trying to interfere, but if you’re preparing execution parties already, doesn’t that suggest that a decision on the men’s guilt has been arrived at even before they’ve stood trial?’ Morgan knew he was speaking for Hume.
Caustic smiles spread over the faces of Colonel Brewill and the policeman. ‘Fine words, young Morgan, but you’ve no idea what those brutes have done around Lucknow.’ So far, Brewill had been measured. Now his voice sank to a flat whisper. ‘Don’t you know what they did to General Handscome and half the European and Eurasian civilians up there, or their depravity in Bareilly? Why, Commandant Peters of the Third Light Cavalry had to watch whilst his wife and children were butchered in front of him before they roasted him to death over a fire – his own men, mark you. No, there’s no place for mercy here.’
‘Or justice, sir?’ Morgan couldn’t stop himself.
‘Justice, goddamn you?’ Brewill’s voice rose as all attempts to control himself disappeared. ‘What fucking justice did those poor souls get from the animals in Delhi last month? Have you read Mrs Aldwell’s account – how twenty or more European ladies and children were roped together like beasts of the field and then chopped to pieces by servants they thought they could trust? Don’t come the nob with me just because you chased a few Muscovites around the Crimea. No, heed my words: unless we show our people just who’s in charge, we’ll have the same problems here, and if you think that you can do without the help of the Bombay regiments to put those whoresons in Bengal back in their place then you’re very much mistaken. The only answer is to give them a sharp lesson, and if that means getting blood on your lilywhite Queen’s commission hands, then you’d best get used to it!’
The room was suddenly silent. The punkah squeaked and an insect chirruped from the rafters whilst Hume, Forgett and Morgan looked at Brewill in shocked embarrassment.
‘Right, Morgan, Mr Forgett, leave us, please.’ Hume spoke quietly, soothingly, as Brewill mopped at his great red face with a silk square. ‘Wait outside, please. I will issue orders once the commandant and I have decided how to proceed.’
Morgan stood on the veranda with Forgett outside the commandant’s office, the two colonels’ voices just audible within.
‘Dear God, Forgett, I didn’t mean to twist Colonel Brewill’s tail like that.’ Morgan ducked his head to accept the light for the cheroot that the policeman had given him, before blowing a cloud of blue smoke up into the air, outlining the dozen hawk buzzards that wheeled on the thermals above the barracks, waiting to swoop on any carrion.
‘Indeed, Morgan, but you did.’ Forgett paused and picked a piece of loose tobacco off his tongue. ‘You must understand that the unthinkable has happened here. There have been mutinies and trouble from time to time – you’ll have heard tell of the affair at Vellore in the year Six, and General Paget’s execution of a hundred lads from the Forty-Seventh back in Twenty-Four…’
Morgan was loosely aware of troubles in the past in India, but tribulations in John Company’s forces hardly caused a ripple in the ordered world of British garrison life and he had never bothered to learn the details.
‘…but nothing on this scale. Our whole lives have been turned upside down, even here in Bombay where, DV, nothing will happen – so long as we act quickly.’
Morgan thought back to all those discussion that he had had at home, Glassdrumman in County Cork. Finn, the family groom, had ridden knee to knee with Indian cavalry regiments against the Sikhs, whilst Dick Kemp, his father’s best friend, had not only led sepoys in war, he was even now in command of the 12th Bengal Native Infantry up in Jhansi. Morgan remembered the fondness and respect that both men had shown for the Bengali soldiers and how Kemp’s life was interwoven with the whole subcontinent, its culture and mystique. Now he had no idea if the great burly, cheerful man’s regiment had turned or not; whether Kemp was even alive.
‘And you’ve got to remember what sort of people we are, what sort of backgrounds we come from.’ Morgan shifted uncomfortably, recognising Forgett as one of those people who didn’t shy away from saying the unsayable, and made to interrupt. ‘No, hear me; most of us don’t come from money like most of you. Why, I wanted a commission in a sepoy regiment – it would have cost a fraction of what your people have to fork out – but still my family couldn’t afford it. So, I came into the police service; this post’s cost me not a penny and I have to live off my pay. My poor wife – when we met and she agreed to marry me, she thought that her life would just be England transposed, a dusty version of Knaresborough and how difficult she found the first couple of years – didn’t I catch it! Anyway, once the children began to arrive she took to it more and, I think it’s fair to say, we’ve made a go of it in our modest way. Now all that’s in peril, any chance to live like a gentleman and bring my children up respectably may just go up in smoke, so please be careful how you treat the things we hold dear.’
Morgan thought of Glassdrumman and its acres. His family were certainly not especially rich, nor well connected, but they lived in a different sphere from those who would be referred to, he supposed, as the ‘ordinary’ classes. It made him ponder Brewill’s earlier comments.
‘But tell me, Forgett, how does this caste business really work? It seems mighty tricky for soldiers who are expected to act under one form of discipline to have another, unspoken, code that they’ve got to obey.’ Morgan suspected that Forgett’s explanation would be rather more incisive than Brewill’s earlier one.
The policeman gave a short laugh. ‘Tricky…yes, that’s an understatement. You’ll mainly come across Hindus serving with the Bengal Army up north where you’re going, but don’t be surprised when you meet Musselmen and Sikhs. You won’t be able to tell the difference, but the Hindu troops will treat them as untouchables – Mleccha – just as they regard us so, despite our rank or influence.’
‘But you’re talking just about classes, aren’t you? What about this caste business?’ asked Morgan.
‘There are four classes in Hinduism…’ Forgett paused before continuing, ‘…they are a fundamental part of the religion, and grafted on top of them are a terribly complicated series of castes, or jati. The caste is based on a mixture of where a man comes from, his race and occupation, and is governed by local committees of elders. No good Hindu wants to offend them or be chucked out for mixing with those of a lower class or generally breaking the rules. That might result not just in his being expelled from his caste – his place in society – but also losing his peg in the cosmic order of things – his class.
‘Whilst all this might sound like mumbo jumbo to us, try to explain our social classes, or the difference between Methodism and Baptism to a native. And the whole damn thing has got to be made to work alongside the needs of the army or the police – as you rightly observe, Morgan. It’s not too bad down here in Bombay where the people are much more mixed, but in the Bengal Presidency, where most of the sepoys are of the higher classes cack-handed attempts to introduce the men to Christianity, or new regulations that troublemakers can interpret as attempts to defile the caste of a man, have been at the heart of the trouble. So, we may struggle with the differences in what sort of commission we hold or whether we’re Eton or Winchester types, but out here there’s a whole bucketload of further complications,’ said Forgett with a slight smile.
Morgan was prevented from seeking further knowledge by the door of the office opening with a bang. Hume sauntered out onto the veranda, his eyes narrowed against the glare.
‘Ah, cheroots, what a grand idea.’
Morgan had seen this act from Hume before – and each time it worked like a charm. As Forgett offered his leather case to Hume, then lit the cigar he’d chosen, Morgan remembered just such
