Rogue Officer by Garry Douglas Kilworth

was addressed to Jack.
    Jack nodded. He was forced to his feet by rebels and then, because of his missing hand, his arms were bound at the elbows rather than the wrists. His legs were left free, presumably so that he could walk. And walk he did, for the next few hours, while the rebels took turns to ride his horse. All this time he said nothing to the other captor, who had indeed tried to speak to Jack, but had been struck by a rifle butt for doing so. Jack was also hit for dragging his heels, which of course he did hoping they would be overtaken by his own men. Once he looked back in hope, but saw that no one was following them, not even at a great distance. Only a decrepit old camel, like a walking moth-eaten rug, plodded across the horizon.
    It was of some consolation to Jack that the rebels had told him the truth. They obviously were no longer part of the Khan army. They veered away from Pilibhit and seemed happy with open countryside. There were few delights out there. The occasional frangipani tree offered a relief from the boredom and they also passed the carcasses of bloated beasts being tussled over by buzzards, but for the most part the scene was uninteresting. They followed a watercourse towards the foothills of the Himalayas, skirting both Nepal and the various villages on the way. When midday came, with its head-hammering sun, Jack was ready to collapse. Fortunately, so were many of the rebels – Jack counted twenty-three of them – and there was a rest stop.
    He was propped against the trunk of an old tamarisk tree and his arms were untied so that he could give himself a drink.
    ‘If you run, we shall be forced to shoot you,’ he was told. The speaker had a reflective thought before adding, ‘If just one runs away, we will shoot the other one too. We will shoot you both together.’
    ‘Bound together in friendship,’ said the other prisoner, ‘whether we like it or not.’
    ‘Where are you taking us?’ Jack asked one of the more accessible rebels, a small chubby man of about twenty. ‘You’ve got far enough away from any pursuers to be able to let us go now.’
    Jack could speak Hindi and Urdu, but he did not want to let his captors know that, as he wanted to secretly follow their conversations. He had already heard one hard-faced character tell his companions that they ought to kill their prisoners before crossing the border into Chinese Tibet. However, another man had argued that they were all in just as much danger from the Chinese Emperor as they were from the British, since it was death for
any
foreigner found inside Chinese Tartary. This individual suggested they keep Jack and the other European alive and use them to bargain with, should the group be discovered by either Tibetans or Chinese. No conclusion had yet been reached and their fate still hung in the air.
    ‘No, no, sir,’ replied the man, answering Jack’s question. ‘You must stay with us until we are very, very safe.’ He looked into Jack’s eyes. ‘No harm will come to you. We wish no blood on our souls. You will be treated like proper sahibs.’ The little man grinned at him.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Jack, pretending he was relieved. ‘I knew we were in the hands of real soldiers.’
    The other prisoner laughed out loud. ‘You gullible idiot. As soon as they don’t need us, they’ll blow off our heads. Isn’t that right, Fatty?’
    The portly sepoy shook his head. ‘No, no. No one wishes to kill you.’
    ‘What a lie,’ said the other man, still laughing. ‘What a big fat fib!’ He suddenly switched to becoming passionately angry with his captors. He began struggling with his bonds and kicking out at them with his feet. ‘If I could just . . . I’ll break your heads for you, you bastards. Call yourself men? I’ll take on any one of you! Just take these cords off and I’ll show you how
real
men fight. Two of you, no, three of you at once! Knives if you like. No, let’s duel like civilized men. Pistols. We’ll