The Jangi Laat himself was only a short distance ahead of Kesri: a tall, mournful-looking man with a walrus moustache, General Gough — or Goughie, as he was spoken of by the officers — usually held himself stiffly upright. But now he was teetering along as though he were walking a tightrope, with his arms extended and his shako skewed dangerously to one side. His son, who was also his principal aide-de-camp, was right behind, trying to steady him by supporting his elbow. But he was himself wobbling precariously and it was almost inevitable that something untoward would occur. Sure enough, just as they were approaching the hillock, the general and his son both tumbled over into a rice-field. A halt was ordered while they were pulled out and wiped down.
The pause gave Bobbery-Bob an opportunity to berate the boys, many of whom were tittering and giggling. ‘You buggers think this is a joke, eh? I’ll teach you to laugh at the general-sahib! You just wait and see, men; you’ll soon be laughing out of the wrong hole.’
Raju was not among those who had found the incident amusing; nor, unlike the other boys, had he enjoyed the walk across the rice-fields. While Dicky and the others were sliding and slithering along the paths, Raju’s mind was elsewhere: thoughts and images that had never visited him before now kept passing through his head. How did it feel to be speared in the neck, or the chest? What was it like to be bayoneted in the groin? What happened when a bullet hit you? If it struck a bone were there splinters?
When the column began to move again Raju was slowly overtaken by nausea. On reaching the hillock, when the boys were given permission to relieve themselves, he went aside and vomited up a slew of potatoes and bile.
Dicky fetched some water, from a bhisti, and whispered urgently in Raju’s ear: ‘What’s the matter with you, bugger? Have you been thinking about what happened last night? I told you to forget it, no?’
‘It’s just the heat,’ said Raju quickly. ‘I’ll be all right now.’
*
On the other side of the hillock Kesri was surveying the ground with Captain Mee. The four hilltop fortresses were shimmering in the haze, straight ahead. The slopes below them were dotted with detachments of Chinese troops; to the rear of the fortresses lay the walls of the city, stretching away for miles, pierced at regular intervals by soaring, many-roofed gates.
The fortresses’ guns had been shooting intermittently since daybreak but now the rhythm of the firing picked up, gradually intensifying into a full-scale barrage. The distance was too great for the guns to do much damage, yet the cannonade was more spirited, and better directed, than any they had faced before.
In the meantime the general had settled on a plan of attack. First the fortresses were to be softened up by the British field-artillery, which consisted of a rocket battery, two five-and-a-half-inch mortars, two twelve-pound howitzers and two nine-pounder guns. Then, under cover of the bombardment, the four brigades would advance up the slopes that led to the forts. The 4th Brigade was to attack the largest of the four fortresses — the rectangular citadel that faced the Sea-Calming Tower. The final attack would be mounted in echelon and the fortresses would be carried by escalade: the quartermaster would be issuing ladders to every company.
Escalade ladders were both heavy and unwieldy: it took only a moment’s thought for Kesri to realize that Maddow was the only man in B Company who would be able to shoulder the weight. Looking around, he saw that Maddow had almost reached the hillock, with two enormous wheels on his shoulders.
‘Sir, we will need that gun-lascar, for our ladder,’ Kesri said to Captain Mee. ‘He will have to be taken off the gun-crew.’
Captain Mee nodded: ‘All right; I’ll tell his crew to release him.’
*
The first element of the general’s plan — the initial bombardment — quickly ran into difficulties: transporting the artillery pieces through the flooded paddies presented unforeseen challenges. The crumbling bunds would not bear the weight of the massive barrels so the gun-crews were forced to flounder through knee-deep mud. Had the fortresses been closer to a waterway the guns of the Nemesis and the other steamers might have been brought into play — but they were too far inland and out of range.
Kesri realized that there would be a long wait before the field-artillery arrived so he led his men to a patch of shade and told them to get some rest. He himself had slept so little the night before that he fell asleep at once and did not stir until the bombardment was well under way.
It was only mid-morning now but the air was stifling. Heated by the sun, the rice-fields were giving off so much moisture that the slopes ahead seemed to be shimmering behind a veil of steam.
It had been decided that the Cameronians would lead the advance of the 4th Brigade; when the bugle blew they were the first to move. The fields immediately ahead of the hillock were almost dry; they leapt right in, pushing through the knee-high rice.
The Bengal Volunteers went next. As they came around the hillock the sound of cannon-fire, British and Chinese, suddenly grew deafeningly loud. A shell crashed into a field a hundred yards to the right, sending up a plume of mud and green stalks.
Maatha neeche! Kesri shouted over his shoulder: Heads down! And at the same time the fifers and drummers changed tempo, switching to double-quick time.
With his head lowered Kesri lengthened his pace, trying to shut out the whistling of incoming shells. His high, stiff collar was soaked and its grip tightened like a vice on his neck as he ran; on his back, his knapsack had taken on a life of its own and was flinging itself from side to side, trying to throw him off balance; between his legs the sweat-caked seam of his trowsers had turned into a length of fraying rope, sawing against his groin.
Then the rice-fields ended and they were racing up a scrub-covered slope, with shells throwing up dust all around them. Kesri saw an officer go down and then a cannonball landed right on the Cameronians, felling three troopers.
In the distance Manchu bannermen were banging their shields and brandishing spears, almost as if to taunt the attackers. Then a volley of projectiles took flight from the ramparts of the nearest fortress and came arcing down the hill, towards the sepoys. Kesri caught a glimpse of them as they slammed into the scrub, amidst clouds of smoke. He realized, to his disbelief, that the Chinese were launching rockets.
All of this was new: the improved gunnery, the rockets — how had the chootiyas learnt so much so fast?
Up ahead the Cameronians had halted to catch their breath, under the shelter of an overhang. Captain Mee brought B Company to a stop too and then went to join the Cameronians.
Shrugging off his knapsack, Kesri dropped gratefully on to the rocky soil. They were within musket range of the Chinese troops now and volleys of grapeshot were whistling through the air. Keeping his head low, Kesri reached for his flask; it was almost empty so he was careful to take only a sip. It would be a while yet before the followers caught up and they too were probably running low on water now; the company had been so thirsty at the last stop that the bhistis’ mussucks had shrunk to less than half size.
When at last the bhistis arrived, Kesri signalled to them to stay low and serve the sepoys first. From here on it would be a straight run up to the rectangular citadeclass="underline" only the sepoys would advance now; the fifers, drummers, runners and bhistis would remain here. Of the followers Maddow alone would accompany the fighting men, with the ladder.
Glancing back, Kesri saw that Maddow had kept up with the front line despite his unwieldy burden. Beckoning him forward, Kesri said: You’ll stay beside me from now on: understood? Samjhelu?