A Hanging at Dawn: A Bess Crawford Short Story Read online

  I didn’t add that I wished I, too, were traveling to India this autumn. My heart was buried out there in the heat and dust and monsoon rains. I remember that day as if it were yesterday, standing there watching the coffin slipping into the dusty earth, surrounded by women in black and men in the dress uniforms of the Regiment. My husband was buried in his, a lock of my hair in his pocket.

  Very irregular, of course. But only he and I knew . . .

  It was thick and dark, then, and he loved it so. He has never grown old in my heart.

  Richard

  India, 1900

  I read Melinda’s letter with some dismay. India just now—this part of it at least—was no place for a raw young soldier. I’d requested men with some experience, and the other four were just that.

  When the five arrived, I was out on patrol, and they were settled in the barracks by the time I returned.

  And young Brandon had already been in his first fight. When I summoned him to the bungalow after dinner and asked him to give an account of himself, he surprised me by saying, “It was not unexpected. Sir.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “On the crossing from England, the four men with me had made fun of my accent, the fact that I’d never been out of the country before—the usual. I finally had to stand my ground, sir. Or I’d never have had the respect of a single man here.”

  I said, “Indeed.” He had a good point.

  I’m not sure just what I’d expected after reading Melinda’s note—some slim, quiet boy who might last a month out here, regardless of his excellent training record.

  I should have known better. Melinda had spent most of her life with the Army.

  Standing before me was a broad-shouldered, nearly six foot tall young man, who was still growing. I don’t know what he thought of India or what India would think of him, but I was relieved to discover he appeared to be a soldier and that he could handle himself without my protection.

  I sent Brandon on his way, thinking that would be the end of it. Two days later, he was back on the carpet, and I asked him the nature of the fight this time.

  “He was abusing a horse, sir. There was no excuse for it.”

  When I looked further into the matter, I discovered that he was absolutely correct.

  I began to keep my eye on Private Simon Brandon. Whatever scrapes he got into, he was usually on the right side of the argument. But I wanted to get to know him for other reasons. He was surprisingly level-headed for someone just out of training. Better educated than most recruits, and clearly from a different class than most private soldiers. And then I discovered that he was good at languages, because he picked up the local dialects with remarkable ease and speed. What’s more, he spoke them with the proper accents, a gift we could put to good use out here.

  For a time—because he was younger—I assigned him to my daughter, Bess, whenever she went riding or off post. It was my hope that she would resent him less than the older men I’d often sent with her. Before long, I realized that she was quite capable of leading him a merry chase. She was five, with a mind of her own. But he stood his ground where he could, and kept her out of trouble. Well, most of the time. I was sometimes hard-pressed to keep a straight face.

  He’d been here two months when my batman retired and returned to England. I offered Brandon that position, and to my surprise, he turned it down.

  “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I don’t want to be a servant.”

  “I seldom have any trouble dressing myself in the mornings and putting myself to bed at night,” I told him dryly. “I want someone around my family who is capable of doing what is asked of him, but who is there when I am not, to keep them safe.”

  I thought he was about to turn me down a second time.

  I said, “I’ll assign someone else to trail around after my daughter.”

  To my surprise, he smiled and said, “I don’t object to that, sir. She’s a scamp—begging your pardon, sir—but I like her.”

  Bess already adored him. I thought primarily because she thought she could manipulate him into letting her have her way, and when she couldn’t, she liked him all the more. She’d told her mother that Brandon reminded her of me. That was rather a shock, because I had found myself thinking that he was more like the son I’d never had.

  I kept Melinda apprised of all these happenings—my letters were beginning to sound like diaries of my days.

  “Well,” I said, finally. “This position. It’s yours, if you want it. Otherwise I’ll choose Private Williams.”

  He frowned at that. “I don’t think he’s the right man. Sir.”

  “Why?”

  He wouldn’t say. But when I quietly looked into the matter, I found that Private Williams was something of a gossip, and that quickly put him out of the running.

  In the end, Brandon agreed to be my batman, and it kept him out of trouble while I found it increasingly pleasant to have him around.

  There was still a strong thread of anger in him. I had a feeling it would be some years before that faded. What’s more, he seemed to thrive on challenges as if eager to test himself. And he was very good at every task I set for him. Eventually, he became one of the best scouts for the cantonment. He could trail a horse across rock and slip in and out of an enemy camp with impunity. At the same time, he never took foolish risks, often one of the difficulties with young, inexperienced men out for glory. The reports I got from the Sergeants were judiciously approving. And when I was in the field with him, I saw the same restraint. Nor did anyone question his courage.

  My wife scolded me for putting him in such danger.

  “If anything happens to him,” she said, “Bess will be brokenhearted. Besides, I rather like him myself. When I go to the markets, it’s nice to have him with me. One look at him, and no one troubles me. Do you know, I think he’s going to be as tall as you are?”

  “My darling girl,” I told her, “Brandon’s a soldier, not a lapdog.”

  “You have plenty of soldiers to push around as you please. It’s unfair of you to take Brandon as well.”

  The upshot of that was we never spoke, Brandon and I, about any risks we were called upon to take. It seemed the easiest way out of the matter. I’ve faced howling tribesmen intent on killing me, and kept my head. It was far more difficult to argue with my wife and daughter.

  But skirmishes were a way of life out here. Simon showed just how fine a soldier he would be, and early on, I saw in him what Melinda must have seen. A good man in a fight, steady head, steady aim. Although how she knew Simon Brandon I had no idea. He never spoke of her, and anyone who had met her always found something to say about Cousin Melinda. I asked her once in a letter if she’d been party to sending him out here, one of those five replacements. But she told me that Colonel Clifford had brought him up in conversation because she had lived in India. That left me in the dark more than ever.

  Bess was soon old enough to learn to shoot, and I left that to Simon. He’d already quietly improved her riding. She preferred full tilt, until he’d explained that it was unfair to the horse. Now she rode well and was often out with him when he was off duty. But he also made certain she never escaped her governess for too long. And I sometimes overheard him asking her about her studies, as if he were her elder brother.

  Meanwhile, Clarissa had become quite good friends with the Maharani, whose lands were adjacent to the cantonment, and we were often invited to the palace. On occasion she also came to dine with us. She had a lovely young daughter of sixteen, and Bess sometimes accompanied Clarissa to the Palace, under the watchful eye of Brandon or one of the other trustworthy men.

  Parvati had been betrothed to the son of a Rajah since she was twelve. Clarissa was worried that she had been brought up with more freedom than was common in girls her age and would find marriage into a more conservative Princely family difficult. But when the time came, she seemed to be looking forward to managing her own household. Bess however moped for a week aft
er Parvati left for her new home.

  It’s a very different life out here on the North-West Frontier. Hot—dry. We’re more likely to see camels than elephants, although the Maharani keeps two for feast days. And we are never safe. The compound has been attacked seven times since I’ve been out here. Which is why Clarissa and Bess can defend themselves.

  Three years after young Brandon arrived, there was a particularly nasty fight near the Khyber Pass. We lost two men, and we would have lost more, if it hadn’t been for him. He brought our Sergeant and two Privates back under heavy fire, and kept the tribesmen at bay until reinforcements could reach them. When we got back to the compound, Sergeant Lester asked to see me after he’d been patched up.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked when he stepped into my office. He was still rather pale, and one of his bandages still showed bright blood.

  “Well enough, sir.”

  “Do you or Benson or Williams need time off?”

  “No, sir. They’ve given us a day at the Infirmary. That’ll do.” He shifted a little. “It’s not for that I’ve come, sir. What Private Brandon did today showed initiative and more than a little courage. I’ve been thinking he’s ready for a promotion.”

  I picked up my pen so that he wouldn’t see my reaction. “He’s—inexperienced, still.” I’d almost said young.

  “Yes, sir, I understand. But he’s got his head on straight. Never ruffled. Reminds me a little of you, when you first joined the Regiment.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um. I shall certainly take this suggestion under advisement.”

  Sergeant Lester regarded me for a moment, then said, “Do you feel that such a recommendation is unwarranted, sir?”

  Forced to be honest, I had to tell him, “Oh, I agree. But he’s still rather new to India, don’t you think?”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but I think because he’s been your batman, you haven’t realized how much he’s changed since his arrival. He’s good at tactics, sir, far more so than Corporal Hayes. Unlike Corporal Taylor, he’s picked up the native tongues, and he’s brought us gossip from the bazaars that’s been damned useful.”

  But Simon Brandon wasn’t yet old enough to be a soldier at all. It had taken me some time to realize this. Bess was reading a book that Melinda had sent out for her birthday, and Simon, seeing the title, said, “It’s quite good, I read it when I was thirteen.” But that particular book had not been published then. Simon was not a liar—therefore he wasn’t twenty, he must barely be seventeen!

  Had Melinda known this? Was it why she had asked me to keep an eye on that particular recruit? I began to watch him, but he was damned good at concealing the truth. I could never be quite sure . . .

  I was obligated to report my suspicions straightaway. And I found I couldn’t. For his sake, and my own.

  The Sergeant was waiting for my answer.

  “I agree, Sergeant. Still, let’s wait and see, shall we?”

  It was dismissal. Lester was clearly unhappy about my refusal to agree with him, but I hadn’t even told Clarissa what I knew about Brandon. Although, being Clarissa, she had seen things in that young man that even I hadn’t. And I had to admit to myself that there was a personal interest. We’d lost a son, Clarissa and I. I’d like to think that, if he’d lived, he’d have been rather like Brandon. I wondered, sometimes, if she felt the same. I hadn’t asked her. James was too sensitive a subject to bring up even between ourselves.

  And so I hadn’t mentioned Lester’s visit to her.

  Christmas that year was to be a special time. The Maharani was planning to mark the anniversary of her husband’s death, and Melinda was coming out to visit. We were looking forward to her arrival, but when there was an attack on a friendly tribe, we had to race to their aid.

  Neither Simon nor I got back to the cantonment in time to take part in any of the festivities. In fact, I missed Melinda’s visit altogether. She had moved on to Delhi and other places where she had friends among the Army, the Government, and the native princes. But it was apparent that she and Clarissa had had long conversations.

  We were dressing for dinner on Twelfth Night, when Clarissa said, “Have you ever talked to Melinda about Simon?”

  “Yes. Since Colonel Clifford had discussed posting him to India with her, she had asked me to let her know how he was faring.”

  “Hmmm,” she said.

  I turned to look at her. “What? My shirt? My shoes?”

  Smiling, she said, “Of course not. I couldn’t help but wonder—I think Melinda was rather disappointed that she had to leave before you returned.”

  Teasing her, I said, “I’m not surprised. Rumor has it I’m her favorite male cousin.”

  “You’re her only male cousin, and you know it. Still. I had the odd feeling that she’d hoped to see Simon.”

  “It’s possible that Colonel Clifford had asked her to let him know how his young private had fared.”

  “She and Sergeant Lester went riding several times.”

  I’d left Lester and a few other seasoned men to keep an eye on our flank, as it were, because we weren’t certain when we left that the attack on the friendly tribe wasn’t a feint to disguise a different target altogether. Lester hadn’t been happy about staying behind, but he was very popular with the troops and I trusted him to make the right decisions if the time came. He was seven years from retirement, but I’d heard him say repeatedly that he’d retire in his coffin. The word experienced was minted for him.

  “Did they indeed?” My cousin Melinda had an unerring ability to choose the best person to question, if there was information she wanted. “And what did she and Lester have in common?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, turning around so that I could fasten her pearls and as always, kiss the small curls on the charming back of her neck. “I had the oddest feeling that she was subtly asking about Simon. I know for a fact she and Bess talked about him several times.”

  I smiled. “Bess adores him. Of course she talks about him. All the time.”

  Turning back to me, she said, “And that’s another subject. Is she growing too fond of him?”

  “Fond? She treats him like her horse or dog or kitten. I’ve heard her telling him what to do in any given circumstance and how to go about it. She knows how to get her way. I’ve often been amused by the problems he’s faced dealing with our sweet daughter.”

  Clarissa laughed. “Yes, true enough. But Simon has benefited from that responsibility too, you know. Bess has drawn out a different side of him, settled and more relaxed. But back to Melinda. Do you think she might know his family? I have never—never, Richard!—heard him speak of any family. Mother, father, grandparent—it’s as if he was born in a teacup, and has no one.”

  “Does that bother you, my dear?” I was earnest about that, but tried to ask it lightly.

  “No. He has lovely manners—he’s been brought up well. Educated, although he doesn’t talk about it. It’s just—I have seen him sometimes look sad when you and Bess and I are playing a game or disagreeing with each other—small family things that must touch some chord with him, and yet he has never said so much as ‘It’s my mother’s birthday,’ or ‘My father was a solicitor.’ The sort of thing people will do when they’ve had a happy youth.”

  “Perhaps it was too happy—and something happened.”

  Clarissa frowned. “Is that it? I’d like very much to think so. I’ve thought, sometimes too, that he’s been the happiest in a long time, out here. Not in the beginning. He was too angry to feel anything else. But that’s slowly changed in the last year or so. You’ve been a very good influence on him. Perhaps that’s what Melinda had in mind, when she agreed with Colonel Clifford that India was the right choice for him.” She hunted for a fan, and finding it, added, “When Melinda cares for someone, she is as ferocious as a tiger fighting for her cub. Take young Rutledge, for example. She’s been a very good influence on him.”

  “She sees him often. I don’t know that she�
��s ever seen Simon.”

  Clarissa said, as the dinner gong went, “I expect she has. If only from a distance. He’s a strange young man. But I’ve grown quite fond of him too.”

  In the new year, I had a friend in London look up Brandon’s father, to see if he had a military record. I was curious to see if there was some problem there that might explain why the son had enlisted rather than applying to Sandhurst. It would have been easier if I’d asked Melinda. I’ve no doubt she could contrive to find out anything from the Army—she knows everyone who had ever kept a secret. But if she could pretend not to know anything about our young man, it was best if I found my own sources.

  The response was a long time in coming. And it made interesting reading.

  Brandon’s paternal great-grandfather had been in the Guards, a good officer and a good soldier. Not always the same thing. His paternal grandfather had never been well enough to go into the Army, but apparently he’d encouraged Brandon’s father to follow the family tradition. Hugh went to Sandhurst, but preferred a line regiment to the Guards, having little taste for their ceremonial duties. He’d proven himself to be someone to watch, adept at languages, a good tactician, and quite popular with his men. He saw to their welfare and the families who had come out with the Army. Promotion is slow in times of peace, but Hugh was being considered for one when he and his wife were ambushed on the drive home from a regimental affair. Neither survived the attack, leaving a small child who was sent back to his family in England.