Sword of the Mogul (Empire and Honor Book 3) by Harold R. Thompson

Author:Harold R. Thompson [Thompson, Harold R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zumaya Yesterdays
Published: 2015-06-08T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

The Ganges Valley

July 1857

General Havelock’s army snaked along the grand trunk road, the general and his staff riding in the van. The campaign was underway at last.

Behind Havelock rode Colonel Hamilton of the 78th Highlanders, with him the pipes and corps drummers of his regiment, marching and playing in the heat, stirring onward the long column of soldiers.

Barker walked alongside No. 3 Company. The men were formed in fours to the right, rifles sloped on their left shoulders. Sweat poured from under their covered forage caps and soaked the armpits of their white frocks, but no one drooped. The pipes and drums were enough to combat the heat and discomfort. When the pipes began to play and the drums beat in time, sagging heads and hunched shoulders stiffened and straightened. Hundreds of boots crunched as one on the hard road. The martial music put a bit of spirit into everyone’s step.

Barker looked back along the column. Behind the Highlanders marched the Madras Fusiliers—the Blue Caps—also sweating in their wool tunics. The 64th and 84th regiments were next, then the Ferozepore Sikhs. The field guns, bronze 9-pounders of the Royal Artillery, rolled along behind teams of draft bullocks, some on the road and some on the bare plain.

After the artillery came the baggage—camels bearing ammunition boxes, the long line of elephants loaded with provisions, the bullock carts filled with shot. At last, in the rear of the column, the great mob of civilians and camp followers straggled along. Natives still loyal to the British trailed the army to ply their wares and to curry favour in the event of victory.

It had been a swift forced march so far, despite its trials. Supply problems had delayed the departure of the column until July 7th. It had rained much of the time. When the sun had come out, it was broiling-hot, the temperature rising above a hundred and thirty degrees. Many men had fallen out of ranks with heat prostration, and there had been more small outbreaks of cholera.

The terrain was also difficult. The torrential rains had flooded the low-lying fields, while deep nullahs cut across other parts of the plain, sometimes bisecting the road. The guns had to pause at the nullahs while teams of men attacked the banks with spades, making earthen ramps. The artillery was then able to roll down one ramp and up the other.

Now and then, the column encountered evidence of the passage of Major Renaud’s advance force. In the villages and along the road stood numerous burned and abandoned bungalows. In some places, bodies dangled from trees, their rotting limbs picked over by vultures.

“Not all of these fellows are sepoys,” Barker had commented as they passed one grisly collection of native corpses.

“They’re all Pandies, Sergeant,” Private Douglas Marten said from the ranks.

“And you would know a treasonous rebel when you saw him, wouldn’t you, Marten?” Barker snapped. “I highly doubt it.”

It promised to be a war of immense cruelty, the sergeant thought. Although he supposed war might actually be the very definition of cruelty.

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