Free Land of Hope and Glory by Geoffrey Wilson

thieves, all of them.’
    Sengar smiled, clearly enjoying himself. ‘No problem at all, my lady. It’s a pleasure to be of service.’ He dismounted and namasted the Rajthanans. ‘Now, tell me what happened.’
    ‘A band of ruffians,’ the woman said. ‘Pink ruffians.’
    ‘Yes, about twenty of them,’ a tall Rajthanan man said. ‘They came out of the hills on horseback and threw some sort of bomb at the engine. There was a huge explosion. The train carried on for a few more miles after that, thankfully. I don’t know what would have happened if we’d had to stop right there.’
    ‘What did they look like, these men?’ Sengar asked.
    ‘Just filthy Europeans,’ the woman said. ‘Peasants.’
    ‘I didn’t get a good look at them,’ the man said. ‘But yes, just peasants, that’s all. There was one man with them, though . . . a tall brute with a shaved head. He seemed to be their leader. It looked as though he was shouting at them and ordering them about at any rate.’
    Sengar shot a look at Jack, who was still sitting astride his mare.
    Jack tried to read Sengar’s expression. Was he supposed to recognise William from that description?
    But Sengar said nothing and looked back at the Rajthanans. ‘Do you know where the driver is?’
    ‘Somewhere up there, I think.’ The Rajthanan man pointed towards the smouldering engine.
    ‘Right,’ Sengar replied. ‘Wait here a moment.’
    Sengar ordered two cavalrymen to remain as guards, then mounted his horse and led the party towards the head of the train. Hundreds of European passengers had spread out along the tracks. Some were wealthy merchants or officials in fur-trimmed cloaks and feathered caps, but most were poorer and would have been crowded into third class with standing room only. People were beginning to give up on the train ever starting again and were drifting away towards the road, dragging heavy sacks and boxes along with them.
    Jack caught a waft of sattva and felt a familiar ripple across his skin. The railway line, as was common, followed a strong stream – it meant the avatars could run faster and with less coal.
    The smell grew stronger as the dark shape of the engine appeared ahead in the smoke and steam. Two figures stood nearby, indistinct in the haze.
    Sengar paused and called out, ‘Where’s the driver?’
    One of the figures waved his arm in a broad stroke. ‘Over here.’
    Sengar glanced back, then snorted and shook his head.
    When Jack looked over his shoulder he saw that the French were several feet behind, muttering and dithering. Sergeant Lefevre peered nervously into the steam and scowled when he noticed Jack watching him. No doubt he believed sattva and avatars were the work of Shaitan.
    ‘You stay here,’ Sengar said to the French. ‘Kansal, Casey, come with me.’
    Sengar, Kansal and Jack dismounted, left their horses with the cavalrymen and walked into the sooty mist. The black, lobster-like train avatar loomed over them, hissing and steaming within the casing of the engine carriage. Its claws, stalks and feelers drooped towards the ground and the only sign of movement was the slight, irregular back and forward motion of a piston on its side.
    The driver wore a blue tunic, smeared grey with coal dust and oil, and a partially unravelled turban. He had the dark-olive skin of a Gypsy or half-caste – the only two groups who would work for the railway service. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery. ‘It’s terrible, sirs, terrible.’
    His colleague, also in railway-service uniform, nodded.
    ‘She won’t move, can’t move.’ The driver dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Reckon she won’t live much longer.’
    ‘Where’s the damage?’ Sengar asked.
    The driver nodded and took them around to the other side of the avatar.
    ‘Big engine,’ Kansal said over the sound of the steam. ‘Never seen one that size.’
    ‘They grow large in England,’ Sengar replied. ‘Strong sattva.’
    Jack had often heard this