Ghost Fire Read online

Theo lay in his cot, staring at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, to obliterate the thoughts tearing him apart. Again and again, he saw the shameful sight of Constance’s naked body, her ecstasy as she rode Gerard. It made him want to be sick. Why did he care so much? He was confused.

  A boat bumped alongside. A moment later, footsteps thumped across the upper deck. He heard muffled conversation. Was it Gerard? One of the Company agents come to retrieve him?

  A shout came down the companionway. “All hands on deck.”

  Theo lay still, hardly daring to breathe. What if Gerard had decided to accept his challenge, after all? Whether with swords or pistols, his cousin had a formidable reputation that Theo had only remembered belatedly. He listened to the bare-footed sailors moving through the ship, assembling on deck.

  If they had come for him, it would not do to be taken in his cabin, like a cat in a sack. Honor demanded he should at least confront them.

  Honor. The word tasted like bile in his mouth.

  He climbed the companionway ladder. On deck, the sailors were assembled in rows, their backs to Theo, while a perspiring soldier with a colonel’s epaulets on his red coat addressed them.

  No one paid Theo the least attention.

  “The enemy has already taken our settlement upriver at Kasim Bazar,” the colonel was saying. “They have captured the artillery and taken the governor captive in chains.”

  The crew heard the news impassively. They were merchant sailors, not navy men. They could service their guns if attacked, but they had little interest in other people’s fights.

  “Siraj-ud-daula, the nawab, is marching on Calcutta with five hundred elephants and fifty thousand men.”

  Murmurs of surprise and unease rippled through the crew.

  “Fight them yourself,” called one of the sailors. “You’ve got a garrison.”

  “This beastly climate has taken its toll on our men. I make no bones about it, we are under strength. We need more soldiers.”

  “How many have you?”

  The colonel flushed. “All told, some four hundred and twenty men.”

  “What about the militia?”

  “That is including the militia.”

  “Four hundred men against fifty thousand?” said one of the sailors.

  “Fifty thousand darkies,” said another. “One charge of grapeshot and they’ll run all the way to Bombay.”

  “According to our reports, there are French officers in the nawab’s army. They will teach the blacks to fight.” The colonel looked around the assembled tars, taking in their hard faces. “Who will join us?”

  No one spoke.

  “There are women and children in the fort,” the colonel pleaded. “Do you know what the nawab will do if he captures them?”

  Theo stepped forward. “You say there are Frenchmen with the nawab?”

  “So we are informed.”

  “Then I am with you.”

  It was the easiest decision he had ever made. All he wanted was to fight, to find some outlet for all the rage and hurt inside him. If Gerard would not give him satisfaction, he would take it out on the French. It would be some measure of revenge on the nation that had murdered his parents. And if he died in battle—defending Constance—perhaps then she would see how wrong she had been to betray him.

  “I’ll come.” One of the sailors jumped down from the shrouds where he had been listening. “The French killed my brother in a raid. I’d welcome a chance to repay the debt with interest.”

  He had an unfamiliar accent, like a West Country burr but deeper. He stood beside Theo and gave him a wink.

  “Any others?” The colonel scanned the faces in front of him. “Will no one answer the demands of honor?”

  Honor. Theo flinched to hear the word again.

  “In any event,” said the ship’s captain, “I cannot spare more of my crew. I am short-handed already. And if the fortress falls, and you have to evacuate the inhabitants, you will need every man to work this ship.”

  “Evacuate?” The colonel gave a braying laugh, the sound of invincible confidence. “It will never come to that.”

  •••

  Theo and the other volunteer clambered down the side into the boat that had brought the colonel. Half a dozen more men sat waiting, gathered from the other ships in the river. All too few against the army of fifty thousand that was approaching.

  “Nathan Claypole,” the other volunteer introduced himself. He was tall and loose-limbed, with sinewy muscles honed from climbing masts and hauling ropes. He wore his brown hair tied back in a short queue, and thick hooped earrings. His forearm carried a tattoo of a snake wound around an anchor, expertly inked but spoiled by a thick scar that split it in two.

  “Theo Courtney.”

  Theo remembered what the man had said about his family. “I was sorry to hear about your brother. Did he fight in the war?”

  “Not any war that was ever declared.” Nathan plucked out an earring. To Theo’s surprise, he unscrewed one end of it, revealing a hollow inside. Carefully, Nathan pulled out a plug of tobacco and stuffed it into his pipe. “I come from New Hampshire. America,” he added, in case Theo did not know. “My family settled there before I was born.”

  That explained the accent. “Is it near Virginia?”

  “Not especially. Have you been to Virginia?”

  “I have read about it in a story.” It was in Moll Flanders, Constance’s favorite book. He did not want to think of that. “I have heard it is a wild country,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Nathan, thoughtfully. “In summer, with the sun in the trees and the rivers overflowing with salmon, it can feel like paradise. There is a kind of freedom, I suppose. But it brings dangers.”

  “To your brother?”

  Nathan lit his pipe, puffing at it until the bowl glowed red. “The laws are not held in such high regard on the frontier. With so much for the taking, every man thinks it should be his. A few years back, the French in Québec allied with the local Abenaki Indians. Sent a raiding party down, without warning. They fell on our homestead and killed my brother, his wife and their children. I was at sea. I had no news of it until almost a year after it happened, and then I was on the wrong side of the world.”

  “I am sorry,” said Theo. “My parents died when the French bombarded Madras.”

  Nathan puffed on his pipe. “I thought of returning home, joining the militia to gain some measure of revenge. But that would not bring my brother back. Perhaps now I can make amends.”

  Theo nodded. If his parents had not died, he would not have come to Calcutta, and if he had not come here, he would never have lost Constance to Gerard. “The French took everything from me.”

  “Then let’s hope we can pick out a few of them among the fifty thousand Indians.”

  •••

  “And there were no others willing to enlist from the ships?”

  Governor Drake sat at the head of the table in the council room, a long chamber that spanned the full width of the building. It could have held a hundred men, though only ten sat at the table, each in an upholstered mahogany chair wide enough for three. Through the long windows, those on the right side of the table could see the full panorama of the fortress walls, and the shipping that plied the river—the source of their wealth. Whatever titles the Mughal emperor might bestow, however many nawabs and nizams he might appoint, these men were the true kings of Bengal. And they knew it.

  Drake was the governor, thirty-four years old and as unpopular as any man so rich could be. At his right and left sat his two deputies, Messrs. Manningham and Frankland, resplendent in the newly tailored uniforms of a colonel and a lieutenant colonel. They were Company men, merchants, with no more military training than the youngest child in the fort. But there was glory to be won, and they were determined it should be theirs. There were also practical implications. Siraj would travel with his full court treasury. If they captured it the spoils would be divided according to rank.

  The govern
or’s question hung unanswered in the long room.

  “Numbers do not matter,” said Manningham. He had been a colonel for a day and he was convinced he had mastered the art of warfare. “One taste of our grapeshot will send the darkies scurrying for the hills.”

  “It would—if we had any grapeshot.” The speaker was Deegan, still dressed in his Indian coat and turban. In the emergency organization of the garrison, he had been assigned the job of quartermaster.

  “According to our ledgers, we have at least a thousand rounds of grape,” said Manningham.

  “We inspected the magazines today,” Deegan answered. “Worms had got to the canisters and devoured them whole.”

  “Then we will load our guns with regular shot and blast them to bits. I assume the worms have not eaten the balls.” Manningham looked around the table, sharing the joke at Deegan’s expense.

  “Oh, we have shot,” said Deegan. “But the powder’s wet as a tart’s knickers, and in this weather it won’t dry properly until November.” He took grim pleasure in delivering the news.

  The others accepted it in silence.

  “Then what should we do?”

  The governor turned to the fort’s engineer, a florid Irishman named O’Hara. “You have inspected the town’s defenses?”

  O’Hara puffed out his cheeks. “I have.”

  “And?”

  “The town is indefensible.” There were murmurs of shock and disbelief. “The ditch we started digging some years back is now choked with scrub and rubble. In any event, it was never completed. We must focus our efforts on the fort. That is not ideal either.” He walked to the north windows and pointed to the large mansions that ringed the fort. “As you can see, we are hindered by those buildings, which command our defenses.”

  “I will remind you, sir, that ‘those buildings’ are our homes,” said Colonel Manningham. “That is my house you are pointing at.”

  “And from your bedroom, enemy marksmen will have a clear field of fire straight into the fort.”

  “Then what do you propose?” said Governor Drake. “We cannot simply remove them.”

  “Demolish them with explosives.”

  Frankland laughed out loud—a high-pitched giggle that trailed off as he realized O’Hara was deadly serious.

  “But that is preposterous!” Manningham exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how much my house is worth?”

  “More than your life?” asked O’Hara.

  “There is no question of demolishing the houses,” said Drake, trying to quell the outraged babble that had erupted around the table. “We must not let Siraj and his army get within a mile of our homes. Where can we hold them off?”

  O’Hara unrolled a map of the city and spread it over the table. The others crowded round. “The nawab’s army will approach from the north. I propose we put a small garrison here”—he tapped a place on the north edge of the city—“in the guardhouse at Perrin’s Garden. A redoubt there should hold up the enemy a little while.”

  “As soon as the nawab sees we mean to fight, he will offer terms,” said Drake, confidently. “He needs the Company and the money we put in his treasury.”

  “If the redoubt is overrun, we will fall back.” O’Hara continued as if Drake had not spoken. “We will barricade the main avenues to the north, east and south of the fort, and place batteries there.”

  “Let Siraj try to advance,” cried Frankland. Powder from his wig had made a soggy crust on his golden lieutenant colonel’s epaulets. “We will paint the town with his blood.”

  “Should the barricades fall, we will retreat to the fort. And God help us then,” O’Hara muttered under his breath.

  The warning was lost as Drake banged the table to conclude the meeting. “I believe that will do. Colonel Manningham, prepare your men for battle. In a week, I wager, we will all be heroes.”

  Throughout the discussion, Gerard Courtney had not spoken, studying the papers before him in silence. He was not interested in the petty politics of the council: he did not take sides, because he despised them all equally. Nor did he care for gaudy uniforms and trumped-up ranks. It was the substance of power that he cared about. What troubled him was that he could feel its absence in the room.

  Manningham took his arm as he was leaving. “You know your young cousin has volunteered for my army? I found him aboard ship. I believe he intended to quit Calcutta.”

  There was a devious tone in his voice. Even now, Manningham would seize on any gossip to embarrass his trading rival.

  “Theo had an unfortunate encounter with a woman he loved. You know how young men can be.”

  “I dare say. A little taste of battle will do wonders for his heart—make a man of him.”

  “I am sure your leadership will inspire him.” An idea began to form in Gerard’s mind. “Actually, I feel he has the makings of an excellent soldier. I wonder, would it be possible for you to give him a position where he could earn a full share of the glory? If you were to do me this favor, I would be greatly in your debt.”

  Manningham took the hint. A debt from Gerard Courtney was always a useful card to have up one’s sleeve. “I shall see to it at once. Too many Indians and foreigners in our army for my taste. They need Englishmen to stiffen their spines. I will give him command of a battery on the west tower.”

  “I am obliged. But I fear Siraj’s army will flee before they come in musket shot of the fort. I was hoping for somewhere the boy can taste a little more action.” Gerard pretended to think. “How about the redoubt you spoke of, at Perrin’s Garden?”

  The colonel stared at him. “But that redoubt is our most exposed position. I fear, sir, it is a post from which the men may not return.”

  “A suicide mission,” said Gerard, calmly. “But a man might win honor and renown.”

  “Well—yes.”

  “Then give my cousin the command. There are Frenchmen in the nawab’s army, and it was the French who killed Theo’s parents. I assure you, he would make any sacrifice to gain his revenge. He will never yield on a point of honor.”

  Manningham wiped his brow. He had a gift for sniffing out cunning and treachery: he could sense it now, and it worried him that he did not understand the game. Did Gerard Courtney think that, by putting his cousin in the front line, he would gain a share of the glory?

  It did not matter. When the reports were written back to London—copied to the newspapers—they would record that Colonel Manningham had led the defense and gallantly repelled the Indian hordes. He did not intend to go anywhere he might come in range of the enemy’s guns.

  “I shall speak to your cousin at once.”

  •••

  Theo and Nathan stood on the wharf below the fortress walls. The low sun shone on the river, casting a vivid orange light that made the ships, the water and the fort the color of flame.

  Theo squinted at the bill in his hand. “It says there should be twenty-four guns in this battery.”

  They had counted them all, twice. There were fewer than half of that number. Some of the gun carriages had been eaten by woodworm and collapsed; others had accumulated so much dirt they would need boring out. Several had simply disappeared.

  “The Company calculates that every penny it spends on defense is a penny less profit,” said Nathan. “They are about to receive a full accounting for their parsimony.” He took out his sheath knife. He held the blade in front of one of the cannons, angling it so that the steel reflected sunlight into its mouth. “What do you see?”

  Theo knelt and peered down the barrel. “There are strange markings.” In the flickering light, he could see that the inner bore of the gun was pitted with hundreds of tiny holes.

  “Honeycombing,” said Nathan. “These guns fire salutes every time a ship weighs or drops anchor. But the crews have been lazy. They have not swabbed them out and cleaned them as they should. The powder residue reacts with the dampness in the air and eats away at the casting. If you fired a ball, the barrel would shatter like glass.”


  Theo was horrified. “Are all the guns like this?”

  “Some. Others are worse.” Nathan led Theo along the wharf to a pile of long nine-pounder cannon barrels, stacked like sawn logs behind a collection of empty water barrels. “These were never taken into the fort—who knows how many years they have sat here? They have corroded so badly you could not even get a spark down the touch-hole.”

  Theo stared at the pile of metal, flakes of rust scattered around it like sawdust. Dreams of glory faded. “How are we meant to fight the nawab with this?”

  “Mr. Courtney?”

  Theo jumped to attention as Colonel Manningham strode across the wharf, still stiff in his new coat. Theo marveled that the tailors had had time to run up such elaborate uniforms when the threat was so close.

  “The governor has given orders that you are to be commissioned as an ensign, with immediate effect.”

  Theo’s face glowed. At last he would get the chance to prove himself.

  “You will join the garrison of the redoubt at Perrin’s Garden.” Manningham put a hand on Theo’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “It is a weighty responsibility for one so young. I fear the brunt of the attack will fall on your post.”

  “It will be an honor, sir. Thank you.”

  “And me, sir?” inquired Nathan.

  Manningham gave him a vacant look. “You, too.”

  The colonel retreated inside the fort. Nathan gave Theo a crooked look. “Do you wonder why they are so keen to put you in the front line?”

  “I hope because they trust my courage,” said Theo.

  “Have you been in battle before?”

  “In Madras, when the French attacked.”

  “But in the thick of a fight, when men come at you from every side, and the only difference between your life and theirs is the sword in your hands?” Nathan touched the scar that bisected the tattoo on his arm. “Our ship was boarded by pirates once, off Madagascar. We were fighting for our lives. It was a terrible thing. No man knows how he will fare until he is in that situation.”

  “The Indians will not press the attack. Everyone says so.”

  Nathan kicked the gun carriage. The wood creaked; the whole assembly shuddered. “Then let us hope everyone is right.”