The Beast of Mysore (Wellington Undead Book 1) Page 6

  When he finally opened them, Wellesley’s eyes both glowed with a pale red light, two perfectly luminous circles piercing the dark wherever he looked. Coming back to his senses, he suddenly became aware of the barely-twitching lump of dead meat that was still pressed to his chest in a death grip. A subtle crunching told him that he had broken not only the man’s ribs, but also most of the other major bones in his body.

  A low moan came from Ponsonby’s tortured throat. I have crushed his windpipe, Arthur realized with distaste. He has been more than sufficiently punished for his failings. There is no sense in prolonging this further. Moving more quickly than the human eye could see, he grasped the brutalized captain’s head firmly with both hands and twisted it in a complete half-circle, all in one swiftly fluid motion. It was accompanied by a sickening crunch as the cervical spine snapped.

  Arthur heard the once-mighty gallop of the man’s heart suddenly stop beating. His dead weight sagged lifelessly against his own rigid body, and he allowed the corpse to fall limply to the ground, where iIt lay sprawled in a heap, fractured arms and legs splayed at unnatural angles.

  Wellesley was suddenly aware of another heartbeat—no, two. Both raced along at great speed, just as Ponsonby’s had done mere seconds earlier.

  “Lieutenant Landridge, Sergeant Belton.” These men know their place, and more importantly, they know yours. You owe them neither explanation nor apology. Nonetheless, he said, “It appears that Captain Ponsonby’s affection for alcohol has finally caught up with him.” Which is true enough, from a certain point of view. “I am afraid that his neck appears to be broken. Mr. Landridge, please arrange for his body to be taken to the regimental surgeon so that it may be dealt with appropriately. You shall then report immediately back to me.”

  “At once, Colonel.” The lieutenant hurried to obey.

  “Sergeant Belton, you and I have much to discuss. Walk with me.”

  Wellesley did much of his best thinking while he was walking. He much preferred to stroll in the company of those with whom he had any form of business, for the simple reason that it did not become a British officer to pace back and forth – such behavior might be misinterpreted as nervousness by the rank and file, and that would never do.

  The two men walked at a fairly comfortable pace. There was a distinct spring in Arthur’s step now that he had just fed, and it was such that he had to work actively to suppress the urge to break into a faster clip. Belton matched him without effort, but his nervousness was betrayed by the manner in which he walked, hesitantly trailing a half-step behind his regimental commanding officer.

  “One of your men appears to have run,” Wellesley said at length. He appeared calm once more, his bloodlust sated and anger diminishing with every passing step. Mercifully, equilibrium was returning.

  “Yes, sir. Private Gilman. Ran at sunset, sir, when we were starting to break down the camp.”

  “Do you usually maintain such a loose hold on the men under your charge, Sergeant?” Wellesley chided. The two men were wandering through the British lines without any apparent destination. Although officers possessed their own personal tents (or coffins, whichever the case may be) most of the redcoats had no such luxury, sleeping rough on the hard ground in whatever patches of shade they could find during the daylight hours, and huddling up in their greatcoats for warmth and shelter on those rare occasions when the army remained in camp overnight, as this night looked to be. Soldiers stood and saluted their colonel as he passed their newly-established cooking fires. He returned every one, had never been one of those officers to marginalize the customs and traditions of the army.

  “Why did the man run, Sergeant?” The question was asked without anger or accusation. It simply sounded curious.

  “Well, I, er…permission to speak frankly, sir?”

  “Permission granted.” Wellesley’s tone implied that frankly had better not be too frank.

  “It’s like this, Colonel. Gilman wasn’t a bad lad at heart, or so it seemed to me, leastways. Oh, he had a bit of trouble when he first took the King’s shilling, but nothing too horrible, like. But then he…he…changed.”

  Wellesley raised an eyebrow, suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that he knew the direction in which the conversation was now heading. Nonetheless, he asked, “What do you believe caused this change, Belton?”

  The man seemed almost embarrassed to reply. “He called me a bastard, sir. Under his breath, like, so as I couldn’t hear him.”

  A flash of understanding. Now that he had been prompted, Wellesley could recall the incident as though it had taken place only yesterday. “But I did hear him. Yes, I remember the incident clearly now. I had the man placed on report for it.”

  “Yes, sir. Gilman got twenty lashes for that, and he was never quite the same after that, begging your pardon sir. I had him in mind for his own set of stripes, Colonel, but his manner had changed. He developed a bit of a rebellious streak, if you follow my meaning. I think that ever since then, he was just looking for his chance to run. ”

  “And tonight, he found it.”

  “Just so, sir.” Belton nodded. “Told Higgins that he was going for a p—, I mean, that he was going to relieve himself. Higgins thought nothing of it, didn’t get suspicious until the lad had gotten a good twenty minute head start in, and by then it was too late. Nobody admitted to seeing the boy go, which is probably the truth; it’s a big camp, after all, and them in the baggage train had their minds on breaking down the camp, not watching out for a redcoat out and about on his own.”

  Any eyewitnesses would probably have simply assumed that Gilman had a permission slip signed by an officer, Wellesley mused. Who would have paid attention to just one more redcoat in a whole sea of them?

  Wellesley stopped suddenly, forcing Belton to backtrack a couple of steps.

  “Do you think that Private Gilman was treated unfairly, Sergeant?”

  Those red eyes locked with Belton’s own and refused to let go. No glamor was being employed, but it was very, very difficult to lie to the owner of eyes like that. Instead, Sergeant Belton braced up as though on a parade square and chose the safer option. “Not for me to say, sir.” His tone was neutral, while at the same time managing to speak volumes.

  Spoken like a true sergeant. Wellesley sighed, looked away. “A politic answer, Sergeant, and as it transpires, it also happens to be the correct one. Personally, I take no joy in flogging a man, but discipline must be maintained, lest our army fall apart.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “It is of disciplinary matters that I wish to speak now, Belton. We cannot allow a deserter to evade British Army justice. It would set a precedent of the most dangerous sort.”

  “Agreed, sir.” With growing unease, Belton suddenly realized where the conversation was now heading.

  “Good, Sergeant. Very good. The closest settlement appears to be this village to the north named Mallavelly. It would seem to be the most reasonable first destination for our deserter, a place where he might try to obtain food and perhaps some clean drinking water. You will therefore take a detachment of six men to the village this evening. Search it thoroughly, but with all due courtesy and respect to the inhabitants – we are not here to make enemies of the local population, after all. But locate Gilman and bring him back here so that a more…permanent form of justice may be served.”

  “Six men, sir? What if there’s enemy about?”

  Wellesley drummed his fingertips of one hand impatiently on the hilt of his sword. “A strong detachment of cavalry scouts is preparing to sweep the area to the north of us, even as we speak. If the Tipu’s forces are abroad, it shouldn’t be too long before we know about it; in which case, we’ll all have bigger things to worry about than a single deserter.”

  “You may depend upon me, sir.” Which was the only answer that Belton could give, under the circumstances. He had caught the tail end of Nosey bleeding that jumped-up, drunken little bastard Ponsonby to death. There was no way he was going to ge
t on the Colonel’s bad side. No way in hell.

  “Good. Carry on, Sergeant.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The tiger lay stretched atop the form of the prostrate British redcoat. Its jaws were pressed firmly to the man’s exposed throat. At regular intervals, the great beast growled unconvincingly, and its victim countered with equally artificial cries of distress and pain, one hand moving weakly in a repetitive up-and-down motion.

  Tipu watched with feigned interest for a few more minutes as the tiger savaged the Englishman over and over and over again.

  “Enough, Raju.” With a wave of his hand, he signaled for the guard who was operating the crank handle to cease. Obediently, the man stepped backwards from the wooden figures and bowed respectfully to his master.

  Tipu had spared no expense in the crafting of this automata, an almost life-sized wooden representation of that most revered of all animals, the tiger, which was in turn goring that most hated of all enemies, an Englishman. It was to their enemies that he had gone first, to a visiting French major of engineers, in order to help design the intricate and yet remarkably robust pipe organ that was cunningly concealed within the tiger’s body. Once built, “Tipu’s Tiger” as it soon became to be known, was given pride of place behind his gigantic tiger throne, where it was used by turns to amuse and intimidate visitors to the fortified palace at Seringapatam, depending upon the Sultan’s fancy at the time. A member of his personal guard would crank the tiger’s handle at increasingly fast speeds, until the sounds emitted from within the internal network of pipes achieved the desired effect.

  This normally amused Tipu, raising his spirits up out of the doldrums, but for some reason it was failing to do so this evening.

  “May I ask what troubles you, Your Majesty?”

  Surprised, Tipu turned to face the newcomer. He had not heard Jamelia approach, so focused had he been upon his own thoughts.

  At first glance, it would have been easy to mistake Jamelia for a concubine of some sort. Barely into her twenties, she had the prominent cheekbones and the proud, haughty face which typified the nobility, along with the sort of unblemished dark brown skin that demanded constant care and attention when one lived in the harsh climate of a place such as Mysore.

  Look more closely, however, and the keen eye would reveal that the toned and muscular body of a trained warrior was expertly concealed beneath that brightly colored orange and black tiger-striped sari. Those rangy arms and legs had seen far greater exertions than that which might have been demanded in the Sultan’s bed chamber, a room in which she had in truth never stepped foot; they were the sort of limbs that had performed countless forceful thrusts, strikes, and kicks, all delivered with the intent to cripple or kill an opponent.

  A sash of light blue silk encircled her waist, picked out with golden braids. A jewel-encrusted dagger was also belted there, curved and wickedly sharp inside its tiger-ornamented scabbard. Its hilt also formed the roaring head of a tiger. Still more gold ran through her lustrous black hair in the form of an elegant tiara, the centerpiece of which was a large green emerald that had been carefully set to sit in the precise middle of her forehead.

  Rather than walk in the submissive manner so favored by the other females of Tipu’s court, Jamelia moved with that fluidly confident grace which was more typical of the born warrior. She appeared to be ever alert, constantly appraising her environment for any threats which might arise.

  Jamelia was one of the very few truly remarkable women who had successfully passed the stringent testing process to become a member of the Sultan’s elite personal Tiger Guard since its inception. The tests required such strength, speed, and innate ruthlessness that only the most aggressive, powerful, and cold-blooded candidates were admitted to the Guard. The others were simply buried in unmarked graves beyond the walls of Seringapatam, their names erased from memory, and were never spoken of again.

  She had risen swiftly through the ranks of the Tiger Guard until she had become the first among equals, not by laying on her back – as some malcontents dared to whisper, though never within her earshot – but based purely upon her sheer competence, ruthlessness, and innate strength. One might choose to underestimate Jamelia, and indeed many had done so over the years, but it was generally a mistake that one only ever got to make the once.

  “Troubled, my dear? Not a bit of it,” Tipu replied. “Preoccupied, perhaps. Yes, preoccupied with our friends, the English. And I must confess to more than a little surprise at seeing you returned here so soon. It has been no more than, what, three days since I dispatched you with our army. Has something gone wrong?”

  “Nothing of the sort. Our cavalry under Tamar Singh have carried out a little slash and burn, as you directed.” She spread her hands expansively. “We have not engaged the British. Our horsemen are firing everything in their path. We shall leave them precious little with which to feed their livestock, Your Majesty.”

  “What of the main force?”

  “Undetected, when I left two hours ago. We are camped behind a series of hills, not far from the village of Mallavelly. Picquets have been deployed, along with a number of our…special scouts to reinforce them.”

  “Perfect, Jamelia. You have done well.” She nodded in acceptance of the Sultan’s approbation. “Now, all that remains is for the British general – Harris, I believe – to take the next step into our trap, which I suspect he will do tomorrow.”

  Jamelia adopted a casual stance, arms crossed. “This General Harris – what do you know of him?”

  “Precious little. The man is no fool; the British are not in the habit of promoting imbeciles to high command, for the most part – although there are exceptions.” They both smiled at that. “He has, as the British say, whipped their army into the proper shape, sometimes quite literally. We would do well not to underestimate them.”

  “I do not fear these red-coated men,” Jamelia sneered. “Nor am I afraid of their traitorous lackeys from Hyderabad. I have bested them in battle before, and I shall best them again.”

  “I truly believe that you shall, my little tigress.” Tipu extended a hand and caressed her cheek with affection. Jamelia smiled, though it never quite reached her eyes. This was the one man in all of India who could get away with condescending to her so. Any other man would have lost his eyes or his manhood. “Come. Let us talk of how we shall crush these dogs on the plains of Mysore.”

  Behind the huge throne – elaborately carved, like so much else in this room, in the shape of a rearing tiger – was a table, on which was spread a detailed map of the region. Mallavelly was too small to rate inclusion, but Tipu pointed to its approximate location, knew the area quite well. “The British are currently encamped here, I have been told. Just here is the village in which we picked up our guest. Their intent is obvious.”

  “They mean to drive directly on to Seringapatam and dethrone you.”

  “Just so,” Tipu nodded. “March, besiege, and storm. Such is the British way of war, and Harris is almost certainly a general of the old school.”

  “Our walls are strong, Your Majesty. As are our soldiers and our cannon,” Jamelia said passionately. Her confidence in the army of Mysore was matched only by her disdain for the British, Tipu knew. “The British Army is large, and with size comes bloat. You have established food stores and other supplies aplenty here in the city. Let the British encircle us. We can simply wait them out. The weather shall soon turn to monsoon, and their army will wither and die on the vine.” Jamelia was one of the few Indians who had received a classical British education, and it showed sometimes in her manner of speaking.

  “Yes, our walls are strong,” the Sultan agreed. “But they are not impregnable, for that wall has never been built - nor shall it ever be. Our enemy possesses a number of heavy cannon, and their artillery officers are masters in the employment of such weapons. True, we have reinforced our inner and outer walls, and we also have a few other unpleasant surprises in store for the British, but it is inevitab
le that they shall make a breach, sooner or later. Unless, of course, we thin out the herd before they arrive.”

  “Which is precisely why you dispatched the army three days ago,” she smirked. Tipu matched her grin with a toothier one.

  “Just so, my dear. These are the hills of which you speak?” He indicated a patch of high ground just beyond the village to its north and west, and Jamelia nodded. The British were only a stone’s throw away, he saw. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. Tipu tapped the area around Mallavelly repeatedly for emphasis. “Then it is here that we shall bait our trap.”

  “Before leaving, I had left orders for my commanders to deploy the field guns and infantry here on the high ground, where they will have the greatest advantage,” Jamelia said. Her expression seemed almost vacant, however. She was seeing the battlefield in her mind’s eye, focusing on every wrinkle of terrain, the village of Mallavelly, and the slope leading up to the high ground beyond it. “Tease the British with a prize – something valuable enough to be worth biting off, yet not so tough that it cannot be easily chewed.”

  “Cavalry.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty - cavalry,” she agreed. A demonstration before the British, nothing more than that. The point is not to engage them; that will come later, all being well. Our goal shall be strictly to entice them to follow us. Once they are fully committed and their soldiers’ blood is up, our cavalry will withdraw. The British will follow, and if all is as Allah wills it, the trap shall be sprung.” Jamelia was not a Muslim herself, but had no hesitation in invoking the Prophet’s name if it would get her what she wanted from the Sultan.

  “The British will follow our cavalry right into the mouth of our field guns and infantry,” Jamelia went on.