Next Page >> Annexation - Rupinderpal Singh Dhillon The concluding part of this story will be published in the next issue. Part 1 - Jhelum 1831 A Village In Northern India 1  Duel "Oh god!" Norgate exclaimed as he fell. The Lancer clasped the dirt hard, clawing tightly with his right hand. He looked up, holding his bloody bosom with his other hand, at his foe's fiery features. At once his countenance betrayed regret, fear and remorse. A red delta fingered its way across the ground, spreading into a sticky quagmire. His blood. His arrogance was his downfall, but the tall Indian leaning above him was to face retribution for this violent act. Norgate looked up from the ground as one of his associates took up the challenge in his stead. Captain Radcliffe of the Fourteenth Regiment of Light Dragoons was the new challenger. Radcliffe tore out his sabre to face the tall swarthy Sikh Horseman, who swung his curved blade, chiding Radcliffe as Norgate gulped, unable to focus on the two men. The Lancer's his head stroked the warm red wine oozing from his flesh onto the now wet ground. Life wheedled out, and he fainted into oblivion. Radcliffe had seen his partner collapse onto the earth. The stand off was now between Radcliffe and the Akali Sikh. Rupinderpal Singh Dhillon The Sikh horsemen would fairly often challenge the army to single combat. Normally they would be ignored, but on this occasion the expired Lancer and the Dragoon had accepted the Sardar's challenge. Radcliffe decided to show the heathen the might of the English blade. How awful that the perfidious blunt sabre failed the Lancer against the native's Kirpan, he thought. The two adversaries charged at the same time, a loud chinging emanating from the clashing blades, each swirling in the air. The ballet had taken only seconds, before a fresh slash severed the Dragoon's flesh. Radcliffe breathed out, chest expanded, front foot forward; sword aimed at the Akali's chest. The Akali adopted a horse saddle stance, shoulders slightly hunched, his metal canine whizzing in the air between the two adversaries. There was no smile, no jeering on the bearded visage, just a determined steely look. The man was overpowering owing to his height, and the appearance of his plain but unique blue attire lending an edge to his wild and fierce attitude. What an ally he would have made, Radcliffe thought. Radcliffe circled his enemy, confused by the unusual Asian approach to duelling, but satisfied that the first cut was his. A moment later Radcliffe stabbed at the blue warrior, who swung his right foot behind the left, forcing the Dragoon to launch in front of him. Now the Sikh took his stroke. Luckily, the Englishman was speedy enough to block the cutting edge of the scheming scythe. Radcliffe's blunt instrument had no conclusive impact on the Punjabi's turban, scratching loudly across the quoits protecting the Sikh's head. Radcliffe did not have time to ponder his enemy's nonchalance towards the wound weeping on the Akali Sikh's left side. A square plain metal plate, surrounded by some chain mail on the arms to protect it, protected the Sikh’s chest. Radcliffe could hear the jibes and jaunts in the loud foreign tongue of the Punjabis. He could also hear the encouraging cheers of his comrades. The din had only broken his concentration for a split second; it was enough for the Sikh's Kirpan to cut his forearm deep above his wrist. Radcliffe felt the blade burn through his flesh as it slid out. "Ahhrgh!" He gasped, loosening his grip, turned towards the Sikh and kicked him backwards. He then quickly transferred his blade to his left hand, blocking a downward sweep, and parrying an upward jab. They were equally wounded, but the Nihang, as these blue clad Sikhs were often known, seemed to be intoxicated and immune to the reality of his own injury. The two men adjusted their stances. On Radcliffe's left, the dead Lancer was lifted by two Redcoats and taken aside. They were from among the nine men standing behind Radcliffe, next to the village well. Five of them were natives from Bengal; the others were a mixture of the Lancer Regiment and the King's Dragoons. " Come on, old man! Finish the bloody wog!" One said angrily. " By God, get him for Norgate!" Encouraged another. The Akali horsemen standing directly opposite now hollered and screamed in their own language. || Kill the foreigner! || One Shouted in Punjabi. || Cut the white devil's chest, brother! || Added another. So the clamour became louder. The villagers, a cosmopolitan mixture of Sikhs, Hindus and Muslims, watched from a safe distance, as the Akali leaped forward shouting "Wah Guru Ji, Ki Fateh!" at Radcliffe. The sun was eclipsed by his fearsome shadow for a moment. The next instance, the sabre wind milled silently in the air as it was thrown up. Before it had landed a shot scorched the midday sky, smashing through the Akali's forehead. Bone and brain matter pushed into the back of the conical turban, the Dastaar Bunga he was wearing. He swung to his left and then thudded into the now sloppy mud ridden ground, where Norgate's face had made its imprint. The village became silent. Both sides drew swords in unison and raised rifles in the otherwise audible silence. Stunned, the watching villagers clung to each other, ran away, hid behind walls or within their homes. Radcliffe took all of this in as his eyes swooped around. He raised his left hand, as if to block the inevitable gunshot, from lacerating his limbs. "No! Hold your fire! This is insane! Stay at ease Gentlemen. At ease! Right, Ninder, tell them we will not fire! It was an unwarranted shot. And as Captain and senior man here, I shall deal with the culprit! Remind them of who began this fray. The villagers’ blood will otherwise be on all our hands! This will be reported to our seniors and the court at Lahore." Radcliffe listened, as the Bengali translated in general Hindi. " Gentlemen, sheath your swords. Lower your guns." " Captain, really, these darkies…" " Do as I tell you, damn it!" Radcliffe reflected upon how the present situation had unravelled. The East India Company were ' Guests' in the Kingdom of Maharaja Ranjit Singh, the Lion of Punjab. They were here to trade and ensure the Company's security from Russian and French interests. Despite there being a treaty between the two powers, many of the Akalis did not trust the British. This may have been on account of the constant presence of a military force protecting the Company. Or the sheer religious fanaticism of the Akali Sikh. Slowly the Nihangs (as they were often called) put away their matchlocks and blades. To all that were present, the potential for further bloodshed peeled painfully. This was how Radcliffe first met the Sikh's warrior saints, on his first operation into Punjab on the behest of the Company. This is what Satwant, a small Sikh boy of ten, witnessed, peering from behind his mother's side. The boy realised that one day, both the Sikhs and British would clash. And for the victor it would be a bloody conquest. Satwant knew his own fate would entangle him in this future, for the fortune teller his mother went to (despite the anger and cynicism of his holy father, a farmer) predicted intrigue would entrench his life. That he would have to tread carefully. Satwant watched Radcliffe climb onto his horse, followed by the others. The British then slowly passed by the Akalis who glared at them all the way across the well to the village rim. Radcliffe's steed moved by the child, and he smiled down at the infant. An instinct in Satwant told him that this white man too would wade into his kismet.