redcoats would die like cat de
Dodd had no great opinion of Indian rockets, but he had stockpiled more
than a thousand above the Inner Fort’s murderous entrance, for within
the close confines of the walled road the weapons would prove lethal.
The rockets were made of hammered tin, each one about sixteen inches
long and four or five inches in diameter, with a bamboo stick the
height of a man attached to each tin cylinder that was crammed with
powder. Dodd had experimented with the weapon and found that a lit
rocket tossed down into the gate passage would sear and bounce from
wall to wall, and even when it finally stopped careering madly about
the roadway, it went on belching out a torch of flame that would scorch
trapped men terribly. A dozen rockets dropped between two of the gates
might kill a score of men and burn another score half to death. Just
let them come, Dodd prayed as he climbed each morning towards the Inner
Fort. Let them come! Let them come and let them take the Outer Fort,
for then Manu Bappoo must die and the British would then come to Dodd
and die like the Prince.
And afterwards the fugitives of their beaten army would be pursued
south across the Deccan Plain. Their bodies would rot in the heat and
their bones whiten in the sun, and the British power in India would be
broken and Dodd would be Lord of Gawilghur.
Just let the bastards come.
That evening Sergeant Hakeswill pushed aside the folds of muslin to
enter Captain Torrance’s quarters. The Captain was lying naked in his
hammock where he was being fanned by a bamboo punk ah that had been
rigged to a ceiling beam. His native servant kept the punk ah moving
by tugging on a string, while Clare Wall trimmed the Captain’s
fingernails.
“Not too close, Brick,” Torrance said.
“Leave me enough to scratch with, there’s a good girl.” He raised his
eyes to Hakeswill.
“Did you knock, Sergeant?”
“Twice, sir,” Hakeswill lied, ‘loud and clear, sir.”
“Brick will have to ream out my ears. Say good evening to the
Sergeant, Brick. Where are our manners tonight?”
Clare lifted her eyes briefly to acknowledge Hakeswill’s presence and
mumbled something barely audible. Hakeswill snatched off his hat.
“Pleasure to see you, Mrs. Wall,” he said eagerly, ‘a proper pleasure,
my jewel.” He bobbed his head to her and winked at Torrance, who
flinched.
“Brick,” Torrance said, ‘the Sergeant and I have military matters to
discuss. So take yourself to the garden.” He patted her hand and
watched her leave.
“And no listening at the window!” he added archly.
He waited until Clare had sidled past the muslin that hung over the
kitchen entrance, then leaned precariously from the hammock to pick up
a green silk robe that he draped over his crotch.
“I would hate to shock you, Sergeant.”
“Beyond shock, sir, me, sir. Ain’t nothing living I ain’t seen naked,
sir, all of ’em naked as needles, and never once was I shocked, sir.
Ever since they strung me up by the neck I’ve been beyond shock,
sir.”
And beyond sense, too, Torrance thought, but he suppressed the
comment.
“Has Brick left the kitchen?”
Hakeswill peered past the muslin.
“She’s gone, sir.”
“She’s not at the window?”
Hakeswill checked the window.
“On the far side of the yard, sir, like a good girl.”
“I trust you’ve brought me news?”
“Better than news, sir, better than news.” The Sergeant crossed to the
table and emptied his pocket.
“Your notes to Jama, sir, all of them.
Ten thousand rupees, and all paid off. You’re out of debt, sir, out of
debt.”
Relief seared through Torrance. Debt was a terrible thing, a dreadful
thing, yet seemingly inescapable if a man was to live to the full.
Twelve hundred guineas! How could he ever have gambled that much away?
It had been madness! Yet now it was paid, and paid in full.
“Burn the notes,” he ordered Hakeswill.
Hakeswill held the notes into a candle flame one by one, then let them
shrivel and burn on the table. The draught from the punk ah disturbed