What Buys a King's Shilling?

By Terence Woolley

After twenty years serving the British Army overseas, Sergeant Joshua Kerry wishes to settle to a life in India. Fate conspires against him.

Ordered back to England, he arrives in Nottingham, the town of his birth, on a day when a market place rally of framework knitters turns into a riot. It is the start of what comes to be known as the Luddite rebellion.

His family are framework knitters - his duty is to uphold the law. Torn between loyalty to family and the crown in a spiralling conflict, he fears he may never return to a wife and child in India.

Centred in Madras and Nottingham at the time of the Napoleonic Wars, ‘What Buys a King’s Shilling?’ is the story of an honest soldier striving to hold firm to his values in a world of deceit, injustice and social turmoil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terence Woolley
• Release date: Jun 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780957659957

Terence Woolley

After thirty years communicating with computers, Terence Woolley migrated to people and now devotes his energies to book writing. Inspired by traditional storytellers and classical novelists, his purpose is to write stories that are absorbing, entertaining and thought provoking. His first book, Ailein, is set in ancient Britain at a time when the world is torn apart by feuding kings. Ailein, the young hero of the tale, is determined to shield his sweetheart from the rampages that surround them but to do so must break free from the clutches of tyrannical warlords. What Buys a King's Shilling is set during the Napoleonic wars. Joining the army at the age of seventeen, Joshua Kerry travels the world and after twenty years wishes to settle to a life in India. But before doing so, he must return to England. He arrives in Nottingham, the town of his birth, on the day that a framework knitters' rally turns into a riot. It is the start of the Luddite Rebellion. He has nephews amongst the rioters - his duty as a British Army sergeant is to uphold the law. Drawn ever more deeply into a spiralling conflict, he doubts he will ever return to his wife and child in India.

Book preview

What Buys a King’s Shilling?

Terence Woolley

Published by Terence Woolley Publications

Text copyright  2018 Terence Woolley

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-0-9576599-5-7

Contents

Chapter 1: Vellore Fort, India - July the 10th 1806

Chapter 2: Aashna

Chapter 3: Île Bourbon – July the 7th 1810

Chapter 4: The Fallout

Chapter 5: Maplebeck Hall – Monday March the 11th 1811

Chapter 6: Milk Square

Chapter 7: The Stockingers’ Rally

Chapter 8: The Day After the Rally

Chapter 9: The Ups and Downs

Chapter 10: The Fraternity of Hosiers

Chapter 11: The Machine Breakers

Chapter 12: The Colts

Chapter 13: Fractures

Chapter 14: Tightening the Screw

Chapter 15: Shifting Sands

Chapter 16: Schism

Chapter 17: A Change of Direction

Chapter 18: A Settlement in the Balance

Chapter 19: The Jackals Set Loose

Chapter 20: Retaliation

Chapter 21: The Darkest Hour

Chapter 22: A Swoop

Chapter 23: Betrayal

Chapter 24: A Price is Paid

Chapter 25: Out of the Ashes

Chapter 1: Vellore Fort, India - July the 10th 1806

Joshua Kerry woke with a start and a vague sense of having heard gunfire.

The long rectangular, stone barrack room was stifling. Raising himself on his elbows, he squinted into dark recesses at the furthest end which he vaguely thought was the direction of the sound. Wooden shutters were wide open to freshen the stale air and shafts of pale moonlight flushed the room at regular intervals. Cots and their slumbering occupants were in dark or dim shadow according to how far they were from a window. The only sounds were the incessant buzz of flies and the resonating snores, grunts, and wheezes of two hundred soldiers who braved biting insects by sleeping semi-naked in the sweltering heat. The smell was obnoxious. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

He assumed it must be between two and four in the morning. Only the guards at the fort gates would be awake. Surmising the sound must have been a figment of a dream, he lowered his head and resettled.

There were two distinct cracks of musket fire.

Leaping from his cot in shirt and stockings, he hastily threw on trousers, tunic, and boots, grabbed cross-belts and sergeant’s sash from a peg and rushed to the closest window to look outside.

Under moonlight, the large barrack ground was empty but beyond the far end of the barrack building, through a dark corridor between buildings, he discerned a commotion taking place in the torchlit area in front of the main gates.

What’s happening? asked Sergeant MacManus, drowsily buttoning his tunic as he arrived at Joshua’s side.

Staring intently, Joshua answered, It might be a flair up between guards, but if the looks we’ve been getting from some of the Musulmen over the past few weeks are anything to go by, it could be more serious.

Sepoys despise the uniform foisted on ’em, commented Sergeant MacManus. It offends both Hindu and Muslim alike. You Englishmen think you can dictate how people must live their lives wherever you set your foot. Not everyone will lie down and accept it like a tame dog. There’s plenty of my own countrymen would like to see the back of yours.

That’s neither here nor there right now, Paddy returned Joshua, straining his eyes to see what was happening at the gates.

Unsettled by musket fire, soldiers were drowsily raising their heads.

Sergeant MacManus called out, Dress quickly now. There’s shooting outside. No shining of lights until we know what it’s about.

The room was soon abuzz with soldiers leaping from cots and scrambling into uniforms.

Looking from the window closest to where they slept but furthest from the gunfire, Sergeants Kerry and MacManus were joined by Sergeant Seymour and Corporals Stokes and Potts. Soldiers quick to dress or half dressed crowded around other windows along the barrack room wall.

Noticing shadowy figures form up on the opposite side of the barrack parade ground close to the corridor to the fort gates, Joshua hastily stepped back and drew the others from the window.

Some beggar’s trying to kill us, bawled a soldier further down the room as a musket ball whistled past his ear.

I do believe Whitey never spoke a truer word in his life, avowed Sergeant MacManus. As more musket-balls spattered the outside wall and fizzed through windows, he bawled out, Close the shutters and barricade the doors.

Turning to Corporal Stokes, Joshua said, Open the munitions, Jimmy and hand out what’s in there.

While soldiers risked their necks drawing close wooden shutters, the two corporals groped their way in deepening darkness to the munitions store. For several minutes while musket-balls pelted the outer stone wall and spattered against doors and shutters, muskets, shot and powder were passed down the line of soldiers crouching in darkness.

As small holes began to appear through shutters, Sergeant MacManus muttered to Joshua, I’ve been instructing these devils on the shooting range. Didn’t I do a good job and so I did.

How many do you think there are out there? quizzed Joshua.

Fifteen hundred if it’s all of ’em, replied Sergeant MacManus. More than enough to see us off.

Cringing under fire will sap our energy, declared Sergeant Seymour. We have to make an effort to break out.

Neither Joshua nor Sergeant MacManus disagreed and the sergeant made his way to a door half way down the room, tapping soldiers on the shoulder along the way to follow him. Cots were drawn back from the door to clear a space and twenty soldiers stood in darkness, muskets primed, nervously awaiting his command.

When I give the word, instructed Sergeant Seymour, open the door, dash out, take aim and fire. Then run for cover on the other side of the barrack ground where we can regroup and reload.

Minutes passed. Breathing heavily, the soldiers listened anxiously as musket balls pelted the door, dreading what was to follow.

When there was a lull in firing, Sergeant Seymour called out, Now.

The door was yanked open and soldiers burst outside. But they barely had time to raise weapons before being checked by a hail of musket fire. Several falling dead or injured, Sergeant Seymour called a retreat and the survivors scrambled back, dragging wounded comrades with them. The barrack door slammed shut, cots were pulled up to form a barricade. Amid confusion and groaning, a voice called out, Sergeant Seymour’s copped one in the leg. It looks bad.

Gunfire intensified and holes in shutters grew in size until another lull allowed Joshua to push a shutter slightly open and peek outside. A mass of shadowy figures on the opposite and far end of the parade ground were standing still as if waiting. Then he heard a grind of heavy wheels.

Cannon, said Sergeant MacManus. They’ve broken into the arsenal. It was bad enough before. We’ll be ripped apart now. Let’s hope the stone walls hold firm and pray to the Good Lord help is on its way.

Splintered and chipped under musket fire, the shutters shattered under grapeshot. Shards of masonry from window surrounds flew about the room. Doors creaked and buckled. There were screams and cries as soldiers fell prey to flying shrapnel and ricocheting musket balls and much choking as the air thickened with dust and smoke. Streaks of moonlight entered the room through gaping holes where windows had been. Bewildered soldiers dragged injured and dying friends to the protection of the wall taking the blast.

Fix bayonets and hold your nerve, bellowed Sergeant MacManus above the uproar. Casualties mounting with each passing minute, he said to Joshua through clenched teeth, I’d love for ’em to take us on man for man while we’re still fighting fit.

As first light broke into the eastern sky, the barrage eased off and then ceased. Spluttering in a fog of dust, soldiers who were able drew close to a shattered window to gasp for breath.

Why’ve they stopped? asked Sergeant MacManus, peering cautiously with Joshua out of what remained of the window.

There aren’t as many as there were in the night, answered Joshua. Shooting’s broken out near the officers’ quarters. Perhaps they’ve been diverted.

First pressing his face against the wall to gain a wide angle of vision, he then motioned Sergeant MacManus and the two corporals to follow and stumbled through debris, dying, and groaning wounded to reach the window closest the onslaught. Peering from the side so as not to be seen by sepoys who were directly opposite, they saw a small group of British soldiers huddled behind a house beyond the edge of the parade ground. About twenty musket bearing sepoys were converging upon the house from the front.

Captain McLauchlin and Sergeant-Major Brady, whispered Sergeant MacManus. They’re done for if they’re rumbled.

Pointing to the sepoys opposite, Joshua said, Can you give them something to think about?

His face brightening for the first time since waking, Sergeant MacManus stepped away saying, My pleasure.

Having singled out a dozen marksmen, when all were in position, he gave the order to fire. A number of sepoys toppled. Others, alarmed by sudden danger, fell back in disarray. It gave Joshua opportunity to lean out of the hollowed window cavity and wave to the hiding soldiers. Seeing him, they raced across the separating ground and were dragged into the barracks.

Recovering from a headlong dash and leap into a dust filled room, Captain McLauchlin gasped, I never thought we’d make it this far. The whole garrison is up in arms. Colonel Fancourt was warned of mischief in the air but allowed himself to be persuaded it was false rumour. Advice of a traitor for which we’re paying an almighty price.

The captain’s companions included a lieutenant with an arm in a crude sling, two junior surgeons, and Sergeant-Major Brady. They surveyed the room with expressions of dismay. Cots were crushed. Shrapnel, splinters, and shards of broken masonry littered everywhere. Hardly an inch of the pillars and wall facing the shattered windows was not gouged. Wounded and dying lay groaning in pools of blood amid debris on the filthy floor. Soldiers huddled to the wall that had taken the fire looked dazed and exhausted. The stench was appalling.

Musket balls again fizzing into the room, Captain McLauchlin declared, We have to get out of here.

Sergeant Seymour tried earlier, sir, said Joshua. It was impossible. Since then they brought up cannon. We have at least forty dead and sixty injured.

They’re looking to finish the officers right now, said the Captain, but they’ll be back. This is our only chance. We’ll break out through the window furthest from the sepoys. Gather able-bodied men at that end of the room. Once outside, make for the alley opposite with the munitions depot. From there we’ll head for the ramparts. Those too injured to escape will have to cover our backs.

While soldiers who were able formed a line under direction of the corporals, Joshua sought Sergeant Seymour. He was examining the injured for fitness to fire a musket, in which case they were lifted to places from where they could shoot. A tourniquet strapped tightly above his knee, he hobbled using a musket as crutch. He was filthy with congealed blood and dirt. Surrounded by carnage, he sweated profusely and appeared jaded.

We’ve been in tight spots before, Tommy, suggested Joshua.

Sergeant Seymour looked at the miscellany of injured men scattered by holes in the wall and, beating off the flies and gnats from his blood and filth caked face, answered ruefully, None tighter than this, Josh.

They had shared dangers and privations for fifteen years since being squaddies together. In all likelihood this was their last farewell. With outstretched hand Joshua said to the closest friend he had in the world, Good luck, Tommy.

It was an effort, propped as he was on a musket-crutch, but Sergeant Seymour warmly shook the hand that was offered and resumed sifting through injured soldiers.

Joshua joined Sergeant MacManus at the window from where, once the order was given to break out and the injured commenced firing, they assisted those escaping to climb out. They were the last to leave.

Stooping to gather a wounded soldier as he darted across the barrack parade ground, a musket ball fizzed over Joshua’s head. Dragging the soldier to the safety of the alley, he looked behind. Five soldiers had been killed along the way but the sepoys were pegged back by musket fire from the barracks and Joshua rendered a silent prayer for comrades left behind.

The munitions depot was ransacked. Only rounds of blank cartridges littered the floor. It was not unexpected but Captain McLauchlin cursed before saying, Those who’ve been clipped and can’t carry on must stay here and take their chances. The rest of us will press on.

From the alley to the closest steps to the ramparts was an area exposed to gunfire from marauding sepoys. Last to make the dash, Joshua passed two more soldiers killed along the way.

Fort Vellore was protected by two encircling walls five paces apart between which was a parameter walkway. The inner wall was higher and for sections buttressed by the backs of internal buildings. The outer wall was topped by a stone parapet overlooking a water filled moat, about nine feet above the water. At strategic points it was bolstered by triangular bastions projecting into the moat. As a deterrent to invaders, the moat was stocked with crocodiles. The section of ramparts where the soldiers converged was empty and screened from view inside the fort by the inner wall. As stragglers arrived, a scuffle broke out.

Forcing his way through the confusion, Sergeant MacManus clasped two squabbling squaddies by the arm and snarled, Haven’t we got enough to contend with without you blasted idiots fighting each other?

He nearly got me shot barging past to get to here first, serg, answered one in justification of his part in the fracas.

The other was a regular visitor to the guardhouse cells. Sergeant MacManus eyed him savagely and said, Button yourself up, Diggle. At least try to look like a soldier. If I hear another squirt out of you, you’ll be on a charge faster than you can fire a plumb stone from a Brown Bess. Step out of line again and you’ll wish you’d been killed by a mutineer.

Bedraggled and weary, most soldiers wore a ripped or no tunic. Others were unbuttoned and without haversack or belt. Very few wore a shako helmet. All were filthy with grime. Noticing an expression of concern on Captain McLauchlin’s face as he examined them, Joshua called out, Smarten up and form a line. Remember you’re the Ups and Downs, South Lincolnshires. If we die fighting for king and country, we’ll do it with pride.

So ’e says, mumbled Private Diggle to his friend Private Dawkins.

As soldiers shuffled into line, Captain McLauchlin remarked to his junior officers, Crocs will make short breakfast of anyone trying to swim the moat but if we make it to the gates we can lower men onto the bridge to look for help.

Captain McLauchlin and Sergeant-Major Brady led the way.

All went well until, rounding the curve of the walkway, they came upon a bastion guarded by sepoys. Forewarned by the sound of an approaching tread, the sepoys opened fire as soon as redcoats came into view. The captain and sergeant major fell in the volley. Outnumbered, the sepoys were pounced upon and bayoneted while fumbling to reload muskets.

His trouser leg stained scarlet from a wound to the thigh, Captain McLauchlin could take no further part. The sepoys were tossed into the moat and he was carried into the bastion. Here he hissed between his teeth, Leave me with my injured Lieutenant, Sergeant-Major Brady and a small guard to hold this place. The rest carry on.

Joshua and Sergeant MacManus regrouped the soldiers and continued.

Buildings abutting the inner wall were of varying heights and at places they were prey to sniper fire from the top of a temple inside the fort. Guiding them past a particularly dangerous spot, Joshua called out, You nearly lost your head in the barracks, Private White. For heaven’s sake, keep down.

Crouching low, the shock of a pinch from behind caused the soldier to jump upright. Musket balls fizzing by his face, he quickly stooped again and screamed at the man behind, What you playing at, Diggle? You could have got me killed.

You should pay your card debts, was the flippant riposte of the soldier behind.

You’re a damned idiot, Diggs, snapped Private White. You want seeing to.

Private Nathan Diggle would have provoked his comrade further but felt metal nestle against the side of his neck and, slowly turning his face, looked down the barrel of a musket held by Sergeant Kerry.

If you force me to raise my musket against you again, Diggle, said Joshua, you won’t live long to tell the tale.

It’s all in Whitey’s imagination, protested Private Diggle. I didn’t do nothing.

Last warning, forewarned Joshua.

The Sergeants halted where by peering around the curving wall they could see the ramparts above the gates. Outside was a bridge across the moat, inside a corridor to the ceremonial parade ground and palace gardens. There being no abutting buildings along this section, the inner wall was lower than in other places and an arrangement of low, criss-crossing walls had been erected to provide extra protection against assailants. Leaning casually on one of these, amused by what was taking place inside the fort, was a unit of sepoys.

Forming three lines of six marksmen, Joshua and Sergeant McManus advanced, each line firing and reloading in turn. Sepoys fell at each volley. The remainder ran pell-mell to the protection of a bastion about two hundred paces further along the rampart while British soldiers swept into their abandoned post and squatted behind the criss-cross walls.

Gazing into the fort from a vantage point, the sergeants were surprised to be joined by Captain Barrow who, having been hiding in one of the buildings backing onto the ramparts, joined the two junior surgeons as they passed behind the line of soldiers. He enquired, So, what have we?

Pleased to have an officer of their regiment take command, the sergeants made way for him to look inside the fort.

It was a free for all. Murdered guards lay where they had been gunned down in front of the gates. Sepoys were looting whatever they could claim. Some carried upended furniture; others blankets, clothes, boxes of silverware, jugs and plates; others shouldered sacks of grain. Many were heading for the sally port at the opposite side of the fort from where they could disappear into the country.

Messengers have already gone off to Arcot, Captain Barrow informed the sergeants. But it will be some time before we can expect help.

He was interrupted by a flurry of activity about eighty paces along the corridor from the gates to the palace. Doctors, nurses, and invalids, some carried on stretchers, were dragged from the hospital into the open. Here they were herded together before being roughly pushed and shoved to the parade ground in front of the palace gardens where they were bludgeoned to form a circle and shot.

Looking over Captain Barrow’s shoulder, the junior surgeons were aghast. After a moment of reflection, the captain said, That’s what to expect if we fall into the hands of these wretches.

Crossing the rampart, he gazed at the bridge where an officer had been gunned down in the night, at the native settlement beyond the moat where normal life seemed to be suspended, and at the horizon in the direction of Arcot before returning to the anarchic scene inside the fort and asking, Have we enough ammunition to see us through until help arrives?

About a dozen rounds each, answered Joshua.

The captain pondered for a moment and then said, There’s a munitions depot on the other side of the fort. Sergeant MacManus, select thirty men. Let’s see what we can find. Do your darnedest to hold on here until we get back, Sergeant Kerry.

It was a desperate venture. First there was the bastion occupied by sepoys who had abandoned their post at the gates. Beyond that was a flag mast from which fluttered a standard of the slain ruler of Mysore, Tipu Sultan. This would be defended by mutineers. After that was half a mile of unpredictable danger before reaching the depot. Sergeant MacManus smiled to Joshua as if to say, This is the end of the road for me, before, crouching low to avoid sniper fire, he chose a party of soldiers and joined the captain and junior surgeons.

Captain Barrow fell to a volley of musket fire from the bastion and the mission would have stalled almost at once had not Sergeant MacManus yelled, Give it to ’em lads, and led a bayonet charge while the sepoys reloaded muskets.

The bastion seized, the surgeons ran to the aid of Captain Barrow and Joshua assumed the adventure was over. He was surprised when two soldiers carried the captain back and the rest continued under command of the surgeons.

Lowered to the ground, Captain Barrow gestured Joshua to lean close and, squirming with pain, mumbled in short gasps, Leg shot. No further use here. These men will carry me to Captain McLauchlin. Hold on until help arrives.

The skirmish had drawn the attention of sepoys not engaged in looting to British soldiers on the wall and musket shot pinged the criss-cross walls behind which they squatted. One spattered dust inches away from where Joshua was standing. Wondering if it was a freak shot or whether he was marked, he shielded himself behind a wall an instant before it was pelted by a musket ball.

Dragging his musket with him, he slithered snake like across the walkway to where Corporal Stokes was looking into the fort from a favourable vantage point and asked, Do we know where it’s coming from, Jimmy?

The hospital roof, was Corporal Stokes’ reply.

Looking in that direction, Joshua counted four marksmen. Focussing upon one in particular, he said, I suspected who it was but hoped I was wrong. Why would Asad want kill us?

He’s a crack shot, serg, observed the corporal as a musket ball spat into the wall that screened them.

With eagle eyes, agreed Joshua.

Baffled and saddened that a pleasant-natured, likeable young man would take up arms against him, Joshua primed his musket and prepared to fire. He was spotted by Asad who took aim at the same time. Asad had the steadier hand and sharper eye but was anxious to shoot first. Two shots rang out almost simultaneously. A musket ball grazed Joshua’s ear. The other passed through Asad’s eye. After this, the sniper fire trailed off.

The sun was rising in a clear morning sky and no one had taken fluid since the night before. When the sun reached a height to deny them shade, searing heat would be unbearable. Seeking Corporal Potts, Joshua instructed him, Take a squad and rummage the buildings to see if there’s anything to drink.

The corporal singled out eight soldiers he thought least likely to be of use fighting to defend the rampart and entered the closest building. The rooms had been pillaged. Re-emerging, he said, Dawkins, Diggle, White, and Bramble, look in the next building. The rest follow me.

Come on, Will, said Diggle to his friend Dawkins, happy to be free of authority for a time, let’s see what we can find.

All gathered around a door which Dawkins opened to stare down a dark, steep flight of steps.

You first, prompted Diggle.

Here goes, said Dawkins, hesitantly stepping forward. The others followed.

Coming to a landing, they looked into a room dimly lit by light entering a small window high on a wall. The room was undisturbed. They set about moving furniture and examining cupboards and draws. After pocketing one or two small items of value, Diggle piped up, Here we go.

What is it? asked Dawkins, halting his search.

A cask of grog, replied Diggle with a self-satisfied grin.

Are there any more? demanded Private Bramble.

You can find ’em if there are, was Diggle’s curt reply.

More searching discovered nothing.

If that’s all there is, said Dawkins, we’d better take it back.

Are you kidding? retorted Diggle, keeping a tight hold of the cask he had found. Finder’s keeper’s as far as I’m concerned. Pass a jug, Whitey.

Private White looked around until he spotted a flower vase. Emptying the contents he handed it to Diggle who, having unplugged the cask, gurgled beer into it, took a swig, wiped his mouth with a swipe of his sleeve, and laughed.

What about us? complained Bramble.

Diggle took another swig and handed the jug to his salivating comrade, saying, There’s enough to go round.

But what about the rest in the baking sun? demanded Dawkins.

What they don’t know about wont hurt ’em, was Diggle’s reply.

If that’s the way of it, concluded Dawkins, I’m off. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll come too before you get nabbed.

Good luck, said Diggle receiving the jug back from Bramble and refilling it from the cask.

You’ll be shot if you’re found, warned Dawkins.

Who by, replied Diggle, Sergeant Kerry or the sepoys? I’ll just have to be careful to choose which, won’t I?

Private Dawkins remounted the steps, followed by Privates White and Bramble, leaving Diggle in sole possession of his find. When they stepped into glaring sunlight, the voice of Corporal Potts bellowed, Did you find anything, Dawkins.

Dawkins answered, No, corp.

Then there’s a butt of water in this one, shouted the corporal who was standing at the door of the next building. Get a container - a shako - anything will do. Help carry water to the men.

Will do, corp, replied Private Dawkins, relieved no mention was made of his missing squad member.

The sun beat down and insects bit more fiercely. Aware the only reason he was not withstanding the assault of a thousand sepoys was their lust for plunder, Joshua was considering how best to counter such an event when he heard musket fire from close to where the standard of Tipu Sultan hung from a flag mast. Alarmed it might be the prelude to an attack, he stared intensely and was amazed to see two redcoat soldiers shinning up the flagpole. When within reach, the topmost soldier ripped the flag from the mast and passed it to the other below before both slid down and out of sight.

There was a cheer from those about him but Joshua was too worried the two had been killed to revel in their audacious act. Ten minutes later Sergeant MacManus and a bedraggled party appeared around the curve of the rampart, fewer than had set out. All appeared exhausted.

As Sergeant MacManus approached accompanied by a young soldier proudly clasping Tipu Sultan’s ripped standard, Joshua remarked, That nearly cost you your lives.

Captain Barrow will want to see that, interrupted one of the surgeons, snatching the flag from the young man’s hand. Where is he by the way?

With Captain McLauchlin, Joshua informed him.

Turning to his fellow surgeon, the first said, We’ll take it to show them both.

Watching them leave, Sergeant MacManus commented, The one carrying the flag asked for volunteers to strike it from the mast and young Philip here was off like a shot and climbing like a monkey before I could stop him. I wasn’t about to let the young lad get himself blown away if I could help it, so went to help.

Putting your own life at risk, suggested Joshua.

I’ve been in and out of scrapes as long as I remember, retorted the sergeant, but a torn flag’s certainly a fair price for a man’s life and so it is.

It was clear from his scarcely concealed smile, Sergeant MacManus relished his adventure. Turning to the young soldier standing by his side, he said, If I live to tell the tale, all will know it was Private Philip Bottom of the Sixty-ninth Regiment who struck Tipu Sultan’s flag on the day of the Vellore mutiny. Have no fear of that, lad. While Paddy MacManus has breath in his lungs, have no fear of that.

I take it you didn’t find ammunition? asked Joshua.

The guards were dead and the depot plundered long before we got there, replied Sergeant MacManus. We used up the rounds we had getting there and back.

So saying, he invited his young companion to squat down and take a rest.

Sniper fire had ceased. It was as if they were forgotten by sepoys inside the fort. With heat intensifying, Joshua was contemplating moving soldiers out of direct sunlight when he heard a distant noise. Both bounding to the outer wall and scouring the horizon, he and Sergeant MacManus fixed their eyes upon a shimmering haze. After a time, amid an expanding cloud of dust they could distinguish blue jackets and a glint of steel.

Dragoons, cheered Sergeant MacManus.

Twenty minutes later, a unit of the Nineteenth Light Dragoons clattered through the settlement and came to a halt at the far side of the bridge facing the fort gates. Seeing them looking down upon him, their commander called out, Good day, sergeants. Will you help me climb up there to join you?

While he dismounted and crossed the bridge, the sergeants tied their sashes together and lowered them over the parapet. Taking a firm grip of this makeshift rope and with help from above, Colonel Gillespie hoisted himself onto the rampart, crossed it, and looked inside the fort.

Pandemonium, he declared, Excellent. Two companies of dragoons will be arriving shortly with artillery. I intend to end this nonsense in short time. Be ready to attack.

Leaving the sergeants, he visited the injured officers for a report of what had taken place and returned when more dragoons arrived trailing cannon. Leaning over the parapet above the gates, he yelled to an engineer, Blow the gates apart, Mr Blakiston, but avoid taking down the wall we’re standing on.

A cannon was wheeled across the bridge and eased to within a few inches of the gates under the watchful eye of the engineer.

Nothing too subtle, Mr. Blakiston, shouted the colonel from above. Just blow them apart.

The cannon was rolled back a few feet and all stepped off the bridge while the engineer lit the fuse and stood away with hands tight over his ears to avoid the recoil and blast. A low hiss was followed by a shattering crash and the gates ripped apart.

Colonel Gillespie colonel lifted his sword to signal a charge.

Alarmed by the sudden loud blast, panicking sepoys scattered in all directions impeding those who would stand and fight. Spurred by vengeance, dragoons slashed sabres and infantry soldiers thrust bayonets mercilessly. In short time, the corridor and parade ground in front of the palace gardens were a mire of blood and gore. Then dragoons poured into every part of the fort, striking down all in their path.

Standing amid the carnage outside the palace gardens, Colonel Gillespie said, I believe the mutiny is over.

Infantry soldiers about him were red in the face from exertion. Turning to their sergeants, he said, Clear the rest of the vermin from the buildings.

Joshua led a platoon to the converted temple that contained the arsenal. It was deserted. Passing on to the sepoy barracks, all the rooms were empty until he came upon one where a group of Hindu sepoys were huddled in a corner. Speaking in broken English, a havildar said, We have done no wrong. We took no part in what has happened.

Joshua recognised the havildar from parade ground exercises and saw no reason to doubt his word but it would be for a court-martial to decide. He said, Follow me.

While this was taking place, three riders came to a halt at the shattered gates of the fort. One was a smartly dressed British Army lieutenant. The others were native servants. Gazing through the wreckage of the gates at the devastation beyond, the lieutenant exclaimed, What the devil! His companions made no response.

Fearful of lurking hazards, the lieutenant was for a time uncertain how to proceed. A union flag fluttering in the centre of the fort suggested it was in the hands of British soldiers. Deciding it safe to enter, he slipped from his horse, handed the reins to one of the servants, unsheathed his sword, and, careful not to soil his polished boots with the blood of mangled corpses, stepped forward.

The parade ground was a scene of carnage and confusion. Dead sepoys lay everywhere. The ground was soaked with blood. Looking around, the lieutenant noticed a group of dragoon officers surrounding a colonel close to the palace garden gates. Seeing none of his own regiment, he approached and when the officers departed to carry out their instructions, stepped forward and introduced himself as, Lieutenant Aubrey Fortesque of the Sixty-Ninth Regiment of Foot, colonel. Sent from Madras to report to Major Coates.

He was a stark contrast to everyone else in the fort. Though slightly dusted by his journey, his uniform was the finest weave and exquisitely tailored. His manner was imperious. Colonel Gillespie took an immediate dislike to him. Your officers are either wounded or dead, he said. As you can see, we’ve had a mutiny to put down and are in the process of mopping things up. Try to make yourself useful.

The colonel spinning around to discuss securing the palace grounds with a dragoon captain, the lieutenant was annoyed by his reception. Scouring the grim scene for soldiers of his own regiment, his gaze fell upon a detachment escorting sepoy captives from a building. Striding over, he addressed the sergeant in charge, demanding, Who are these men and where are you taking them?

Although of the same regiment, Joshua had never seen the officer before. He answered, They are prisoners, sir.

He spoke with the guttural accent of the working classes of the north midlands of England that the lieutenant loathed. Looking disdainfully at the sepoys, he declared, They are to be shot.

Jaded after nine hours of bloodshed, Joshua was unclear whether the lieutenant’s statement was a command or a question. He observed, They took no part in the mutiny, sir.

How can you be sure of that? snapped the lieutenant. Did they take up arms against the insurgents?

I don’t believe they were in any position to, sir, replied Joshua.

What the devil does that signify, asserted the lieutenant derisively. These darkies are to be taught a lesson. They are either mutineers or if they took no part in the mutiny, which I doubt, they are guilty of cowardice in face of the enemy and will be executed accordingly.

They are soldiers of an East India Company regiment, sir, persisted Joshua. Should they not be tried by court-martial before receiving a sentence of death?

What’s your name? demanded the lieutenant.

Kerry, sir, answered Joshua.

Your dress and that of your men is a disgrace, berated the lieutenant. I’ve no idea how you allowed yourselves to be overrun by such miserable rabble as this. Perhaps your guards were asleep; or were you too fuddled with drink to rise to the alarm? If you want to avoid a charge of failing in your duty, you will execute these men immediately.

Joshua had encountered too many such blustering officers not to know he had no choice but to comply. But men’s lives were at stake and he persevered by asking, Does this supersede the colonel’s order, sir?

Don’t be impertinent, retorted the lieutenant angrily. Carry out my command or face a court-martial.

Turning to the corporal by his side, Joshua ceded reluctantly, March them against a wall and shoot them, Jimmy.

I ordered you to do it, sergeant, insisted the lieutenant.

Joshua examined the woebegone faces of his prisoners. Even those who did not understand the language saw their doom in the angry tone and implacable demeanour of the lieutenant. It was but one of many summary executions that took place before the lowering of the sun that day.

Colonel Fancourt, the fort commander, was found dead in his quarters. Hidden by Indian servants, his wife and children had survived. Nearly all officers and many loyal sepoys had been murdered. A request was sent to Arcot for replenishment provisions. In the meantime, soldiers were allowed to scavenge for food and drink.

Joshua dowsed his head under a water pump and, knowing retribution would be brutal now that order was restored, wandered back to his barracks.

The doors were caved in. The soldiers left behind were dead. The number of sepoy corpses showed how the injured soldiers had defended themselves valiantly to the last.

Joshua rummaged through debris, looking at the battered bodies of comrades. He stopped before the mangled corpse of Sergeant Seymour who died grasping a bayonet as a knife in his blood soaked hand. Knowing their fates could have been so easily reversed, he placed a kerchief over his friend’s gashed face.

Moving on, he came upon a young man sprawled across shattered masonry still clutching a musket. Sinking down on a broken cot by the soldier’s lifeless form, he picked up an empty powder pouch that had fallen by his side and threw it to the other side of the room. Then, lightly brushing matted hair from the youthful face, he wondered at his clear and serene features that seemed to shine through the blood and grime. He had been a bright lad of nineteen. If he had a family, they would be informed he was killed fighting for king and country and for a short time his death might be mourned. Then all would be forgotten. It was the best a rank and file soldier could hope for.

Joshua should have felt elated to be alive but was overwhelmed by a sense of loss and futility. More than half of his company including his closest friend lay dead. The butchered sepoys that littered the parade ground had the day before been marching to the same tune as the British soldiers they had sought to slaughter. Many on both sides, had been on friendly terms with those they had killed. He himself had put a bullet through Asad’s eye in spite liking the young man because he had turned into an enemy intent upon killing British troops. Remembering the haunted look of resignation in the eyes of the Hindu sepoys he had been compelled to shoot, he stoked remaining stands of blood-congealed hair from the young soldier’s face, lowered his head, and sobbed.

Chapter 2: Aashna

Untainted by selfishness, egotism or irrational prejudice, Joshua Kerry was an honest soldier who accepted the world as he found it.

His life comprised of long spells of dull routine, often in grim conditions, intermixed with outbursts of savagery. Intermittent danger was part of the contract with King George in exchange for which he received a ration of food and grog, shelter at night and payment of a soldier’s shilling incremented by ten pence a day for wearing the stripes of a sergeant. He was well attuned to such a life. And killing was a part of it. But the lust for blood that sparkled in men’s eyes and the wanton slaughter that took place in the wake of the Vellore mutiny sickened him. As with the Hindu sepoys he was ordered to execute, he had no power to intervene. He carried out instructions in as civilised a manner as circumstances allowed, but ultimately was required to carry them out, whatever they entailed. Without discipline, the army could not function and he was steadfast in his loyalty to king and country.

Born into a respectable family in Nottingham in the spring of seventeen seventy-four, he was raised to be dutiful. Almost as soon as he could walk he had tasks to perform in the family workshop where his father operated a framework knitting machine from dawn until dusk, six days a week. He learned to read and write from bible stories at the St Mary’s Anglican Church Sunday School where it was instilled into his young mind to treat others as he would be treated, tell the truth to shame the devil and be content with the bounty his God had accorded him.

His life would have followed the pattern of honest toil and raising a family as had been that of generations before him was it not for a slump in the hosiery trade caused by revolution in France at a time when he needed to earn an independent income. With no prospect of work, he took the king’s shilling from a recruiting sergeant at the White Lion Inn on Cow Lane in Nottingham in exchange for his signature on an enlistment form and was the next day whisked by cart to an army training camp near Worksop. Here after a cursory medical examination and signing an attestation form in which he was described as age seventeen years and eight months, height five feet and seven inches, hair dark-brown, eyes blue-grey, distinguishing characteristics none, he was issued with a uniform and tossed into a world of coarse language, heavy drinking, bullying and brawls. It was a rude jolt.

His first taste of soldiering came in Ireland where there was fear of collusion between protestant separatists and French republicans. Bogged down one day in cross fire between protestant Peep o’ Day Boys and catholic Defenders and baffled by his friend Tommy Seymour’s explanation as to who was fighting and why he decided it best not concern himself in matters he did not understand. Two and a half years later, his company was shipped via Gibraltar to the port of Toulon on the south coast of France.

The mission was to protect a pocket of French royalists from encroaching republicans. Stumbling disarmed in chaos when the revolutionary army fired heavy cannon from a height overlooking the port, Joshua thought his end was nigh when a French captain bore down upon him with flashing sabre until out of the melee lurched Tommy Seymour and bayoneted the captain in the thigh. The captain fell back clutching his wounded leg and Tommy helped Joshua to the harbour where they scrambled to board an evacuating ship.

After the abandonment of Toulon, his company won the praise of Captain Nelson for its part in the capture of French garrisons at Saint-Florent, Bastia, and Calvi on the island of Corsica and was assigned to his ship, the HMS Agamemnon, to function as marines. It was after the battle of St. Vincent that Joshua was awarded two stripes. His third came in the aftermath of a disastrous campaign at the turn of the century to oust a French army from northern Holland.

Following a spell patrolling ports on the south coast of England he was posted to the West Indies where, after two years guarding the port of Kingston with never a sign of an enemy ship, his battalion was so depleted by yellow jack fever it was considered no longer viable and ordered home. A few days before their departure, he contracted the fever.

Was it not for the scrupulous care he received from a freed African slave woman who, ignoring prescriptions of an army doctor, applied herbal remedies of her own, he would have been one of many hundreds of soldiers dumped and limed in an unmarked grave.

By the time he recovered, his battalion was five thousand miles across the ocean. Seconded to a battalion of the Eighty-fifth Bucks Volunteers which had recently arrived and had already lost an officer, two sergeants, and a score of soldiers to the fever, it was eighteen months before he received instruction to rejoin his own battalion, which was bound for the East Indies.

He arrived in Madras a year before the Vellore mutiny.

There was no harbour and, while officers were ferried ashore in small boats, rank and file soldiers had to take their chance in masoolah boats rowed by half-naked natives. Tossed in billowing surf, the rowers propelled themselves forward on the crest of waves until, when within a few feet of being dashed onto shore, more near naked men rushed forward to drag the boat to safety.

Shaken, drenched and beset by darting insects, the battalion formed amid a confused hubbub of dark and olive skinned natives loading and unloading small boats taking and collecting cargoes from merchant ships anchored beyond the shallows. An inspection by the Governor of Madras was followed by a military band striking up a Lillibulero and a march through crowds of gaping onlookers along a sea-facing wall to the grandiose gates of Fort St. George.

Fort St. George was an oasis of British decorum set amid an oriental whirl. It was dominated by a turreted Governor’s Palace which was surrounded on all sides by a plaza shaded by palm trees. To the south of the palace was a spired church that would have graced an English market town. To the west, behind a large parade ground, was a line of buildings that included barracks, guardhouse, hospital, and workshops. Leafy boulevards, lined with Georgian-styled mansions radiated north and south of the palace.

Quick to immerse themselves in the social whir of the fort, officers left much of the daily running of the camp to their sergeants. Sergeant MacManus wiled much of his off duty time playing card games for small wagers with a circle of sergeants from other companies who shared the same mess. Sergeant Seymour always seemed to find a book to bury his head into. Joshua strolled the dapple shaded avenues of the fort.

Then came the monsoon. By the time skies cleared, he felt he had been cooped up for months.

We haven’t seen you in the Black Town, serg, joshed Private Dawkins as they completed a night watch two weeks before Christmas.

Joshua smiled good naturedly but was not to be drawn.

You don’t know what you’re missing, serg persisted the swaggering soldier, girls to die for.

I’m sure you make the most of what there is, Dawkins, replied Joshua.

We could take you places would make your eyes pop, piped in Private Diggle with a sinister