raised his palm. Bullets continued to snarl into the netting. The air shivered and wrinkled and formed into a giant globe. With a rumble, the ball burst into flame, rolled and writhed for a moment, then shot up the slope. It tore through the powder smoke and hit the ground with a shattering roar that jolted Jack in the chest. A blast of sattva-tinted wind hit him in the face. Ash and earth and smoke jetted into the sky.

The Frenchmen gave a cheer. ‘Allah is great!’

The musket fire eased. Jack thought he could make out shouts from the rebels above, but when he looked up all he could see was the thick black smoke from the explosion.

Sengar, still surrounded by his glittering mantle, shut his eyes and mouthed a few more words. There was a shrill whistle further up the slope, then a white flash. A droplet of gold fire arced downhill, picking up speed as it descended. Sengar opened his eyes, frowned, appeared confused. He waved his hand quickly in a circle, but it was too late. The droplet slapped into the ground about ten feet from him. The earth burst open and disgorged a fountain of dust and stone. Jack was flung back against the rock and everything went black for a moment.

He opened his eyes, spat dust from his mouth. He had no idea what had caused the explosion, but the smell of sattva was thick on the hill. He glanced at Lefevre, who now lay silent and still, coated in a patina of dust.

Musket fire clattered against the rocks, just as hot as before. He looked up again through the opening and was astonished to see Sengar still standing on the path, apparently unharmed. The netting sizzled and encircled the Captain as he held his clenched fist to his forehead, eyes closed in concentration.

A golden glow appeared uphill and began rushing down.

What the hell was that?

Within seconds a bearded Indian man in an orange tunic and turban burst through the smoke, an aura of gold blazing around him. He ran quickly, unbelievably quickly, his feet skimming the uneven ground. He held up his hand, palm open, and droplets of fire sped out towards Sengar.

The Captain opened his eyes wide and his jaw dropped. He waved his hand in front of him and the netting sped faster. The droplets sparked as they hit the strands. He seemed to fight desperately to maintain his defence, dropping the scimitar and working with both hands to keep the weaving strings moving. The fire droplets thickened and crackled about him. The Indian man plummeted down. More droplets. Then an explosion that lit up the hill. For a second everything was bright and stark and frozen.

The pulse hit Jack in the chest. He stopped breathing, gasped for air. Blackness. He slid down, the ground embracing him gently.

9

J
ack was aware of his pain, that was all – a sharp pain on one side of his ribs and a deeper, more general ache in his chest. But he was alive. He took a few breaths to confirm this. Yes, he was definitely alive and his heart was still beating.

He opened his eyes. William stood over him, scowling and pointing a musket straight at his chest. Jack studied his friend’s face, noting the newer scars and dents cast over the old.

William’s hand trembled as it rested against the trigger. For the first time in a long while Jack said a Hail Mary in his head.

Then William broke into a grin, his crooked teeth coming out of hiding. He lowered the musket. ‘Jack Casey. Well, well.’