Free The Cannons of Lucknow by V. A. Stuart Page A

“And I’ll attend personally to the clearing of your riding school. But I understand that the general considers this trial of great importance, since it will be the first of its kind here. Justice must not only be done, it must be seen to be done. The death sentence is, of course, mandatory for all native officers and sepoys taken in mutiny, and the subedar will undoubtedly be sentenced to death. It’s essential, however, that his guilt is proven, and you were there when we found the Nana’s letter on him. You were also there when he carried out the Nana’s orders and fired on the boats which managed to escape from the Suttee Chowra Ghat—which makes you a vital witness, Alex.”
    â€œI suppose it does,” Alex conceded reluctantly. “And if the general wishes me to give evidence, I can scarcely refuse, can I?”
    â€œScarcely, old man. Well …” Lousada Barrow reached for his shabby cavalry cloak, which still smelled faintly of mothballs and bore the silver buttons and pale buff facings of his old regiment, the 5th Madras Light Cavalry. He drew it about him and led the way out into the rain-wet darkness. “They auctioned poor Stuart Beatson’s effects this afternoon,” he added, his voice muffled. “I bid for one or two items I’ll be happy to share with you, Alex. There’s a splendid new cloak which I intend to hang on to, so you’re welcome to this one, if you want it. The darned thing fitted me when I was a newly joined cornet—it doesn’t now. And there are some shirts and cotton tunics and a very good pair of boots. If you come to my tent, I’ll hand over anything you need.”
    Alex thanked him. The news of the death of the force’s adjutant-general had not been unexpected—poor Beatson had been suffering from an attack of cholera since leaving Fatepur and had followed the advance in an ammunition tumbril—but nevertheless it came as a shock to him. And it would be a cruel blow to William Beatson, also, when he learned of his younger brother’s sad end. Like so many brothers in the East India Company’s service, the two had seen each other infrequently but they were the best of friends and had corresponded regularly. In the Crimea, Alex recalled, Stuart Beatson’s letters had been read and read again by his onetime commander and closest friend. Disconsolately, he followed Lousada Barrow into his tent, where the garments he had purchased at the auction of the dead officer’s effects had been laid out neatly on a folding camp bed.
    â€œHe was popular,” Barrow observed. “The bids were high and the general bought a number of items, so there’ll be something to send on to the poor fellow’s wife and family. Not that it will console them for his loss.” He sighed, slipping off his cloak. “Here’s this thing. I’m sorry it’s so wet but it will be an improvement on the horse blanket you’ve had to make do with, perhaps. Take anything else you require—your need is greater than mine.”
    â€œI shan’t be able to pay you until the paymaster arranges a draft,” Alex warned. “You see, I—“Lousada Barrow cut him short. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Alex! I don’t want any payment and the cloak’s a gift, in any case. Help yourself.”
    â€œI can’t do that unless you’ll allow me to repay you, Lou.”
    â€œAll right, if you insist—pay me when you are in a position to do so. Try those boots; they’re too small for me but I should imagine they’re about your size.”
    Alex obediently measured the sole of one boot against his own. “They’re fine,” he said. “If you’re sure you don’t want them.”
    â€œI only wish I could get into them. Even these, which I’ve worn for years, seem to have shrunk.” Barrow kicked off his own boots with a grunt of relief and,