.

grasped, where a misjudgement would be catastrophic. Barely four hundred British infantry and gunners would have to cow several thousand angry Indians and, if they failed, the mutiny would almost certainly spread right across the Bombay Presidency.

      ‘What in God’s name is going on, Morgan?’ As Morgan emerged from the now clear gate of the fort, he was hailed by Richard Carmichael, commander of Number One Company.

      As usual, Carmichael was perfectly turned out. He’d been the very definition of irritation on the voyage out from Kingstown with an inflatable mattress, waxed-cotton waterproofs and all manner of gutta-percha luggage and opinions to match. Now he stood before Morgan in his scarlet shell jacket and snowy cap, pulling gently at a slim cigar whilst his company and the other two of this wing of the 95th trooped up to join Morgan’s own men.

      ‘What are the commanding officer’s orders; what does he want me to do?’

      There was almost six foot of the dapper Harrovian, and whilst he wore the Crimea medals with aplomb, there wasn’t a man present who hadn’t heard the rumours of his ducking from the fight at Inkermann. ‘I’ll tell you as soon as the other companies are complete, Carmichael,’ Morgan replied as calmly as possible. ‘Bugler, blow “company commanders”, please.’

      This was going to be difficult, thought Morgan. That prig Carmichael was senior to him by a long chalk; indeed, he’d served under him for three months in the Crimea until he was wounded – and he’d hated every minute of it. But his brevet rank of major now meant that he was the senior captain present in the field and, especially as Colonel Hume had given him his authority, he would take command of the four companies present – and Carmichael could go hang.

      Now the bugle notes floated over the hot midday air, signalling the other captains commanding companies to gather together to receive orders. Carmichael’s company had arrived at the head of the marching dusty, sweating column, but as the bugle brayed its command, so Captains Bazalgette and Massey came trotting past their men, swords and haversacks bouncing, to be told what to do.

      ‘So, Morgan, tell me exactly what Hume wants, if you please, so that I can tell the other two.’ Carmichael stared hard at Morgan, who made no reply. ‘Come on, man. We’ve just passed three battalions of natives, who seem to be heading off to some parade yonder.’ Carmichael flicked a well-manicured hand towards the maidan, half a mile down a gentle slope below the fort. ‘This could turn damned sticky, so don’t waste time.’

      When Carmichael wasn’t physically present, Morgan was fine. He knew how badly he’d behaved in the Crimea, how the men hated him and the other officers resented his arrogance and snobbery, yet in the flesh his supreme confidence and belief in his own rectitude was hard to overcome.

      ‘No…’ Morgan had to clear his throat, ‘…no, Carmichael, the commanding officer has asked me to take command whilst he’s conducting a court martial in the fort. I’ll just wait until Bazalgette and Massey join us.’

      Carmichael was about to object when Colour-Sergeant McGucken came striding up to join them. With a stamp that raised a puff of dust, the Scot banged his boots together and slapped the sling of his rifle in a salute straight from the drill manual.

      ‘Well, sir, grand to see you.’ The irony in McGucken’s voice was hardly noticeable. He’d been Carmichael’s Colour-Sergeant until he was wounded at Inkermann – not that the cowardly bastard had dared to come to help him amongst the death, screams and yells that still haunted McGucken’s dreams. ‘Quite like old times, ain’t it, sir?’ With a hawk, the Glaswegian sent a green oyster of phlegm spinning into the dust.

      ‘You’ll be wanting the other companies to move off straight away, will you, sir?’ McGucken had read the situation perfectly. He wasn’t going to let the wretched Carmichael, senior captain or not, ruin his company commander’s chance to command a whole wing, particularly when it looked as though there was a sniff of trouble in the wind. ‘I’ll keep ’em in the same order of march, sir, whilst you brief the officers, with your leave. Is there time to loosen belts and light a pipe, sir?’ McGucken’s steady stream of common sense overwhelmed Carmichael.

      ‘Yes, Colour-Sar’nt, same order of march, but I’ll be no time at all with the captains, so just stand them easy, please,’ Morgan said, making no room for argument from Carmichael. ‘Then send a sergeant and ten up to the commanding officer in the fort. They’ll be used to escort any prisoners down to the execution site.’

      ‘Sir, I’ll send Sar’nt Ormond with Corporal Pegg an’ a peck o’ lads.’ Then, with a bellowed, ‘Colour-Sar’nts on me,’ McGucken took charge of the other companies whilst the three captains formed a knot round Morgan.

      ‘Gentlemen, Colonel Hume has asked me to move the wing down to the maidan for a slightly unpleasant task.’ Morgan kept his voice deliberately low so that the other captains had to give him every bit of their attention.

      Commanding Number Three Company, Captain the Honourable Edward Massey, with a recently bought captaincy in the 95th from the 7th Fusiliers, had kept a friendly, if slightly aloof distance from his brother officers since he’d joined six months before. Bazalgette, commanding Number Two, was as different as possible – adored by his men and a great favourite in the mess. Below a thatch of hair his coarse features were split by a grin that was as open as a book; not even his sun-peeled nose, which stuck blotchily out from beneath the peak of his white-covered cap, could spoil the obvious pleasure that he had in being there amongst friends. Typically, he’d let his company smoke on the march up from the docks and now, out of respect for Morgan’s temporary authority, he held his own pipe discreetly out of sight behind his back.

      As he pulled the bit of clay from his mouth, Morgan noticed the claw that held it. Two canister shot had passed through that hand as Bazalgette led the advance on the bullet-swept slopes of the Alma almost three years ago; now it was permanently clenched into a pink, scaly comma that Bazalgette never bothered to hide.

      ‘You saw the three native battalions on the march, I gather. They’re armed but have no ammunition, just in case they decide to turn on us. Three men, one from each battalion, are currently being court-martialled by the colonel for attempted mutiny and it seems likely that some or all of them will be condemned to death.’ Morgan looked at the three faces that were gathered around him; he had their complete attention.

      ‘A troop of Bombay gunners should meet us at the Azad maidan. I’m sending an escort to the commanding officer to bring anyone that he condemns down to the execution site, and we’ll then have to blow the poor wretches from the muzzles of the guns whilst their comrades watch.’ Morgan looked at his brother officers. All of them had seen death before, but never an execution.

      ‘It’s crucial that we don’t give an inch in front of these people. Any hesitation, any sign of uncertainty, could be enough for them to rise, so we’ll put one gun between each of the companies, let the gunners load and allow the sepoys to chew on that for a while. Then, as the prisoners are tied to the muzzles by the gunners, I’ll give the order for us to load…’ Morgan paused to let this instruction sink in, ‘…and I want that good and clean, no dropping of cartridges or ramrods. Then, at my word, the front rank will kneel. Any sign of unrest and we’ll volley into the lot of ’em, but that will only happen on my or the commanding officer’s order, is that clear?’ Morgan looked hard and deliberately into Carmichael’s eyes.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Bazalgette and Massey replied formally, whilst Carmichael just nodded.

      Morgan produced his watch from the breast of his shell jacket. ‘We’ll march at five-and-twenty past, at attention. No smoking, if you please. Any questions? None…right, carry on.’

      Only Carmichael failed to acknowledge Morgan’s new authority with a salute. He turned stiffly away from the group, striding off to his own command as quickly as he could, his whole beautifully tailored frame stiff with indignation, little puffs of dust spurting up from his boots where his angry heels met the ground.

      Belts were settled, haversacks pulled down on the men’s sweat-damp thighs and water bottles hung carefully in a vain attempt