‘D’you really not know?’ Morgan asked quietly.
‘I’d sooner hear the truth from you, old lad,’ Bazalgette answered sympathetically.
‘Lord knows, it’s been a strain. The child – Samuel – is mine; he was conceived when Keenan was on trench duty and I was visiting the wounded just before we attacked The Quarries…I know, please don’t look at me like that.’ Bazalgette had heard the rumours, but it didn’t make the truth any less shocking. ‘So when the Keenans decamped to India I thought that that would be an end to the whole chapter.’
‘How much of this does Maude know?’ Bazalgette thought back to the Cork society wedding last year where the gallant Tony Morgan, hero and heir to a fair spread of pasture and farms on the Atlantic coast, had married Maude Hawtrey, judge’s daughter, so cementing the two families into one of the most influential Protestant enclaves in the county.
‘Nothing…nothing at all,’ Morgan answered, ‘and now she’s pregnant, so there’s to be another Morgan coming into the world, only this one shall be able to carry my name.’
‘Well, it’s a fine pickle, but as long as Keenan’s not hounding you, then I reckon that your usual streak of luck has seen you right.’ Bazalgette knew Morgan better than most of his friends, yet the subject had never even been hinted at before. ‘Why, there’s no reason to think that we’ll come across the twelfth BNI, nor that we’ll be sent up Jhansi way. I suspect that this is the last you’ve heard of it and, frankly, it’s not in Keenan’s interests to go blethering about his boy’s real father, is it?’
‘But that’s the whole goddamn point, Bazalgette,’ Morgan blurted, holding the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. ‘He’s my son – mine and Mary’s – not bloody Keenan’s. Jesus, the girl only married Keenan because she wanted to follow me, and now I’ve a son that I shall never see whilst I’m stuck with the driest, coldest creature in the whole of Cork, who can’t hold a candle to Mary. What a bloody pother.’
‘Come on, old feller, it may seem a mess to you, but it’ll have to wait until we’ve settled the Pandies’ hash.’ Bazalgette reached across and gripped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Now, there’s the bugle, the men will be waiting for us.’
‘Grenadier Company formed up and ready for demonstration, sir.’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken’s hand came down smartly from the salute.
On the parched parade ground of the fort, the left wing of the 10th Bengal Native Infantry stood at ease in their cotton shirtsleeves, white trousers and round forage caps – almost four hundred of them – waiting for the skirmishing demonstration that Morgan’s company had been told to organise for them. The butts of their rifles rested in the dust, the weapons comfortably in the crooks of their elbows, their faces alert and apparently keen to learn.
Kneeling opposite them were Morgan’s men. Like the sepoys, they had been allowed to strip down to their shirts and now they kneeled in two, staggered ranks.
‘How are our boys, Colour-Sar’nt?’ asked Morgan quietly as his hand flicked casually to the peak of his cap, returning the salute.
‘They’ll do as they’re told, sir,’ McGucken replied equally quietly.
‘No, Colour-Sar’nt, that’s not what I’m asking,’ said Morgan. ‘How are they about it?’
‘They’re no’ very pleased, sir. They don’t understand why they’ve been detailed off to teach the sepoys how to be better soldiers when they might turn on us at any moment. That scunner Corporal Pegg asked if we shouldn’t be loaded with ball, “just in case”, but I told him to button his fuckin’ lip. They’ll do what you want them to, sir – and bloody like it.’
The 95th, with their recent battle experience, had learnt the value of skirmishing – the fire and manoeuvre by independent pairs – that was utterly unlike the formal old-fashioned drill movements by which the Indian regiments still moved in battle. Now the colonel had decided to teach the sepoys this tactic, not just as a battle-winning skill, but also as a device for his men to show their trust in their new comrades – a pair of whom they had just blown to infinity.
As Morgan arrived, the three British company commanders and their subadars came marching towards him and halted as one man, throwing up the dust of the barrack yard, before the senior captain took a pace forward and saluted.
‘Sir, Numbers Five, Six and Seven Companies paraded ready for training, sir.’ The captain remained at the salute, his right hand at the peak of his covered cap.
‘Right, Captain Mellish, I’m obliged to you,’ Morgan returned the salute, ‘but please drop all that parade-ground stuff. We’re here to learn to fight, not to play at guardsmen. How d’you suggest we tackle this?’
Morgan looked at the trio of Indian officers. Again, he was struck by their age – they were all at least forty – and their smartness. Even in shirtsleeves they were beautifully pressed and brushed, whilst their moustaches swept down and over their lips, a stark, dyed black compared with their greying hair. But it was their eyes that held his attention most. Did he detect humility there, a supplication that seemed to beg him not to compare them with their faithless comrades? It wasn‘t yet possible to know – but the next couple of hours of running and crouching in the heat would soon tell.
‘Well, sir,’ all the British and native officers of the 10th had relaxed at Morgan’s word, ‘if you would be good enough to pause in your demonstration every few minutes so that we can translate the instructions for the boys, they’ll soon cotton on. Then it’s up to us to drive home what you’ve taught us.’
‘Good. Form the companies in three sides of a square around my men, please, and we’ll try to show you what little we’ve picked up.’
Captain Mellish and the others smiled politely at Morgan’s self-deprecation, saluted and doubled off to the waiting sepoys.
‘They don’t look half bad, sir.’ McGucken cast an appreciative eye along the long, smart, lean ranks of the 10th.
‘Aye, Colour-Sar’nt, as long as they’re on our side I reckon they’ll do rightly,’ Morgan replied quietly, ‘but I can see why Pegg and the others have their doubts.’
The three companies of the 10th were quickly wheeled around the waiting ranks of the Grenadiers.
‘’Eathen sods…’ Lance-Corporal Pegg knelt in the dust at the far right of the company, rifle at his knee, with his skirmishing partner, Private Beeston, one pace to his left and rear in the same pose, ‘…bit too close for comfort, sez I.’
‘You’re right, Corp’l. If the bastards rush us now we’ll be fuckin’ lost,’ came the reply in dourest Nottingham.
‘Right: falling back. On sighting the enemy the even numbers fire without challenging on their own initiative,’ McGucken bellowed to the assembled multitude, slow and clear, before pausing and glancing at the subadar who stood alongside him.
‘Ee-nish-a-tif, sahib?’ The Indian looked puzzled.
‘Aye…’ McGucken was stumped for a moment, ‘…without needin’ no bloody orders.’
‘Ah…yes.’ The subadar grasped what was meant quickly enough before turning it into rapid Hindi.
‘Whilst the odd numbers prepare to cover them,’ the big Scot continued, ‘shouting, “Moving now” the evens fall back fifteen paces, turn to face the enemy and immediately reload.’ The subadar repeated everything he said. ‘Once they’ve reloaded, provided the enemy’s not pressing too hard, the evens shout, “Ready” allowing the odds to fire and fall back in exactly the same manner. Got it, Mister…er, Lal?’
Subadar Lal had indeed got it, translating fast and accurately.
‘Right, look in and you’ll receive a complete demonstration.’ There was no need to repeat these words. ‘Grenadier Company, skirmishing by numbers,