‘Accha, memsahib! Accha, huzoor!’

‘You left her? You left her with just the adjutant and Johnson? What in hell’s name were you thinking of, man?’

Armstrong’s voice carried across the courtyard to the guardroom. Serjeant McCarthy came running.

‘Sor, is everything all right, sor?’

‘No it bloody well isn’t! Get every man you can on ’is ’orse. Who’s guard commander?’

‘Corporal Verity, sor!’

‘Jesus!’

‘He’ll be fine, sor. What do you want for him?’

‘To make damned sure them prisoners stay put!’

‘Right, sor; I’ll tell ’im just that. And where’s it we’d be going with the others, sor?’

‘Never mind yet. Just get ’em ’ere!’

‘Sor!’ Out scurried McCarthy like a bookie’s runner. When the serjeant-major’s temper was up, it was best to cut about even more than usual.

Armstrong could scarce believe it – an entire regiment, his regiment, and all they’d be able to muster were a few ‘odds and sods’. And they’d have to leave these prize prisoners in the care of Fanny Verity and a handful of sick, lame and lazy, for Christ’s sake! It was bad enough having Pat McCarthy as provost.

‘Shall I find the colonel and tell him, sir?’ asked Acton.

‘No, Serjeant, there’s no bloody time,’ growled Armstrong as he buckled on his swordbelt and grabbed his carbine. ‘An’ I’m not letting you out of my sight till you’ve led us back to yon colonel’s daughter – who you should never’ve left in the first place!’

Acton bit his lip. There was no answering back a serjeant-major in any circumstances, not least when he’d just left the commanding officer’s daughter to a fate that couldn’t bear contemplating. Besides, every dragoon knew that Armstrong had nearly died trying to save her mother from the savages in Canada. The worst thing that could ever happen was to make the same mistake with another bunch of heathens. And if a few NCOs got a chewing up in the process, what of it?

A good ten minutes passed before McCarthy returned with a corporal and eight men, but mounted ready enough.

Armstrong muttered to himself. McCarthy, who’d first been an infantryman, and as Irish as when he’d left the Bog of Allen or wherever it was (certainly when it suited him), was still the footiest serjeant on a horse – and from time to time, the footiest corporal – but his cheeriness whatever the circumstances was worth a dozen sabres.

‘Pat, there’s a bloody band o’ bastards th’adjutant’s tricked into going with ’im to a village a dozen miles off, an’ the colonel’s daughter with ’em an’ all. Let’s be about it!’

Armstrong wasn’t a man for throwing over the punctilios of drill lightly, but if by now a handful of dragoons couldn’t follow in good order, then he might as well hang up his spurs this moment. Out they went through the gate arch without a word, and into a trot at the foot of the ramp. He’d have to pace it; it wasn’t hot compared with Fort St George, but twelve miles was a long point. He’d warm them up for ten minutes, then they’d be clear of this place and on the road south, and then he’d take it at a steady canter for a couple of miles, see how they were faring – and then they’d bloody well gallop for it.