The early hours of 10 December The order had come by semaphore from Agra at first light the day before. The divisions were to advance on Bhurtpore before dawn on the 10th, the cavalry brigades leading. It was not a difficult movement. Bhurtpore, Agra and Muttra formed an almost equal-sided triangle, with Muttra at the apex, and the object of operations at the base, left. The roads, the sides of the triangle (although the base itself was not straight) were good and wide, permitting easy movement of formed bodies of men. The rains had gone and there was no rutting to speak of. The country either side was more flat than not, and not too jungled, so that if the divisions found the roads blocked it would be no very great impediment to progress, even for wheels. Not that opposition was expected. Each day the divisional commanders had sent patrols as far as three or four leagues, without sign of a Jhaut picket, and a cloud of spies, in exchange for quite modest amounts of silver, had daily brought assurances that the roads beyond, all the way to the walls of the city itself, were open and empty of troops. Indeed, the only obstacle to movement would be the sacred cows that ambled with perfect liberty along the old Mughal highways, for Krishna himself had been born in Muttra, and so the sacred cows wandered on sacred ground.
The distance they had to march was no great trial to either shoe or boot – or even to the bare feet of the sepoy. From Muttra it was but eight leagues, at a cavalry trot no more than three hours. Even at the sepoys' steady rate of three miles an hour it was only a matter of eight -an easy day's business. The light companies of King's regiments could do it by forced march in a morning (the road from Agra was a little longer, winding through Fatehpur Sikri and the battlefield of Kanwaha, but not by much more than two hours or so). And Lord Combermere's orders were clear in respect of not encumbering the columns with excess baggage, so that by Hervey's estimation there could be no doubting their relief at the jheels by last light. His only worry was the reliefs finding him. The jheels were not especially difficult to find, but they lay to the north-west of the fortress, and were therefore masked to the advance. There was always the chance that the Jhauts would cut the road nearest the fortress once the game was up, and so the relief force would have to be strong enough to force the road or else find the long way round via the south-west, through waterlogged pasture. Hervey, conferring with Brigadier-General Sleigh, had therefore decided to send back guides as soon as he had taken the bund.
The previous day had been all bustle throughout the camps at Muttra and, he imagined, at Agra too. His own troop, forewarned, had had an easier time of it, and the unprotesting Corporal Stray had received a steady flow of camp comforts into his makeshift depot. In the afternoon, Hervey had received orders by hand of one of Lord Combermere's aides-de-camp that he was to seize the bund as soon as was possible after dawn the following morning, with the limitation that he must not leave Muttra before midnight. He had at once sent word to the Eleventh and to Skinner's Horse, and their two squadrons had assembled at the Krishna Ghat a little before midnight, their captains – or jemadar in the case of the Skinner's rissalah – having spent an hour and more with him beforehand to agree the conduct of the affair.
'What is the parole, Johnson?' he asked, as he took Gilbert's reins from him. He had not asked him that in ten years. It had been their ritual -their game, almost – before any affair began. It had started in Spain when his groom had drawn the fire of the regiment's outlying picket early one morning having searched all night like the good shepherd himself, but to bring in a lost horse. His habitual reply to any sentry's challenge to state the password was 'Sheffield', to which the equally invariable response was not Tass, friend' but Tass, Johnson.' Except that that night in Spain he had stumbled on the horse-artillery picket, and since then Johnson had had a healthy respect for the daily parole.
'Dehli,' he replied, a trifle gruffly, feeling the effects of a long day. 'What a lark this is. Do we get t'first pick o' t'pudding?'
Even in India, where dragoons fed like princes compared with home, Johnson's metaphors were still principally of the table. Nevertheless, Hervey thought to continue with it for a while. 'There will be no pudding, certainly not one with plums. Lord Combermere made it clear: we are putting down rebels; the country is not the enemy. Durjan Sal will lose his possessions, as well as his head, but that's not likely to amount to more than a measure of grog for every sepoy.'
Johnson muttered his disappointment. He would have to rely on his own resources rather than the prize agents'. So be it. He had always had a good nose. And he always knew how to draw the line between honest booty and plain loot. He had been as condemnatory as the officers when he heard of the Fifty-ninth's men in Agra stealing across the river in the night to prise gemstones from the walls of the Taje Mahale. No, Johnson's speciality was military, things that an officer might want for his own service or souvenir, or else liquids and perishables, which might sell at an inflated price before the sutlers arrived with their stocks.
Hervey sprang into the saddle with almost the same ease as he had at first riding school. The thought pleased him, though he knew he favoured his left shoulder still, as much by instinct as real necessity; the twinges had now grown much less painful, and greatly fewer. He gathered up the reins and shortened his stirrups one hole – which vexed Johnson greatly, for he had ridden at that length since leaving Dehli. Hervey looked about him. The moon, the torches and the campfires lit up the ghat as if it were almost day. His only regret was that, in leaving so far in advance of the main body, he would not see the division drawn up, for this was an affair in the old way and he might not see its like in another ten years. He wondered for the moment if the prospect displeased him, but he could not dwell on it since he had a mind to be off at the very instant he had given his own orders to advance – as the minute hand of his watch reached twelve. They would have six more hours of pitch dark, then one of twilight until, at seven, there would be no more dark to conceal them within hearing distance of a sentry.
The luminescent face of Daniel Coates's gift-hunter told him he had but four minutes to wait. There was light enough to see even the plain face of his own bought watch, but in a couple more hours, when the moon had set, he would be glad of Mr Prior's clever work. Four minutes only -perhaps he ought to make a start? They all knew Bonaparte's lament that anything could be bought but time. Very well. He would pay them back their four minutes when the Mo tee Bund was theirs. No trumpets, though. They were Lord Combermere's picked men; they had no need of fanfares. 'Column, walk-march!'
He had thought very carefully about the order of march. It was not the first time he had ridden with lancers, but their handiness at night was uncertain. He would lead with his own men, therefore. The trouble was, he didn't have a cornet, for Green he considered not worthy of the name, and he wished now he had asked Eustace Joynson to find him some billet in Agra. He had even thought of leaving him with Corporal Stray, with the other useless baggage, except that it might have been an affront that demeaned the whole troop. So Serjeant Collins would command the advance guard, and command it well too. And Corporal McCarthy would take Collins's place at the rear of the first division. Next would come the Eleventh, and then Skinner's with their two galloper guns. Riding with Hervey himself would be a galloper from each squadron, and a lieutenant of engineers. No man who had served in the Peninsula could have aught but regard for the sappers and pioneers. They had breached and mined, and built and bridged for the army from Lisbon to Toulouse, in baking sun and freezing rain, shot over as they worked, even as the line took cover. Hervey, for sure, had that regard in highest measure. If only they could ride, though. Then he would have been able to take a whole company of them instead of just their officer, relying on the unskilled labour of the dragoons.
Eight leagues: they would cover them all mounted – no leading – as if it were just a long point in Leicestershire. They could trot for the first hour, for the Eleventh's patrols had had orders in the afternoon to picket that night at the two-league point. Thereafter they could proceed at a walk, which would give the advance guard time to scout properly. Hervey did not know how many of his command had ridden an Indian road by night. It was not so bad at this time of year, when days were cooler, but the traffic could be greater even than by day – mounted men and pedestrians alike escaping from the sun's heat, hackeries and elephants, palanquins and dongas. And always the sacred cow of the Hindoo, couching, utterly unmoved by all he heard and saw.
But the country people of this corner of Rajpootana knew that John Company was about (they sold him all they could in Agra and Muttra), though at night they took care to keep themselves scarce, for no one knew what the sahibs would do when the time came, or even Durjan Sal and his Jhauts if they dared leave the fastness of Bhurtpore. And why, indeed, should the Jhauts do that? Bhurtpore had stood against the gora log before. Against Lord Lake, even – he who had dealt the mighty Marathas such a blow. Was not Bhurtpore impregnable? Let John Company try if he dare, they said among themselves – as he tried in vain at Rangoon – and here he would meet the same as there. Only let us not be about the roads when he does try, they said. Let us not run or ride to Bhurtpore to warn Durjan Sal. He has his own spies for that. Let us secure ourselves at night in our villages, with fires burning to ward off marauders, and trust in the boy Krishna, our neighbour from Muttra become a god – and all the other gods that would protect us poor country people from armies of any colour. They made the Eleventh's distant picket at ten minutes to two. Fires burned bright, but the two dozen dragoons were all alert and anxious for their own off. They even raised a cheer as Hervey led the column past at the walk.
'Nothing to report,' called the officer, standing wrapped in his cloak by a lantern. 'Your scouts went by not five minutes ago.'
Hervey thanked Providence it was Collins in front of him. There were but three men in the regiment he could trust so. Four, properly, for there could be no doubting RSM Lincoln – or rather Quartermaster Lincoln now – even though Hervey had never patrolled with him. A year or so more and there would be another two or three: Wainwright had the makings, certainly -he wanted only experience atop his courage -and Myles Vanneck. But for the present it could only be Collins, or Armstrong, or Seton Canning. The task was straightforward enough: judge, clear the route, report. But it wasn't easy. At night the ablest of men lost their capacity to do what they did by day. They imagined too much, or else too little, they lost command of their dragoons, they failed to observe and forgot what to report. No, Hervey had formed the opinion over long years that scouting at night tested a man more than did the worst trials of the day. He cursed that Cornet Green was so worthless. He wished the man had stayed in the pretty sort of shop that his father must one time have kept. Even though he had no need of him, Collins was entitled to have an officer share the danger. He ought, indeed, to have all of Green's pay.
Hervey's orders to Collins had been few, because they were unnecessary. All that Collins needed to know was the route and rate of advance. Certain of each, he now proved the way with the surest touch. Here and there he had to make a sleeping hackery driver pull his team off the road, but otherwise his progress towards the great fortress was unchecked. For almost five hours without pause, until just before seven o'clock, at the very first intimation of the dawn, he led the Company's troops into the territory of Bhurtpore, and Hervey had not a moment's hesitation in following.
Then, as arranged, only a quarter of an hour later than Hervey had predicted, the advance guard halted at the last village before the road opened onto the plain of the fortress city, and sent word back to him. He was not many minutes coming up, and fewer still at the halt. He had his telescope out at once and made a sweep of the plain.
Nothing, not even the outline of the distant walls. That was good. He risked a great deal in cutting things so fine, but without the help of a bit of daylight he couldn't find the jheels, let alone the bund. He was counting on poor camp discipline among the Jhauts; it was, he knew from experience, a peculiarly British rule for troops to be stood-to with arms for the dawn watch. He counted here on there being but a few sentries, tired after a long night, alert only to their relief at daybreak.
He would take over the lead himself now, for they must soon leave the obliging road. He remembered clearly that it curved in a full right angle north towards the fortress, but a curve at night, especially a shallow one, was not easy to gauge. It would all have been so much easier with a guide. That, however, he had judged impossible without somehow giving away the intention, or else having a man who happened to live in Agra or Muttra and professed a knowledge of the jheels. Either way, it was scarcely a requisite they could advertise. Instead Hervey would have to trust his compass. God bless Daniel Coates, he said to himself, as he thought to check it again – finest of men and best of old soldiers. Who would have imagined there could be so small a thing as this piece of brass and whatever, and yet so serviceable to the hour? Clever Dan Coates, an ancient who sought the innovating as keenly as any lettered man. First the percussion lock, then the watch to read by night, and now the compass to make a man see in the dark – what a testimony to him, once a trumpeter, who had learned and risen by his own exertions alone. Hervey took the compass from its case on the saddle and noted the direction of the needle. 'Very well then,' he said, squeezing his legs the merest touch to put Gilbert into a walk.
Five minutes and the needle was backing very definitely. Hervey waited five minutes more, until the needle had moved a full quarter, and then turned right off the road to make for the stream which would lead them north of the fortress and on to the jheel bund. Gilbert, his feet now on pasture, at once sensed the change of purpose and began to throw his head, hopeful of a gallop. Trumpeter Storrs's grey, the only other in the troop, began whickering. Hervey winced. If the others took it up they would soon alert the doziest of sentries. There was nothing he could do, though, and he had worries enough finding the stream. It must be there; only if he had judged the needle so badly as to be almost doubling back would they not be able to find it. Navigating by night – the officer's constant trial. And yet he had the advantage on any in Hindoostan with Coates's 'contraption', as Johnson called it. Hervey could picture Coates now (omitting to make allowance for the difference of time), rising as always before it was light to beat about the bounds of his prosperous farm, as he had risen every day before dawn as a dragoon in America, and Flanders, and a dozen other places, and then as labourer and shepherd, and now as magistrate and man of consequence in West Wiltshire. Daniel Coates would now be-
Gilbert squealed and ran to the side. Hervey pulled him back onto the bit. 'Snake' he said to Stores, as matter-of-fact as he could having almost dropped the compass. 'I fear we'll have more of 'em if we're near water.' He would gladly put up with the inconvenience were it the price of finding the stream. He could never fathom the horse's ability to detect the proximity of a snake. Was it by smell or by sight? It could hardly be the latter at night, and yet it was curious what a horse could see in the dark when it had a mind. Gilbert had once shied at a basking krait thirty yards away, and yet the troop had lost two others, grazing, to kraits in the last year alone. Jessye had almost died from the same, when first he had gone to India, although that had been in the black of night.
The grass was now taller. Hervey raised his hand for Stores to halt, and pressed Gilbert on gingerly. At last he was on it – the stream. He reined about and then motioned to Stores to follow again as he turned right and north more, sighing with relief. The rest ought to be easy enough, even if it meant the point of the sword.
Serjeant Collins, a dozen yards behind, saw Hervey turn. Rather, he saw Gilbert turn, for a few white hairs made all the difference in the forewarning of daylight. Collins knew that Hervey was onto his line. He never doubted he would be, though he too knew how tricky the simplest of things were when night and the enemy were about. And he knew that everything would change in the next half-hour. The day came on faster in these parts than ever it managed in Spain. In half an hour they would be revealed even to a sentry on the walls of the distant fortress – intruders, murderous, like the snakes in the grass. The blow would surely be swift, as it must be against a snake lest it bite the hand that strikes. Collins had no illusions as to how desperate would be their position in the hours ahead.
The column was now in a trot, an uneven one, as the ground itself was uneven, but more than double the pace of the walk nevertheless. The noise was greater too, bits jingling and scabbards clanking. It sounded like a wagonload of tinkers on the move. Could that be what any who heard it thought it was? Some hope, thought Hervey. Bullocks didn't snort and whinny. He pressed Gilbert for more speed: get it over with, get in among whoever was between them and the Motee Jheel, cut and slice through them and get to the bund. The commander-in-chief was depending on him, countless lives were waiting to be spared by his success.
The ground was with them for a while. Between the stream and the walls, half a league distant, was a rise which hid them from all but an observer on their side of it. And it was still too dark to see further than earshot. He could remember seeing a great many hovels when he had sketched here, but they had come across none so far. They were on the common pasture, after all, and he wouldn't expect to see even a grass-cutter abroad at this time. They were trotting even faster now – Gilbert stumbled once or twice until Hervey took a proper hold and lifted him onto the bit. He reckoned there would be light enough to canter in ten more minutes. Then they could sprint for the jheel bund and be done with it.
Another three hundred yards: the sun seemed to be racing them. Hervey could now see huts all along the rise. He would risk it – no words of command, just press to the canter and let the rest follow. Gilbert struck off eagerly with his off-fore, as he always favoured, Hervey peering intently ahead, praying that a cut or a bund would not suddenly check them. Four hundred horses pounding the till – if they could not be heard, then the earth must surely be shaking enough to rouse the dead. He thought he saw the odd figure on the ridge – with luck, terrified villagers.
Now there was light enough to make out the walls, but still in the dim distance barely more than a silhouette. They had the grass and the reeds as a backdrop, the advantage yet. Would the guns on the walls be trained on the approaches to the jheel bund, shotted and run out ready? Hervey knew they ought to be. Would they have the range? A thousand yards, he had estimated, perhaps a bit more. He had heard all manner of stories about the Bhurtpore guns, massive affairs, immovable, which could send an eight-inch ball of iron with great velocity over the outworks and beyond. Such a gun, well-served, could visit terrible destruction on a battery or a sap. This was Colonel Anburey's fear, that his sappers and miners would be too exposed to develop their work, but it could be no less a concern for Colonel Macleod, who had to expose his guns to some extent in order that they might fire at all. There was bound to be ground less dominated by the bigger guns, but the whole art of fortification was the facility to rake any approach and demolish any siege device. Hervey did not envy the engineers as they dug their saps and tunnels, nor the artillerymen, who heaved shot and powder and made themselves senseless and deaf – nor, indeed, the infantry who would have to sit patiently waiting for a breach and then storm it. And all these men relying on him now.
The sun broached the jungled horizon to his right, a brilliant torch which at last signalled an end to the night watch and to stealthy manoeuvre. It was day, the time for fighting.
And fighting they would have – directly ahead, a quarter of a mile (no more), a cavalry camp come hastily to life. He could see men rushing for their horses, and others already mounted forming up. How many they were he could have no true notion. It might be the entire Jhaut host beyond them, and these a picket only. Even so, they barred his way as effectively as any earthwork. 'Left wheel into line!' he called, checking the pace to a trot to allow them the manoeuvre time.
Trumpeter Storrs blew the call perfectly: just the four notes, and a simple fifth interval – easy enough with the bugle, even at a bounce.
Hervey's own troop wheeled effortlessly, an evolution they might do in their sleep so often had they practised it. The Eleventh, behind, had a harder time of it, with more ground to make up and two ranks to form, not one. Hervey wished he were leading with lances: they were not much use to him at the rear, and the sight of them lowered might well send the enemy packing. As they stood, he could only let them pursue once the dragoons had broken the Jhauts up. He cursed himself.
He looked rear again to see if the Eleventh were close enough yet for support. His jaw dropped. Up on the rise was a line of lances and yellow kurtas. He could scarcely believe their celerity and address. Skinner's sowars had taken post as flankers, and on the commanding ground, and without a word from him. 'Draw swords!' Out rasped two hundred blades.
Four hundred yards now, and the ground ahead was even. He put Gilbert back into a canter, glancing over his shoulder again. There was Wainwright, covering, and Perry, upright and assured. He saw Green struggling with both hands to hold his mare. This was the best time, the troop in hand, every man intent on his next word of command. In another two hundred yards or so, when he shouted 'Charge!' he would relinquish all control for a frenzied few minutes, as each man fought his own battle, self-reliant instead of, as now, knee to knee. He glanced left. The rissalah was pulling ahead – good! They would cut off any flight to the fortress, pin the enemy against the stream. Hervey lengthened the stride to a hand-gallop. How would the Jhauts meet them? They were still standing. Would it be with the flintlock? Surely not! Yet they showed no sign of movement. Why didn't they counter-charge? It was their only hope… Then the Jhauts turned.
They're breaking!' shouted Hervey, waving his sabre their way. 'Charge!'
Four hundred cavalry at the gallop, lances couched, but swords held high. Only infantry and guns saw the sabre's point; fleeing horsemen felt its edge.
Hervey fixed on a distant tree on the centre line and pressed Gilbert for all he was worth. In seconds they were among them. There was no need of his blade at first: the Jhauts were over-matched. Skinner's sowars were doing good execution, and his own dragoons were drawing blood. Yet an unseated man, sword in hand still, received his point cleanly at the throat – foolish or determined was he? It did not matter. He tried to estimate how many they had bolted – two, three hundred at least. Gone like chaff in a puff of wind – no need to sound recall. He could see his objective clearly now. The lone thicket of jhow marked it unmistakably – the bund. Another half a mile at most. Come back to a canter, he told himself – but press on. Trust the squadrons to rally and conform.
Now he had to pray the bund was intact, the moats not yet inundated. Was that why the Jhauts had run – their job done, the bund breached, nothing more to cover?
There was a thunderous eruption of smoke and flame from the north-east bastion, the same distance away to his left. Shot whistled overhead – miles too high, he sneered. Had their gunners no art? Had they not ranged in their idle moments? Could this truly be the fortress that had defeated Lord Lake?
He could see no movement at the jhow. Was this really to be so easy an affair, or were they too late? More guns fired their way from the smaller bastions and redoubts as they bore on, but with no greater effect. He felt only contempt for the Jhauts' perfunctory opposition, even if they were safe behind their water-filled ditches. He pressed Gilbert to a final effort.
Then they were at the jhow. His heart sank as he saw water in the channel. He could see the breach – not large. He needed his engineer. 'Mr Irvine!'