Chapter 42
Red Fort
Lahore Gate
There were a lot of men lingering in the outermost courtyard of Lahore Gate when John and Bertram exited the middle gate.
“What are they doing?” he asked, thoughts of betrayal making the words sharper than intended.
One man, wearing an expensive robe that positively glittered in the lamplight, challenged them in angry tones. At least, John thought it was a challenge. His exhausted brain wasn’t up to trying to translate beyond noting the fellow looked like someone had pissed in his porridge.
Bertram answered the challenge in Gujarati, maybe? Whatever he said must have been the right thing, though, as the man smiled and waved them on, talking all the while.
“He said he and his men have been ousted by a bunch of Sikhs. He’s counting on you, Great General, to set them straight.”
“You’re pulling my leg,” John said, but then saw the deep bow the man was offering as they passed into the outermost gatehouse.
“Not by much,” Bertram said, taking a lamp from another warrior. “He is, as you might say, ‘a mite pissed.’ It seems Bidhi Chand came in a few hours ago and asked them, rather pointedly, to leave while he did something. There was some argument. He believes you were sent in answer to the messenger he sent to Dara regarding the matter.”
John shook his head. Hoping to ease the pain of protesting shoulders, he adjusted the sling his rifle hung from. The Winchester itself wasn’t that heavy, but combining it with the shoulder rig bearing Ilsa’s Beretta and the chain shirt Dara had given him and Ilsa had insisted he wear, his shoulders and knees were groaning. Not as loud as his feet, mind you, but plenty loud. He thought about exchanging it for the Remington but the shotgun wasn’t any lighter. Besides, Talawat and Gervais had assured him the fireworks they’d prepared would shed enough light to make the rifle’s greater range useful in a night battle.
He chuckled, wondering what kind of dharma led a twentieth-century hillbilly from West Virginia to lead a mixed force of seventeenth-century warriors in battle against one of the largest armies he’d ever heard of, let alone laid eyes on. Because the closest he’d ever come to staff school was watching Patton. Judging from that film, asking what Patton would do in any given situation found an easy answer: Attack! Attack! And then attack again if you have to!
Oh, and piss off your fellow generals where possible…
John had vowed not to add fuel to the already-low-burning fuse of the garrison’s fragile morale. Part of fulfilling that vow was making sure the various ethnic and religious groups of warriors—he couldn’t exactly call them real soldiers, though the Sikhs were furthest along in that regard—were recognized and made to feel good about their contribution to the defense.
All of which translated to long nights on his feet for one John Dexter Ennis, Dara’s chosen adjutant. John and Bertram covered nearly every yard of the walls of Red Fort at least once a night.
Bertram turned the corner and led the way up the last flight of narrow stairs leading to the roof of the outer gatehouse.
John stifled a sigh. He’d intentionally left the gatehouse for last as Bidhi Chand had asked him to meet here in the last hours before dawn.
“No light,” someone hissed in Punjabi-accented Persian John barely understood.
“What the hell?” John muttered, stumbling to a halt.
“Something’s going on,” Bertram said. He turned off the small lantern he’d been carrying.
Thanks, Captain Obvious.
“Quietly. Come.”
John and Bertram cautiously made their way up the last few steps and out into the night air above the gatehouse. The moon had set some time earlier, leaving only starlight to see by. There was a rhythmic sound John couldn’t immediately identify coming from the edge of the tower. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness he made out a group of men hauling on a rope that passed through one of the crenellations topping the wall.
A few seconds later, a turbaned and veiled warrior climbed into view only to drop lightly to his feet on the roof.
It wasn’t until a squinting John heard the men with the rope congratulating their commander that he realized the warrior was Bidhi Chand. An instant later he realized the warrior had been outside the walls scouting. Without telling anyone, of course.
John moved to join the Sikh umara. The big warrior saw the up-timer coming and stepped from among his men. Unhooking the chain veil, his teeth shone white in the starlight.
“Rejoice, friend John! No more waiting! Aurangzeb sends his men against us this night.”
“What?” John said, stunned by the contrast between the content of the message and the tone of barely suppressed glee in Bidhi Chand’s voice. The man was a maniac.
But at least he’s our maniac.
“Aurangzeb’s men are blundering about out there”—he hiked a thumb at the darkness beyond the walls—“getting into position for an assault.”
“How many?”
“The lion’s share of his forces, I think. I could hear the jingle of their armor some way off, and the stink of smoke from the bhang the Rajputs smoke is hard to miss on a still night like tonight.”
“You judged their numbers without laying eyes on them?” Bertram asked.
Bidhi Chand did not immediately respond to the question as he was speaking into the ear of a messenger. Only when he had finished giving his orders and the runner sped away did he return his attention to the up-timer and his companion. “Of course not! I killed a few and then joined them. It is the best way to get a feel for numbers at night.”
“You killed…” Bertram mumbled.
John might’ve been as shocked as his friend but he’d been around Bidhi Chand enough to know better. No one built a legend that large without there being substance behind it.
Bidhi slapped the younger man on the back,
