Land of Hope and Glory (6 page)

‘And this is Captain Sengar.’ Jhala gestured to the other officer standing beside him.

‘Namaste.’ Sengar spoke with a strong Indian accent. He looked a little younger than Jack, perhaps mid-thirties. His thick moustache was waxed into curls at both ends, and his face was angular and handsome. His green turban indicated that he was an officer in a French regiment of the European Army. Like Jhala, the sun-clan insignia was embroidered on the left side of his tunic.

‘He’s a good boy,’ Shri Goyanor said in Rajthani, wringing his hands as he stood next to Jack.

‘Of course,’ Jhala said. ‘He’s one of the finest army scouts I’ve ever met.’

Shri Goyanor’s eyes widened. He glanced at Jack. ‘Yes. We’re very lucky to have him. I’ve always said that.’ He switched to English, seeming to forget Jack could largely understand Rajthani. ‘Haven’t I always said that, Jack? We’re very lucky to have you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jack replied.

‘Thank you for letting us speak to him,’ Jhala said.

‘No problem at all. Would you like chai? Sweets?’

‘No, thank you,’ Jhala said. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Good. Excellent.’

‘Shri Goyanor, would you mind if we spoke to Jack in private?’

‘Oh. Of course not. No problem at all . . . well, then. Just send for me if you need anything else.’

Jack glanced back to watch Shri Goyanor make his way to the house. He could see many of the servants, including Sarah, standing about not even pretending to work, peering to make out what was going on in the gazebo.

Jhala and Sengar sat again.

‘Sit down, Jack.’ Jhala gestured to an ornate cushion-seat. ‘Relax.’

Jack removed his boots and lowered himself tentatively. He’d never sat in the gazebo before. He smelt the warm fragrance of the jasmine and heard the hum of the bees. Greenish light found its way through the vine leaves and speckled the floor.

As his surprise wore off, Jack realised how pleased he was to see Jhala again. Jhala had been more than a commander and guru to him – he’d been a friend, if such a thing were possible between European and Indian. They’d served together for fourteen years, in France, Macedonia and Eastern Europe, as well as in England. They’d been through the fire of the Slav War and the gentler times of the quiet posting in Newcastle. You couldn’t go through all that without a close bond developing.

‘How many years is it?’ Jhala asked.

‘Nine.’

‘Amazing. It goes so quickly, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The regiment’s much the same. Chimney Pot’s long gone, of course.’

Jack smiled. ‘Chimney Pot’ was the nickname the troops had given to old Colonel Hada, who’d puffed on a hookah so much he was constantly surrounded by clouds of smoke.

It said a lot about Jhala that he knew this nickname. It showed how close he’d been to the men, to the point where he could share their jokes. He’d always kept a certain distance, of course – an officer had to – but he’d been closer to his troops than any other officer Jack had ever met. Perhaps part of this was due to his expert knowledge of the English language and culture. Jhala had actually taken it upon himself to study the English people. In his spare time he would read books and monographs on the subject. He could speak English better than many natives, and his knowledge of English history was extensive. In fact, much of the English history that Jack knew he’d learnt from Jhala.

Jack still distinctly remembered Jhala telling him the English were a ‘special race’.

‘You have a proud heritage,’ he’d said. ‘Never forget that. Your knights were the only ones in Europe to expel the Mohammedans. You overthrew them, just as we did in India. We’re alike, you see, the Rajthanans and the English. And both strong with sattva.’

Jhala shifted on his cushion-seat. There was a scraping sound nearby as one of the gardeners pushed a wheelbarrow along a gravel path.

‘Where are you posted now?’ Jack asked.

‘Here, in Poole. You know the barracks?’

‘Yes.’ Jack had seen the sprawling military compound from the road many times. It lay a few miles to the north-east of the city. But of course he’d never actually visited it, having left the army so long ago.

‘Been there for about a year now,’ Jhala said. ‘You should come by sometime. You’d be most welcome.’

‘Thank you, sir. Can I ask something?’

‘Of course.’

‘How did you know I was here? I mean, working at this place?’

‘It was just a stroke of luck. You remember you saw Sergeant Kershaw a few months ago?’

‘Yes.’ He remembered now. He’d bumped into David Kershaw, one of his old colleagues from the regiment, in Poole during the winter. They hadn’t spoken much – Jack had been in a rush to complete an errand for Shri Goyanor. He hadn’t even realised at the time that Kershaw and the regiment were now based in Poole.

‘Well, Kershaw happened to mention it to me,’ Jhala said. ‘He told me you were working as a guard around here, so I looked you up in the register.’

All guards were required to register with the local sheriffs, who kept a logbook containing the names and addresses of everyone working in security in the area.

Jhala coughed a few times and Jack wondered whether he was suffering from the fever at the moment. Finally, Jhala cleared his throat and looked around at the gardens. ‘It’s very pleasant here.’

‘Yes,’ Jack replied.

‘You like it, then?’

‘Shri Goyanor’s been good to me.’

‘Of course. I’m sure he has. But still, you must miss the old days sometimes.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Ever think about coming back?’

‘No. I mean, I made my decision. I think it was for the best.’

Jhala looked up at the roof of the gazebo, as if there would be some sort of inspiration up there. ‘Never did quite understand why you left, Jack. If you’d stayed on you’d be ten years off getting your pension now.’

It was true. If he’d stayed on he would be closer to receiving the all-important, much-admired army pension, a smallholding where a man could live out the rest of his days in peace, if not actual luxury. It was what all soldiers dreamt about, after they’d served for a few years.

‘You’re right, sir, but I had that accident.’

‘The injury wasn’t bad. The doctor said you could stay on.’

‘Yes, sir. But . . . things changed.’

Jack’s fingers tensed around the corner of the cushion beneath him. The accident had been the result of karma and he’d vowed not to go back to the army after what he’d done. But he’d never spoken to anyone about this, apart from Katelin.

‘Well, I suppose we all have to make our choices in life,’ Jhala said. ‘But what would you say if I told you I could arrange for you to get your pension after all? Immediately.’

Jack’s heart quickened. Could it be possible? ‘Sir, I would be most grateful.’

‘Have to say, you’ve earned it. You were one of the best. I’ve got a lot to thank you for. All those times tracking the Slavs in the mountains. Never would have done it without you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘There is a catch, though. We need you to do something for us. A small mission.’

Jack paused. ‘I don’t want to cause offence, but I can’t join up again. Those days are over for me.’

‘You won’t need to join up. We just need your tracking skills.’

‘I’ve heard all about your talent,’ said Sengar, who had been quietly observing the discussion so far. ‘I’m most anxious to see you at work.’

By ‘talent’ Jack assumed Sengar meant his power, his ability not only to track a quarry using the usual signs – footprints, broken twigs, grasses parted, droplets of blood – but also to follow the trail a person or animal left in sattva, a trail that was invisible to most, but impossible to erase.

The Rajthanan siddhas had all sorts of powers, but none of them could do what Jack could do. He was a so-called ‘native siddha’, one who had a natural, often unique, ability. He wasn’t a siddha in the proper sense – it took years of study and practice to achieve that – but he had an innate skill, bred into him through being born amongst the strong streams of sattva that criss-crossed England.

‘I know your injury is a problem,’ Jhala said. ‘But you’d only have to use your power briefly. I’ve known other men with the same condition who’ve done that.’

But Jhala didn’t know the wound had spread. For all Jack knew, using his power now might kill him. One more reason to refuse.

‘Sir, Captain Sengar,’ Jack said. ‘I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept. I have my life here now. I can’t help you. I’m very sorry.’

Sengar sucked on his teeth and looked across at Jhala.

Jhala leant back against his seat’s bolster, folded his hands in his lap and stared straight at Jack. He sighed. ‘I’m sorry too. It’s this damn mutiny. Nasty business.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t know what’s come over those English regiments. They’ve killed women and children – did you know that?’

‘I heard something about it.’

‘Never thought I’d see it. It’s a pity for all of us to be living in these days.’

‘Colonel Jhala, with respect,’ Sengar said in Rajthani. ‘We’re wasting valuable time here. He has to—’

‘He can understand you, Sengar.’ Jhala glanced at Jack. ‘Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes. I understand some. Picked it up in the army.’

Sengar breathed in sharply, nostrils flaring. He spoke to Jack with his voice clipped. ‘Very well, then. You might as well hear it straight – you
have
to help us. You don’t have a choice.’

Jack felt a ripple of nerves.

‘Calm down, Captain Sengar.’ Jhala raised his hand and patted, as if dampening an invisible flame. He leant forward, studied the mat before him, then looked up at Jack. His skin appeared too heavy for his face to support. His eyes were large and watery. ‘Jack, there’s a bit more to it than we’ve told you so far.’

Jack sat back a little. What would the other servants be thinking? He could imagine them gossiping furiously about why their head guard was talking to army officers for such a long time.

‘William Merton,’ Jhala continued. ‘I’m sure you remember him.’

Of course Jack remembered him – he’d been Jack’s best friend in the army, probably the best friend Jack had ever had. No one who met William could forget him. He was a giant man, with a giant laugh and a big heart. Larger than life.

‘Quite a soldier, wasn’t he?’ Jhala said. ‘Quite a man.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember the time he wrestled me?’

Jack smiled – he remembered it well. They had all been mad about Malla wrestling at the time and William had been one of the best. Jack himself had tried wrestling his friend a few times and had been quickly beaten.

The Indian officers were also obsessed with Malla, but they almost never wrestled with their men – it wasn’t the done thing. Jhala, however, broke all the rules and happily took part in his men’s contests. And he always won as he was something of a Malla guru.

At any rate, Willam had been going around bragging that he would be European Champion if the competition were opened up to natives. Jhala, hearing about this, put down a challenge and there was a mighty fight between them a few days later. Jack could still remember the bellowing of the men as they sat watching in the training tent.

The thing was, after many bruising rounds, William pinned Jhala for the count. There was a shocked silence. No one knew how to react to a native beating an officer. But Jhala stood, raised William’s arm, and pronounced him the winner. He did it so quickly and graciously that it seemed the most natural thing in the world and everyone cheered and stamped their feet. Jhala actually grew in stature, despite being beaten.

‘Brave man, wrestling an officer like that,’ Jhala said. ‘That’s what makes it all the harder.’ He looked down, lost for words for a moment, then looked up at the bright sky, squinting a little. ‘You see, Merton’s mutinied. He’s gone over.’

Jack sat up straighter. He hadn’t seen William since leaving the army. They’d written a few letters but had lost touch. What could have driven his friend to become a rebel? What madness?

‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Jhala said.

‘It is.’

‘After all that time. He’d made it to sergeant major too.’

‘I can’t understand it.’ Sergeant major was the highest rank a European could reach.

‘He wasn’t with our regiment any more. He’d gone to the 8th a few years back. One of those reshuffles, you know how it is. I’d like to think that if he was still serving with me . . . well, who knows? Who knows anything any more?’

They all went silent. Jack felt uncomfortably hot in the gazebo. The smell of jasmine was suffocating.

‘Anyway, you may have heard of the “Ghost”,’ Jhala said. ‘That’s what they’re calling Merton now. He’s leading a group of bandits up in North Dorsetshire.’

‘I’ve heard about it. But I didn’t know . . .’

‘No, not many people know his real identity. The locals are superstitious. They call him all sorts of names. The thing is, he’s causing us quite a bit of difficulty. By all accounts he only has a small band of followers – mostly mutineers – but they’ve proved a menace, hitting the sattva links, train lines, that sort of thing. We’ve sent in troops, tried hunting him down with trackers and dogs, but he’s always managed to slip away. You remember what he’s like – his power.’

Jack nodded. William was a native siddha too, another of Jhala’s protégés. His power enabled him to conceal his tracks, making him almost impossible to follow.

‘Well, we’ve tried everything,’ Jhala said. ‘And we still can’t get him. That is, of course, where you come in.’

‘I see . . . I’m shocked about what’s happened with Merton. But still, I can’t hunt down an old friend. You understand, he saved my life.’

Jhala gazed out at the gardens. ‘Yes. Mine too, if you remember. But that’s not the point. We all know that in the army you obey orders, no matter what. It’s what you sign up to. To mutiny is the greatest dishonour.’

‘Yes. You’re right. It’s just . . . sir, as I said before I can’t go back into the army. Perhaps there’s another tracker . . .’

‘I’m afraid not – not with your skill. You’re the best in England, without a doubt.’