Chapter Eight

  The Bridge of Bogat

  The bridge spanned the Brurapura River at its narrowest point. It was not a tall, impressive bridge but a flat and straightforward construction. Pugh said it had been built four hundred years before by a great king of Ayodh whose name Dryden had trouble pronouncing. A dozen thick stone supports held it up. Down the bridge’s length, several chhatris, small open domed pavilions common to the colonies, were constructed. At either end of the bridge, a kind of gatehouse stood. Once, these had held an iron portcullis that could be dropped, but now the gates and mechanisms were rotted away with rust. Dryden stood in the gatehouse looking down across the bridge with Havor, Pugh, and Mar. A few junior officers stood further back, watching and waiting for orders. The captains and most of the rest were busy preparing defensive positions around the bridge.

  “See anything?” Dryden asked Pugh, who was busy looking through his spyglass for signs of movement.

  “No. It appears we’re here first. Only some livestock and a few locals.”

  “A minor miracle,” Mar replied.

  “Send scouts,” Havor said, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I would know how far off the enemy is and how much time we have. Get Wolfgang up here. I want those explosives set in case we need the bridge blown.” Wolfgang was the engineer and sapper sent by Haddock with the 13th, “Send for Mr. Baine, too.” The old hunter had been sent with the Bloody 13th. The Old Salgair was one of the few Vastrum men who knew this land well and the only one who had been available without any notice. He had spent years hunting through the borderlands east of Ayodh and the northern reaches of Rhakan. It was said he had even been further north into Bohd. Haddock had sent the very best men at his disposal to ensure the bridge was held.

  Then Havor added almost as an afterthought, “Send a platoon of troopers to take the eastern end of the bridge.”

  “Who do you want for that job?” Pugh asked.

  “Thoughts on that, Dryden?” Havor asked. He often asked Dryden for these recommendations. Havor was not as familiar with these men as his Major was. He had not ridden with them into battle before. Most of them were young and from the Andaban garrison.

  “Edmonds is a good man, rode into Dau with me. He’s no fool. Dependable man.” Dryden answered.

  “Very good. I concur. Tell them to hold that end of the bridge until the explosives are set, then come back to this end. I do not want them caught out unless absolutely necessary.”

  Pugh turned to Lieutenant Albans, “Make it so, Lieutenant. Bring up the sappers and the scouts.”

  Albans saluted, mounted up, and went to obey almost before Pugh had relayed the order. The lieutenant was a middle-aged man, old for lieutenant, who had served under Havelock with the Andaban garrison. He had a strong, broad face with dark eyes and wore thick muttonchops. He was a commoner who had come up from the rank of private, spent years at the rank of sergeant, been promoted for valour, and become stuck and unable to pay for his promotion beyond lieutenant. He had fought during Haddock’s retribution, ridden into Dau with Dryden and Khathan, and came out alive. Few enough officers had come out alive from that. Dryden thought him the very best of the remaining lieutenants. Havor seemed to agree because he always kept the man close.

  It was not long before a cart arrived carrying Wolfgang with his sappers. Most of the men were Dravani workers. Wolfgang Beck was an engineer from the free city of Harburg, as Dryden understood it. He was tall, burly, with light hair, and wore a thick beard on his chin. He was not a soldier and refused to wear any uniform, but he wore light khakis and a broad straw hat, which he said was good for the heat. He spoke Vastrum poorly but loudly and confidently to compensate, “Ja, du vant me rig ze bridge, Colonel?”

  “Precisely, Mr Beck.” Havor replied, “Make it quick. I do not yet know what time we have.”

  “No, no, no. Not quick. Correct. Quick, and it will…” He made an explosion noise and demonstrated with his hands a large explosion, “Ve do not vant aksidents!”

  Havor waved his hand dismissively, “Very well, make it so. As fast as you dare, then.”

  Wolfgang hopped down and began shouting orders to his Dravani workmen in their own tongue. To Dryden’s ear, his Dravani was just as poor as his Vastrum, but the man shouted it with the same confidence. His men obeyed and began unloading the carts containing small barrels of black powder or another explosive. Dryden knew little of a sapper’s methods but knew well what they could accomplish; he had seen a bridge blown with sapper’s powder in Ghinai. As the sappers began their work, Connall Baine, the famous grizzled hunter who had killed the yali, rode up, followed by a handful of Jirimanjin scouts.

  “Afternoon.” He said casually. He dismounted, walked up to Havor, spit on the ground beside him, and extended his hand. Like Wolfgang, he was not a soldier. He was dressed in his hunting attire. He did not salute or behave in a soldierly manner.

  Havor shook his hand, though the look on his face said he would have preferred a crisp salute or a deep bow to a handshake, “I need your scouts to cross the bridge and find the enemy for me.”

  “Aye, we can do that.”

  “The Jirimanjis can do that. I need you to tell me where else the Rhakanese army might try to cross if we deny them the bridge.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, “There’s no crossing downriver. It’s all bloody swamps and quicksand. There’s a couple spots upriver the banchoots might try.”

  “You will show me the appropriate deference due my station, and please refrain from cursing in my presence, Mr Baine. The king may find your crassness amusing, I do not.” Havor said idly, and he turned to look out at the slow-moving waters of the Brurapura.

  The old hunter said nothing but looked appraisingly at Lord Havor. Then he turned to one of his scouts and spoke a few words of the strange Jirimanjin language that hissed and clicked. He whistled and pointed to the other side of the river. Three scouts rode off at a canter to cross the bridge.

  “We’ll know soon enough where the enemy lies, Lord Havor.”

  “Excellent. Please show Major Dryden any points the enemy might cross upriver.”

  “Yes, your Lordship.” Connall bowed lower than he needed to.

  Dryden turned to see what Sergeants were nearby, “Sergeant Drake, with me. Round up a dozen men. I want veterans. Black City men. We’re going with Baine to inspect the fords north of Bogat.”

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The sergeant was a big man and broad in the shoulders. As with many sergeants, he had come up from the ranks because he was big, loud, and brave. He had a perpetual grimace on his swarthy face. Dryden did not know him well. He had been in Captain Adams' squadron and had fought effectively, clearing snipers off the heights at the northern passes when Aisa’s forces had been destroyed. Besides that, Dryden knew little of the man. He was an officer who did his best to know the men under his command, but there were so many men in the 13th and so much else to do that it was impossible to know them all well.

  Sergeant Drake pulled a few men away who had been digging trenches with the rest. They put their black jackets back on and mounted up, obviously happy to be pulled away from the endless toil during the heat of the day. A few minutes later, the Old Salgair led them north out of Bogat. The place had been called a city, but that was generous. It was more a ramshackle collection of hovels that clung to the banks of the Brurapura. West of Bogat was an abandoned palace and some other stone buildings that had fallen into disrepair. A more extensive collection of hovels with a few larger wood buildings was east of the bridge. There was nothing in Bogat to recommend it as far as Dryden could tell. It was a small town that claimed a place on a map only because of its famous bridge. The country around the town was a mix of broad farmland, small stands of forest, low-lying marsh, and the endlessly snaking Brurapura River. The land was hot and in its dry season. The river was low, its banks broad and thick with flaking dry mud. They rode along a long, narrow, raised dirt road that followed the river north. Despite the many farms, they saw few people as they rode, only a few men tilling fields in the distance.

  “The land seems good,” Dryden observed as they rode, “Why is it so empty?”

  Connall looked at Dryden, surprised at the question, “The floods. When the monsoons come, the river will rise and spill its banks, so when the harvest is done, the lot of ‘em move to the higher ground west of here. It is good ground for planting in. The rice from the river delta feeds all the people from here to Benna.”

  “When will it rain?”

  “Soon, I reckon. A month at most. Don’t worry your pretty blonde head, Major. Bogat and the bridge are at a high point in the terrain. We’ll get good and soaked by the rains, but we won’t drown. These fields will flood well and truly, though. Floods will take the lower grounds for a month or two. The waters will recede come autumn, and the folk’ll return to plant again. Back and forth, they go like that every year.”

  “We were told the border Rajas would be fighting to slow Rhakan. I’ve seen hide nor hair of them.”

  “I reckon the rakes are bogged down trying to get through Vetra in the north, or maybe someone’s putting up a good fight in Thom’s Crossing.”

  “I didn’t see a Thom’s Crossing on the map.”

  The Old Salgair gave a laugh, “No, you wouldn’t. It’s small, just a V.A.C. trading post.”

  “They use it for smuggling?” Dryden said. It was only half a question. He knew the answer.

  “Aye, lad. I’ve been through a few times. From there, you can hire a boat to go out into The Sundara. A thousand square miles of mangrove full of the best hunting this side of the Gurawesi. Hell to get to, though.”

  Rosie whinnied, stopped, and refused to go further. Connall looked around quickly, unslung his musket, and began loading it. “Tiger?” he asked. “Leopard, maybe?”

  Dryden put his hand on his sword and looked about him. He saw the cause of distress. A huge cobra lying in the path. He pointed it out to the hunter.

  “Canny mare that one. Good eye. Hate to lose a good horse to a snake bite.”

  One of the men shot the snake, which curled up and writhed. They cut its head off and then tossed the dead snake off the road. Then, they mounted back up and continued down the road.

  “Dangerous country, this.” Baine said as they rode along the river, “If the snakes and scorpions don’t get you, the tigers and leopards will never mind the bigger game like elephants or gryphons.”

  “Or yali,” Dryden noted dryly.

  “Or that. I ain’t never seen one of those before, not out here, not anywhere. Someone told me that thing was protecting its mandir, whatever that is. Well, there ain’t no mandirs out here. This is an unholy land. We’ll lose more men to malaria and the shits than we do to the enemy or wildlife, I reckon. Ahh, here we are. This is about where I remembered it.” He gestured to a low, wide spot in the river. It was especially low now before the rains came, “We could cross this here and now on our horses. We’d risk losing a few to snake bites and crocodiles. A little thing like that wouldn’t stop an army from crossing.”

  “Any more fords like this?” Dryden asked.

  “A few, none this close to the city or this good. None they can cross without building a fleet o’ barges. Must admit, I always crossed at the bridge.”

  “Sir!” Sergeant Drake shouted, “Look!” He pointed to movement in the brush across the river.

  “Dismount, load up. Wait for my signal! Do not fire until I say!” Dryden barked at the men. All the troopers snapped to follow his orders. Men hopped off mounts, found what little cover was on the river's bank, and began loading muskets. After a minute or two, several riders burst from the brush and went for the river.

  “Do not fire, men, until they are halfway.”

  More riders and a larger contingent of men came bursting from the brush. There were dozens of men.

  “Hold!” He said. Something seemed strange. The men looked nothing like the drawings of Rhakanese he had seen. They looked more like sepoys. “Blood and thunder.” He said, “Do not fire. Let them cross!”

  “Major?” Drake asked, his tone sceptical.

  “No, he’s right, boyo.” Baine cut in, “Those are Company men.”

  Men and horses streamed into the water, swimming across as they could. Some of them were not strong swimmers. Dryden saw a man swept away by the current, which was not strong, but it was enough to take a man and pull him away downstream in the middle. There was little they could do to help. The men would swim and live or drown. Men began to make the near side. One of them stood up on the near shore, wearing a V.A.C. officer's black and white uniform. The man was soaked and untidy, his face and hair half-covered in muck and dried blood that had been partially washed by his swim in the river.

  Dryden stood up as the exhausted men began to crawl up the bank, “Announce yourselves!” He demanded.

  The V.A.C. man stopped and looked up at him, then fell to his knees and began to weep. “By all the dead gods, sir, thank you, we are saved!” he shouted. Then he collapsed to the ground, heaved great breaths of relief, and wept tears of joy.

  “My good man, would you be so kind as to tell me who you are and where you are coming from?” Dryden asked.

  The man began to collect himself. He stood and began to dust himself off, “Corporal Higgins, Sir, of the 9th V.A.C. Natives. We were stationed at Thom’s Crossing.”

  “Where are your commanders?” Dryden asked.

  The man shook his head, “Dead, I assume. So many dead. The Raj’s men, the sepoys, our own. This is all that’s left.” The corporal gestured to the few dozen that had crossed the river with him.

  “Where is the enemy, and when did you last sight them?”

  “Two days ago, they took the Crossing. They were hot on our heels until last night, sir, and they peeled off towards Bogat.”

  “That’ll put them at Bogat today, Major.” Baine interrupted, “Better hope your boys are dug in tight, and the bridge is rigged.”

  Corporal Higgins seemed to be catching his breath, “The army is near, is it? Is General Winslow already at Bogat, then?”

  Dryden and Drake looked at one another. Dryden shook his head, “No. It’s just us, the 13th Dragoons.”

  “The Butchers of Vurun?” The corporal asked, his voice hushed.

  “The very same,” Dryden answered. He hated that nickname, but it had stuck. “Still, Winslow isn’t coming. Haddock is hot on our heels, but he sent us ahead to secure Bogat.”

  “It’s not enough…” The man said, “Bloody hell, we’re doomed!”

  Dryden slapped the man, “Pull yourself together, Corporal, or I shall have you whipped. Cowardice is unbecoming of a gentleman. Even a mercenary officer such as yourself ought to have a barest modicum of dignity. Drake, secure this crossing with these men. I’ll send more along shortly with extra powder and shot. Corporal, I am commandeering you and your men. You answer to Sergeant Drake. Hold this crossing at all costs. All costs, sergeant, do you hear me?”

  The man sputtered, “Sir, you do not understand.”

  “I understand perfectly well. These men are mine now. You will defend this crossing. Any man of you who refuses will be shot dead on the spot for desertion. Do you understand?” Dryden shot back, his tone turning icy.

  “Sir, but they have dragons!” The man blurted out. As if on queue, a moment later, a great roar echoed from behind them in the distance towards Bogat.

  Dryden frowned, “Then we’ve no time to bloody waste!” He practically leapt onto the back of Rosie and spurred her. She surged forward, and he rode off in a cloud of dust back towards the bridge, the grizzled hunter Connall Baine only heartbeats behind.