The Maharajah's General Read Online Free PDF Page A

prove to the girl who had loved him that she not been wrong to choose him.
    As Sloames, Jack had led his men into the terrifying cauldron of battle, the vicious fight at the Alma River a proving ground for his ability as an officer. The harsh reality had made a mockery of his naïve aspirations, the carnage of the battle washing away in a cascade of blood and horror any ambition he had once nurtured.
    Now, as he sat alone in the bungalow, Jack contemplated his future, seeking a way forward that would allow him to shrug off the shackles of his former life and carry the burden of guilt that had crushed his soul since the Alma.
    The setting sun lit the darkening sky with a fabulous display of red and ochre, the day’s final, vibrant celebration before the onrushing darkness laid claim to the baked land. The silent streets awoke as the burning heat faded, the inhabitants of the cantonment emerging from their sanctuaries. The town sprang back into life, the bustle and commotion of the early evening breathing life back into the sun-bleached streets.
    The British cantonment was separated from the city of Bhundapur by a wide maidan, a broad sweep of ground that kept the adminitrators and enforcers of Her Majesty’s will wholly apart from the town over which they held jurisdiction, the cultural divide manifest in half a mile of dusty scrub and parched soil.
    Facing the maidan was the row of officers’ bungalows. Broadly spaced and immaculate in a coat of bright whitewash, the homes of the leaders of the British forces and the highest-ranked civil appointees enjoyed a breathtaking view over the city. Neatly trimmed hedges and pristine rose gardens provided natural partitions between the houses, the complex web of irrigation channels that fed their gardens snaking backwards like umbilical cords linking the elegant greenery to the series of wells and bullock-powered pumps that drew the precious water from deep underground.
    Large dusty parade grounds provided plenty of space to drill the four companies of infantry under Proudfoot’s command. A firing ground on the side of the cantonment furthest from the town allowed the red-coated infantry to train away from the prying eyes of the ever-watchful sentries standing guard on the high stone wall that had protected Bhundapur from attack for centuries.
    Behind the row of officers’ bungalows were the barracks for the British redcoats. Wide, airy rooms with high ceilings and tall windows, surrounded by a broad veranda, allowed the Queen’s soldiers to live in comfort, even in the blistering heat. The smaller, darker barracks of the native troops were pushed well to the western edge of the cantonment, the sepoys kept apart even from the lowliest of British redcoats.
    The cantonment was an ordered, very English haven for the men stationed in this distant corner of the British Empire. It allowed them to live a life apart from the population they governed, immune to the precarious nature of their situation. For they were surrounded and alone, outnumbered by thousands to their every one, yet they carried on with their lives as if they were in the peaceful English countryside and not close to the wild frontier of the Empire; self-satisfied and complacent even as the storm clouds gathered on the horizon.
    Jack tugged hard at the hem of his scarlet jacket, straightening the creases that had formed as he walked the short distance to Major Proudfoot’s bungalow. Even in the cooler evening air he was sweating, the cotton handkerchief he had brought with him already sodden from constant wiping across his face. The thick uniform was wholly unsuited to the Indian climate, yet the army made no allowances, so the Queen’s officers sweated their way through their duties, their cotton shirts needing to be changed many times a day lest the stench offend the noses of any who ventured near.
    Gentle laughter reached Jack’s ears, the clink of the cut crystal clearly audible over the constant clicking and