There was a long walkway, timber walls on their left, paling fences on their right, no turning to be seen. They ran, Delahey in the lead, pulling the boy along. Chatham followed, revolver in hand, glancing over his shoulder for sounds of pursuit. None came. For a moment, Chatham regretted abandoning his beer. Then a shattering, this narrow and tight passage was wrenched open with a crash of splintered timber. Tri-spiked grappling hooks snatched the fencing away like snapped matchsticks. Many clawing brown hands grabbed at the three men and dragged them into deeper darkness. Through dense and scraping bushes they went and then suddenly stumbled down, as if gulped in dry by the parched earth.
They could smell the spices on the brown hands that reached out to grab them. Sinewy arms encircled them pinning their arms. Instinctively, both sergeants reacted. They stamped down hard with steel shod boots on sandaled feet. They heard bones cracking and yelps of pain. Chatham freed a hand and pulled out his revolver firing blindly into darkness. A burst of flame but the bullet went who knows where, echoing harmlessly, scraping unseen cavern walls. Delahay stamped down hard and lifted his powerful arms to break his own encirclement hitting out with his elbows. He reached for his revolver but found it gone from its holster. He froze in panic. Was his own gun being pointed at his back even now? But glancing down he dimly perceived that his Webley was in Noone’s unwavering hand, held just below the level of his eyes. Noone peered and fired - a scream. He peered again and fired a screetch. Peered again, fired again, a torrent of babbling hate from scorched pain. Then they heard the sound of scampering feet receding in the darkness.
Delahay lit a match and stared at Noone unbelievingly.
‘I do it better than you do, Sergeant’, said the boy flatly.
‘And tell me, if I may ask, how do you know how well I do it?’ the Ulsterman asked.
‘I’m just guessing that you do it much the same as everybody else, Sergeant, and I’m grateful for what you did back there but when it comes to shooting, I think I might be the best.‘
‘ ‘And how did that come to be, boy?’
‘We’re glad it did mind,’ said Chatham, looking over his shoulder as he scanned the darkness.
‘I don’t know,’ Noone replied. ‘I wish I did’.
‘You mean it’s a sort of knack you have; killing people in the dark?’ said Delahay.
‘No, or at least it might be, I don’t know. The thing is you see, that I can’t remember why it is that I can do it.’
‘You can’t remember learning to shoot, being a good shot?’
‘Sergeant... Sir, I can’t remember anything at all.’
Chatham fired off a shot in the direction of where the scampering may have led. All he achieved was acrid gun smoke adding to the darkening gloom.
Then from the barely lighter entrance of the tunnel, advancing through the darkness, bayoneted rifle at the ready, was the American Colour Sergeant. Moving stealthily from shadow to shadow, he advanced.
Next, some way behind him, came the unmistakable chug, chug clatter of a patrol at the double. Lanterns were raised, rifles cross chest.
‘Here they are. Sir,’ shouted the company sergeant in the lead. ‘We found them.‘
Captain Oswald Fitzgerald, of the Bengal Lancers was the sort of officer of empire who could dance, sport, run and battle without removing his monocle except to polish it to a glassy gleam. Perhaps he could even make love with it clamped into his face, although looking at him would make that situation seem unlikely. He strode forward taking control. It came naturally to him.
‘Ah, well done, Colour Sergeant’ he waved. ‘In the lead as ever, I see, well done, excellent.’
Then, out of the darkness came an almost naked figure running, blood on his brow. His hands reached out to grab the Colour Sergeant. Too slow to react, Delahey could only watch approvingly as the American, regulation style, pushed his bayonet into his assailant’s chest twisting and withdrawing the blade in one movement. Then, as the Indian fell forward onto his knees, his white eyes wide, his mouth gaping noiselessly, he thrust the blade into the falling man’s throat. There was a gurgle and then lifelessness.
‘He was well trained somewhere, then,’ Delahey muttered to Chatham.
‘Thorough, isn’t he?’ Chatham replied.
‘A bit Showy, do you think?’ said Delahey.
‘Showy, yes and very thorough.’
There was silence then as they all strained to hear the merest shifting of a pebble in the darkness.
‘Well that seems to have finished this fracas’ said Fitzgerald, holstering his revolver.
‘Sergeant,’ he said turning to the patrol sergeant, ‘take your men and advance down the tunnel, take prisoners if you can but be careful.’
Right, you two’ he turned to Delahay and Chatham. I can’t think what you’ve been playing at. Never mind, you can explain later, I doubt it matters much. I’m Captain Fitzgerald and I know who you two are. The C in C wants to see you.’
‘Now?’ said Chatham.
‘About an hour ago, actually,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘Kitchener won’t be kept waiting at the best of times and he is in a foul mood now.’
‘No, not quite this minute,’ said Chatham. ‘Bring me a lantern.’
Holding the light above him Chatham walked into darkness. There was the body of one of the men that Noone had shot. Chatham had no doubt that there should have been two others. Wounded or dead they had been carried away. On a plinth in a niche in the cavern wall there was a ghastly figure, an idol poised as if guarding the tunnel. It was the figure of a crazed and dancing woman. She had four arms. In one hand there was a sword, wickedly slashing. It was held above another hand, this one dangling a human head, red painted blood dripping. Her other two hands made gestures that meant nothing to him.
‘Well, gentlemen, meet the Hindu Goddess Kali’, said Fitzgerald. ‘Enough to give you nightmares, don’t you think?’
‘But on the other hand, she is a good mother, apparently,’ said the American, smiling. ‘I’m Mortimer Angel. I’m happy to have rescued you.’
‘Does this mean that these men were Thugs?’ asked Chatham, ignoring the word “rescue”.
‘No, said the American. I doubt it. Your Company did for them near half a century ago. Past them their salt and then some, I’d say.’
‘Just Dacoits then,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘common murderers and thieves.’
‘Seems we put them to a lot of trouble then’, said Chatham. A fair bit of breaking and entering, if you ask me, just to rob a pair of down at heel Sergeants.’
‘Should we be in full fig, Sir?’ Delahey asked the Captain.
‘There isn’t time,’ said Fitzgerald. Follow me quickly and try to smarten up a bit as we go. Who’s the boy, what is he doing here?’
‘He’s with us’, said Delahey, ‘and what he is doing here is being with us.’
‘Quickly then,’ said Fitzgerald.
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