Dust and Steel

Morgan was loosely aware of troubles in the past in India, but tribulations in John Company’s forces hardly caused a ripple in the ordered world of British garrison life and he had never bothered to learn the details.

‘…but nothing on this scale. Our whole lives have been turned upside down, even here in Bombay where, DV, nothing will happen – so long as we act quickly.’

Morgan thought back to all those discussion that he had had at home, Glassdrumman in County Cork. Finn, the family groom, had ridden knee to knee with Indian cavalry regiments against the Sikhs, whilst Dick Kemp, his father’s best friend, had not only led sepoys in war, he was even now in command of the 12th Bengal Native Infantry up in Jhansi. Morgan remembered the fondness and respect that both men had shown for the Bengali soldiers and how Kemp’s life was interwoven with the whole subcontinent, its culture and mystique. Now he had no idea if the great burly, cheerful man’s regiment had turned or not; whether Kemp was even alive.

‘And you’ve got to remember what sort of people we are, what sort of backgrounds we come from.’ Morgan shifted uncomfortably, recognising Forgett as one of those people who didn’t shy away from saying the unsayable, and made to interrupt. ‘No, hear me; most of us don’t come from money like most of you. Why, I wanted a commission in a sepoy regiment – it would have cost a fraction of what your people have to fork out – but still my family couldn’t afford it. So, I came into the police service; this post’s cost me not a penny and I have to live off my pay. My poor wife – when we met and she agreed to marry me, she thought that her life would just be England transposed, a dusty version of Knaresborough and how difficult she found the first couple of years – didn’t I catch it! Anyway, once the children began to arrive she took to it more and, I think it’s fair to say, we’ve made a go of it in our modest way. Now all that’s in peril, any chance to live like a gentleman and bring my children up respectably may just go up in smoke, so please be careful how you treat the things we hold dear.’

Morgan thought of Glassdrumman and its acres. His family were certainly not especially rich, nor well connected, but they lived in a different sphere from those who would be referred to, he supposed, as the ‘ordinary’ classes. It made him ponder Brewill’s earlier comments.

‘But tell me, Forgett, how does this caste business really work? It seems mighty tricky for soldiers who are expected to act under one form of discipline to have another, unspoken, code that they’ve got to obey.’ Morgan suspected that Forgett’s explanation would be rather more incisive than Brewill’s earlier one.

The policeman gave a short laugh. ‘Tricky…yes, that’s an understatement. You’ll mainly come across Hindus serving with the Bengal Army up north where you’re going, but don’t be surprised when you meet Musselmen and Sikhs. You won’t be able to tell the difference, but the Hindu troops will treat them as untouchables – Mleccha – just as they regard us so, despite our rank or influence.’

‘But you’re talking just about classes, aren’t you? What about this caste business?’ asked Morgan.

‘There are four classes in Hinduism…’ Forgett paused before continuing, ‘…they are a fundamental part of the religion, and grafted on top of them are a terribly complicated series of castes, or jati. The caste is based on a mixture of where a man comes from, his race and occupation, and is governed by local committees of elders. No good Hindu wants to offend them or be chucked out for mixing with those of a lower class or generally breaking the rules. That might result not just in his being expelled from his caste – his place in society – but also losing his peg in the cosmic order of things – his class.

‘Whilst all this might sound like mumbo jumbo to us, try to explain our social classes, or the difference between Methodism and Baptism to a native. And the whole damn thing has got to be made to work alongside the needs of the army or the police – as you rightly observe, Morgan. It’s not too bad down here in Bombay where the people are much more mixed, but in the Bengal Presidency, where most of the sepoys are of the higher classes cack-handed attempts to introduce the men to Christianity, or new regulations that troublemakers can interpret as attempts to defile the caste of a man, have been at the heart of the trouble. So, we may struggle with the differences in what sort of commission we hold or whether we’re Eton or Winchester types, but out here there’s a whole bucketload of further complications,’ said Forgett with a slight smile.

Morgan was prevented from seeking further knowledge by the door of the office opening with a bang. Hume sauntered out onto the veranda, his eyes narrowed against the glare.

‘Ah, cheroots, what a grand idea.’

Morgan had seen this act from Hume before – and each time it worked like a charm. As Forgett offered his leather case to Hume, then lit the cigar he’d chosen, Morgan remembered just such coolness as the bullets sang around Hume at the Alma and the splinters hummed at Inkermann. Whilst Brewill fussed over documents at the desk inside the office, Hume gave his orders.

‘Right, Morgan, be so kind as to send me an escort of a sergeant and ten. They’ll bring any sepoys whom I find guilty and condemn down to the Azad maidan, where the three Bombay regiments are, apparently, already.’ Hume took a long pull on his cheroot. ‘By now the other three companies of ours should be waiting outside the fort where we left your lot, and the troop of Horse Gunners should be there as well.’

Morgan looked from the raised veranda towards the gate of the fort. The camels had now been cleared and knelt in an untidy row whilst the fodder was unloaded from their backs. He thought he could just see movement and hear the noise of horses outside the gates.

‘I want you to take command of the other companies until I get to you. Yes, I know,’ Hume waved Morgan’s embarrassment aside before he could even utter his objection. ‘Captain Carmichael will just have to take orders from a brevet major until I’m available.’

Richard Carmichael was the senior captain in the Regiment, but he would have to bow to Morgan’s brevet rank and the imprimatur of the commanding officer.

‘The gunners will know what to do with any prisoners that have been condemned, but I’m much more worried about the native battalions. You’ll be guided down to the maidan by one of Brewill’s officers where you should find the Tenth, the Marines and the Sappers waiting for you – about eighteen hundred native troops all told. They’ll be carrying their weapons, but they’ve got no ammunition, so confidence and bottom will be everything. Make a judgement and load the guns with canister, and our men with ball if the sepoys look ugly, but whilst you have my complete authority to open fire if necessary, do be aware that it will be the sign not only for the sepoys to rise up – those that live – but also the mob that Brewill tells me are already gathering.’

Morgan looked into Hume’s cool, blue eyes. He’d had plenty of responsibility thrust onto his young shoulders before and it was said by many that, had he been in a more fashionable regiment, his achievements before Sevastopol would have been recognised with a Companion of the Bath or, failing that, one of the new Victoria Crosses, rather than a brevet, but this was a different sort of problem. Now he would be heavily outnumbered in a situation that he had barely grasped, where a misjudgement would be catastrophic. Barely four hundred British infantry and gunners would have to cow several thousand angry Indians and, if they failed, the mutiny would almost certainly spread right across the Bombay Presidency.

‘What in God’s name is going on, Morgan?’ As Morgan emerged from the now clear gate of the fort, he was hailed by Richard Carmichael, commander of Number One Company.

As usual, Carmichael was perfectly turned out. He’d been the very definition of irritation on the voyage out from Kingstown with an inflatable mattress, waxed-cotton waterproofs and all manner of gutta-percha luggage and opinions to match. Now he stood before Morgan in his scarlet shell jacket and snowy cap, pulling gently at a slim cigar whilst his company and the other two of this wing of the 95th trooped up to join Morgan’s own men.

‘What are the commanding officer’s orders; what does he want me to do?’

There was almost six foot of the dapper Harrovian, and whilst he wore the Crimea medals with aplomb, there wasn’t a man present who hadn’t heard the rumours of his ducking from the fight at Inkermann. ‘I’ll tell you as soon as the other companies are complete, Carmichael,’ Morgan replied as calmly as possible. ‘Bugler, blow “company commanders”, please.’

This was going to be difficult, thought Morgan. That prig Carmichael was senior to him by a long chalk; indeed, he’d served under him for three months in the Crimea until he was wounded – and he’d hated every minute of it. But his brevet rank of major now meant that he was the senior captain present in the field and, especially as Colonel Hume had given him his authority, he would take command of the four companies present – and Carmichael could go hang.

Now the bugle notes floated over the hot midday air, signalling the other captains commanding companies to gather together to receive orders. Carmichael’s company had arrived at the head of the marching dusty, sweating column, but as the bugle brayed its command, so Captains Bazalgette and Massey came trotting past their men, swords and haversacks bouncing, to be told what to do.

‘So, Morgan, tell me exactly what Hume wants, if you please, so that I can tell the other two.’ Carmichael stared hard at Morgan, who made no reply. ‘Come on, man. We’ve just passed three battalions of natives, who seem to be heading off to some parade yonder.’ Carmichael flicked a well-manicured hand towards the maidan, half a mile down a gentle slope below the fort. ‘This could turn damned sticky, so don’t waste time.’

When Carmichael wasn’t physically present, Morgan was fine. He knew how badly he’d behaved in the Crimea, how the men hated him and the other officers resented his arrogance and snobbery, yet in the flesh his supreme confidence and belief in his own rectitude was hard to overcome.

‘No…’ Morgan had to clear his throat, ‘…no, Carmichael, the commanding officer has asked me to take command whilst he’s conducting a court martial in the fort. I’ll just wait until Bazalgette and Massey join us.’

Carmichael was about to object when Colour-Sergeant McGucken came striding up to join them. With a stamp that raised a puff of dust, the Scot banged his boots together and slapped the sling of his rifle in a salute straight from the drill manual.

‘Well, sir, grand to see you.’ The irony in McGucken’s voice was hardly noticeable. He’d been Carmichael’s Colour-Sergeant until he was wounded at Inkermann – not that the cowardly bastard had dared to come to help him amongst the death, screams and yells that still haunted McGucken’s dreams. ‘Quite like old times, ain’t it, sir?’ With a hawk, the Glaswegian sent a green oyster of phlegm spinning into the dust.

‘You’ll be wanting the other companies to move off straight away, will you, sir?’ McGucken had read the situation perfectly. He wasn’t going to let the wretched Carmichael, senior captain or not, ruin his company commander’s chance to command a whole wing, particularly when it looked as though there was a sniff of trouble in the wind. ‘I’ll keep ’em in the same order of march, sir, whilst you brief the officers, with your leave. Is there time to loosen belts and light a pipe, sir?’ McGucken’s steady stream of common sense overwhelmed Carmichael.

‘Yes, Colour-Sar’nt, same order of march, but I’ll be no time at all with the captains, so just stand them easy, please,’ Morgan said, making no room for argument from Carmichael. ‘Then send a sergeant and ten up to the commanding officer in the fort. They’ll be used to escort any prisoners down to the execution site.’

‘Sir, I’ll send Sar’nt Ormond with Corporal Pegg an’ a peck o’ lads.’ Then, with a bellowed, ‘Colour-Sar’nts on me,’ McGucken took charge of the other companies whilst the three captains formed a knot round Morgan.

‘Gentlemen, Colonel Hume has asked me to move the wing down to the maidan for a slightly unpleasant task.’ Morgan kept his voice deliberately low so that the other captains had to give him every bit of their attention.

Commanding Number Three Company, Captain the Honourable Edward Massey, with a recently bought captaincy in the 95th from the 7th Fusiliers, had kept a friendly, if slightly aloof distance from his brother officers since he’d joined six months before. Bazalgette, commanding Number Two, was as different as possible – adored by his men and a great favourite in the mess. Below a thatch of hair his coarse features were split by a grin that was as open as a book; not even his sun-peeled nose, which stuck blotchily out from beneath the peak of his white-covered cap, could spoil the obvious pleasure that he had in being there amongst friends. Typically, he’d let his company smoke on the march up from the docks and now, out of respect for Morgan’s temporary authority, he held his own pipe discreetly out of sight behind his back.

As he pulled the bit of clay from his mouth, Morgan noticed the claw that held it. Two canister shot had passed through that hand as Bazalgette led the advance on the bullet-swept slopes of the Alma almost three years ago; now it was permanently clenched into a pink, scaly comma that Bazalgette never bothered to hide.

‘You saw the three native battalions on the march, I gather. They’re armed but have no ammunition, just in case they decide to turn on us. Three men, one from each battalion, are currently being court-martialled by the colonel for attempted mutiny and it seems likely that some or all of them will be condemned to death.’ Morgan looked at the three faces that were gathered around him; he had their complete attention.

‘A troop of Bombay gunners should meet us at the Azad maidan. I’m sending an escort to the commanding officer to bring anyone that he condemns down to the execution site, and we’ll then have to blow the poor wretches from the muzzles of the guns whilst their comrades watch.’ Morgan looked at his brother officers. All of them had seen death before, but never an execution.

‘It’s crucial that we don’t give an inch in front of these people. Any hesitation, any sign of uncertainty, could be enough for them to rise, so we’ll put one gun between each of the companies, let the gunners load and allow the sepoys to chew on that for a while. Then, as the prisoners are tied to the muzzles by the gunners, I’ll give the order for us to load…’ Morgan paused to let this instruction sink in, ‘…and I want that good and clean, no dropping of cartridges or ramrods. Then, at my word, the front rank will kneel. Any sign of unrest and we’ll volley into the lot of ’em, but that will only happen on my or the commanding officer’s order, is that clear?’ Morgan looked hard and deliberately into Carmichael’s eyes.

‘Yes, sir,’ Bazalgette and Massey replied formally, whilst Carmichael just nodded.

Morgan produced his watch from the breast of his shell jacket. ‘We’ll march at five-and-twenty past, at attention. No smoking, if you please. Any questions? None…right, carry on.’

Only Carmichael failed to acknowledge Morgan’s new authority with a salute. He turned stiffly away from the group, striding off to his own command as quickly as he could, his whole beautifully tailored frame stiff with indignation, little puffs of dust spurting up from his boots where his angry heels met the ground.

Belts were settled, haversacks pulled down on the men’s sweat-damp thighs and water bottles hung carefully in a vain attempt to cool the small of the back before rifles were sloped over the right shoulder and the whole wing, at Morgan’s word, turned to the right and swung off down the gently sloping packed-earth road towards their unwelcome task.

‘Goin’ to blow some poor bastards to kingdom come, ain’t they, Clem?’ Private Peter Sharrock, twenty-one and at five-foot nine an average height in the Grenadier Company, was the product of a Peterborough slum. Bored with milling powder for the Crimea, he’d enlisted, but too late for any fighting.

Next to him marched Private Clem James, an old man at twenty-five, no stranger to hard knocks. ‘No, Peter, that’s the ’ole bleedin’ point.’ There was an almost theatrical impatience in James’s voice. ‘There’ll be no kingdom come for this lot if we blow ’em to bits. Buggers up their caste system, ’avin’ to ’ave all the little bits picked up by the sweepers – an’ they’re the lowest of the low – an’ means that they’ll never go to their ’eathen ’eaven. Punishes ’em twice, it does, first by killin’ them, then by condemnin’ ’em to eternal damnation or some such…’

‘Sharrock, James: shut yer grids!’ McGucken’s bellow silenced both men instantly. ‘Report to me for water detail once we stand down.’ Each night parties would be formed to find and collect water, a back-breaking task.

The column tramped on with the sun beating on their backs. Morgan had been aware of a steady trickle of people loping down the road beside them, mainly men young and old, but a handful of women as well. As they came round a slight bend that was screened by low trees, he heard the same, discordant hum that had greeted them when their boats first touched Bombay’s quay. This time, though, it was lower, more of a subdued growl than the pulsating shriek that he’d heard before.

About a quarter of a mile away, where the ground flattened out into a great featureless parched meadow, a multicoloured slab of humanity eddied and wobbled, hemmed in by a deep drainage ditch on one side and the road on the other. Opposite the crowd stood three long blocks of scarlet and white – the sepoy regiments waiting in the heat for whatever fate their British masters would hand down.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Colour-Sar’nt, how many people d’you reckon are in that crowd?’ Morgan knew that the sepoys would outnumber them, but he had not expected a crowd of this size.

‘Ye sound like a bloody papist sometimes, you do, sir.’ McGucken always mocked his officer when he used one of the Catholic men’s expressions. ‘Dunno, but let’s have a look.’ Now he sectioned the crowd off into eight imaginary blocks, just as he had been taught to do as a recruit and, as they drew nearer, tried to count the bare heads and turbans in one of them. ‘’Bout three-thousand, I’d say, what d’yous think, sir?’

‘Yes, that’s about right.’ Morgan tried not to let his concern show, but three sepoy battalions was quite enough for less than four hundred men of the 95th to deal with, let alone thousands of angry natives. What should he do? The colonel had told him that confidence was everything, but they would be swallowed up in an instant if the crowd turned. Should he halt and wait for orders? He found his pace getting involuntarily shorter and his bottom tightening with fear and indecision – but he was spared. Above the rhythmic thump of his men’s boots came the clatter of hoofs and wheels.

‘Not before time, sir…’ McGucken caught sight of the troop of horse gunners before Morgan could see them above their own, scarlet phalanx, ‘…just like when the guns came up at Balaklava, sir, d’ye ken?’

Morgan did, indeed, ken. He remembered how nine-pounders like these had hammered at the Russian cavalry in that grape-laden valley three years before. Now the covered brass helmets and ruddy faces of the Bombay Horse Artillery bobbed above their cantering animals, the 95th biting off a ragged cheer as the horses, limbers and guns enveloped them in dust as they swept by.

‘Troop, halt!’ Three horses led the way: Bolton, the captain commanding, his troop staff-sergeant, and the trumpeter, who now repeated his officer’s order with a series of brazen notes. As the guns pulled up behind him, Bolton trotted forward to the still marching Morgan and McGucken.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Bolton was thirty-five, short, chubby and clean shaven. Unlike his men, he wore a light, cork solar-topee to protect his head from the sun, but it appeared to have done little for his temper. Before either could answer Bolton repeated, ‘I said, who’s in charge here?’

‘Major Morgan of HM Ninety-Fifth, sir,’ McGucken snapped a salute whilst invoking Morgan’s brevet, before muttering, ‘Why are these damned nabobs always in such a pother, Sir?’

‘Dunno, Colour-Sar’nt; don’t suppose they’ve seen much action before.’ Morgan’s answer belied the relief he felt at the sight of the guns.

As Bolton dismounted, both officer and colour-sergeant searched his chest for medals – but there was none.

‘Good day…sir.’ There was a slight question in Bolton’s voice for on Morgan’s collar there were only the star and crown of a captain. ‘Colonel Brewill has asked me to execute some rogue sepoys of his whilst you kindly protect my troop. Is that what you understand?’

As the column of 95th continued to swing by, the trio stood in the shade of a leafy tree inhabited by a knot of silent monkeys, which looked quizzically down at them. Seeing that a conference was taking place, Captain Carmichael detached himself from the head of his company and strolled over towards them.

‘Something wrong, sir?’ asked McGucken breezily, turning and placing himself carefully between Carmichael and the other two officers.

‘No, Colour-Sar’nt, but I assumed that Captain Morgan would need to speak to me.’ Carmichael was thoroughly out of sorts and McGucken’s reply only added to his agitation.

‘Aye, sir, I’m sure he will in his own good time. Please listen for the bugle, sir.’

Seething, Carmichael turned away quickly whilst Bolton and Morgan completed their plans.

‘So, swing one gun between each of my companies, please, then I’ll halt the whole column in front of the crowd and opposite the sepoys yonder…’ Morgan looked towards the nearer flank of the 10th BNI, now only a few hundred paces away, ‘…and load with charges only. Have a canister round very obviously to hand by each of your six barrels, please, then make ready any guns that are spare when we know how many executions are to take place. Meanwhile, my men will load and take aim; if there’s trouble, prime as fast as you can, but fire only on my orders. I’ll leave all the execution side to you; I imagine that you’ve done it before?’

‘Well, no…actually this is the first time I’ve done anything like this.’ All Bolton’s initial bluster had gone. He’d taken a good look at the two infantrymen’s decorations and now he seemed glad to have someone else in charge.

‘Aye, sir, well dinna fret, there’s a first time for all of us, but the Old Nails’ll look after ye.’ McGucken used the nickname given to the 95th in the Crimea and it was hard to imagine that there had ever been a first time for a man like this. His lean frame and combed whiskers burst with confidence, yet his words were sensitive and immediately reassuring.

With a cautious smile and a salute, Bolton turned back to give orders to his own men.

‘How does that work exactly, sir?’ McGucken asked Morgan. ‘Them gunners ain’t Queen’s troops, yet they’re mainly Europeans: how’s that?’

‘Well, John Company started to recruit some all-white regiments of its own after trouble with the sepoys years ago,’ Morgan explained. ‘All the artillery out in India is manned by European crews – and just at the moment I’m damn glad it is. I’m told they’re pretty sharp lads – not that it’s going to take any great skill to blow the lights out of some poor wretch strapped to the end of your barrel.’

The sepoys stood taut and erect as the 95th marched along the road in front of them. As the British troops approached, the crowd’s murmur had turned to heckles and catcalls, even a few sods had been thrown and some rotten fruit, but as the pacing red column had neither checked nor hesitated, so the crowd drew back. Now the mob fidgeted and swayed as the two bodies of troops scanned each other. As the sepoys stiffened and stood more rigidly, more fixedly than any line-drawing from the drill manual, so the arms and legs of the 95th swung more regularly, more perfectly than they had ever done on an English barrack yard.