Lawler dominated the centre of the ring, gently turning to keep his face towards Nirav who, crab-like, circled slowly round him.
‘Fuckin’ easy meat, this is,’ jeered Beeston from his ringside seat.
‘Aye, no bleedin’ contest. Just watch how Terry’ll—’ But Pegg didn’t finish his words, for Sepoy Nirav darted at Lawler’s vast, pale form, threw his wiry arms around his waist and drove him right back to the rope by sheer force of momentum.
Lawler scrabbled, almost lost his footing as he tried to stay upright, and caught hold of Nirav’s sweat-sheened shoulders more to steady himself than as a countermove. But as he was pushed further and further back, Lawler came to his senses and, with a series of crude double-handed blows to the back of Nirav’s neck, swatted his assailant away from him.
This one sally, though, had allowed Nirav to gauge Lawler’s lack of speed as well as his strength. As the sepoy massaged his neck but continued to circle, the crowd became increasingly vocal, the Indians cheering and stamping their feet in applause, just as they had done during the skirmishing demonstration earlier, the British whistling and catcalling.
‘Your boy doesn’t want to get in the way of another of Lawler’s roundhouses, does he, Mellish?’ Morgan was transfixed by the speed of the sepoy and suddenly worried about his stake.
‘True, but Nirav’s got the measure of Lawler now that—’
‘Oh, come now, Mellish,’ Carmichael butted in. ‘Your fellow’s just skin and bone, more used to snake-charming and rope tricks than wrestling, just watch how—’ Then it was Carmichael’s turn to be interrupted, for a great cry went up from the 10th as Nirav skimmed through the dust feet first at Lawler, striking the Englishman with both heels just below the left knee.
The bigger man crashed on his chest, whilst Nirav rolled skilfully to one side and leapt to his feet. A gasp came from the 95th.
‘Bloody hell, that’ll ’ave broke our Terry’s shinbone, that will.’ Beeston said what everyone was thinking, but whilst Nirav floated around the downed giant, Lawler dragged himself onto all fours, squatted momentarily whilst he pulled a paw across his eyes and then launched himself at Nirav with a low roar.
As Lawler charged like Goliath, the 10th’s David saw his chance. Falling almost flat on his face before scrabbling quickly forward through the grit, Nirav shot between Lawler’s pumping legs and whirled round behind him in a crouch; he seized the wrestler’s trailing ankle, then stood and lifted the flailing leg high in the air, all in one easy, fluid movement. Lawler’s weight and speed were skilfully used against him and for the second time in a few moments, the champion of the 95th thumped into the ground. This time, though, Lawler’s forehead was the first part of his body to meet the sun-hardened earth.
As Morgan heard the crunching impact, he knew that Lawler wouldn’t make the count. The referee counted down the seconds and the Scunthorpe champion lay in the dust, as cold as the setting sun was hot.
‘You see what I mean, gentlemen? Never underestimate these people. They’ll always surprise you,’ Forgett observed, as Sepoy Nirav grinned mightily, making namasti to all four corners.
‘There now, I said ’e was an ’andy little bugger, didn’t I?’ Pegg, by the side of the ring, pulled his clay pipe from his mouth and spat. ‘But let’s see how they take to powder an’ shot, shall we?’
As the troops of both regiments – the 10th noisy in victory, the 95th sullen in defeat – wandered off towards the smell of cooking, Commandant Brewill bore down on the knot of officers. ‘Well, gentlemen that was a treat, even if it was rather brief. Thought you said Lawler had done a bit of this sort of thing before, Hume?’
It was the first time since the arrival of the British troops, three days before, that the sepoys had done anything to restore their honour; now Brewill was going to make the most of it.
‘Aye, he’s been tidy in all the bouts that he’s had in the Regiment,’ Hume replied modestly. ‘There’s no question, though, that Nirav beat him squarely.’
‘But he’s hardly got used to the heat or the water yet, Colonel.’ Carmichael sprang to Lawler’s defence. ‘Once he’s into his swing I’ll back him against anyone. Why, you remember him at Aldershot, don’t you, Colonel?’
‘I do, Carmichael, and he did well then, but the commandant’s feller showed him a trick or two this time and he won handsomely.’ Hume’s tone brooked no further intrusion from Carmichael, his humility causing Brewill to beam with pleasure.
‘Well, let’s get some drinks and toast our partnership against the bloody Pandies, shall we?’ Brewill led the way up the steps of the officers’ mess, the great wooden doors of which were opened silently by waiters as the officers approached.
Caps and swords were passed to servants, Hume pointedly unhooking his pistol from his belt as well. Carmichael was the only officer not to follow Hume’s lead and remove his revolver.
‘Don’t forget to leave your splendid pistol, Captain Carmichael. You won’t need it in this mess any more than you would in ours.’
‘But, Colonel, in Meerut…’ Carmichael’s voice trailed off as Hume stared hard at him.
‘We’ve got some more guests, ain’t we, McGowan?’ Brewill appeared not to notice this little scene, hesitating before leading the party into the anteroom.
‘Yes, Commandant,’ Brewill’s adjutant replied. ‘A Captain Skene, the political officer from Jhansi, and an escorting officer from the Twelfth Bengalis.’
Morgan’s ears pricked up; guests from Jhansi – the station not only where his father’s friend Colonel Kemp commanded the 12th but, much more importantly, the godforsaken place where Mary Keenan was.
‘No matter, but you have told Forgett that they’re here, haven’t you? Our policeman is bound to want a discreet word with the political, won’t he?’
Morgan noticed how much more relaxed Brewill was once he was back in control of events.
‘I have sent word to his bungalow, sir,’ McGowan replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll be with us directly.’
After the court martial in which the police officer had been the principal witness for the fatal prosecution, it had been thought wise to move Forgett, his wife and daughter into the fort until tempers had cooled.
The officers strode into the anteroom, where the curtains had been pulled against the night that would suddenly rush upon them. Where it had been cool and shaded earlier, it was now stuffy, the tables alive with candles, their light flickering off crystal bowls of punch and glasses that lined the sideboards, ready for the press of thirsty guests. There were some modest pieces of silver in the corners of the long, low room, but the décor relied mainly on countless heads of stuffed animals, skins of tigers and leopards, and a vast pair of elephant tusks from which hung a brass gong.
‘Christ, I hadn’t noticed earlier – the place looks more like a bloody zoo than officers’ quarters.’
Hume frowned to silence Carmichael but it was true, Morgan thought: there was little of the grace or taste of a British regiment’s mess, but then wasn’t that exactly the point that Forgett had made to him a couple of days ago? What had he said – something about ‘most of us don’t come from money like most of you’?
As the waiters fussed around the guests, Morgan noticed two figures at the far end of the room; they rose respectfully as the senior officers came in. One was small and dark, his well-tanned face set with heavy whiskers below carefully combed, wavy black hair. He was dressed in a simple blue frock coat, and his long riding boots were still dusty. On the table beside him was a thin leather document wallet.
‘Hello, sir…gentlemen…I’m Skene, Political Officer from up-country in Jhansi.’ Five foot seven of nervous energy pushed into