The Maharajah's General by Paul Fraser Collard

against Jack’s shoulder as she tried to see movement outside their dank prison.
    The noise came again. It sounded like a child running a stick down a line of metal railings. It came in bursts, each louder than the previous, before dying out, the silence pressing back so that they felt they had surely been mistaken, that nothing stirred to disturb the black nothingness of the night.
    Then the shouting started, the frightened bellows of men waking to chaos, and the silence disappeared under a bewildering hubbub of sound as the rabble that had defeated the small band of British sepoys arose to confusion. The crackle of gunfire underscored the panic, its staccato rhythm increasing in tempo to match the bedlam it had created.
    Jack could feel Isabel’s breath on the nape of his neck, the warmth at once soothing and stimulating. He could sense her body trembling, her breathing quicker as she too heard the sudden bursts of gunfire, her fear and her hope rising in equal measure.
    ‘What is it?’ She raised her hand, placing it on Jack’s shoulder as she sought reassurance. ‘Is it a rescue?’
    Jack’s breath caught in his throat as he felt Isabel’s fingers press into the muscles of his shoulder. ‘It’s gunfire. But it’s not ours.’ Her hand felt as if it was on fire, her flesh burning into his skin even through the thick layers of his uniform.
    ‘How can you tell?’
    ‘There are no regular volleys, and the firing is too erratic even for skirmishers.’ Jack turned his head so he could look at Isabel. He could smell the faded perfume she had applied the previous morning, the sweet aroma still intoxicating. ‘I don’t know who it is.’
    A sudden scrabble of footsteps saved Jack from further questioning. There were enough blazing torches rammed into ancient wall brackets to allow him to make out what has happening in the corridor outside. It bent to the right, so he could see no more than a few feet, but the noise was unmistakable. Someone was rushing towards the damp cell that had become their prison.
    He was certain that the sudden gunfire meant that the bandits’ camp was under attack. He was equally sure that someone would remember the hostages, even in the midst of the sudden melee. It would take but a quick word of command to dispatch a few men to quickly dispose of the three English prisoners, and he felt his heart lurch as he realised the danger that was surely hurtling towards them.
    He pushed Isabel to one side, thinking to shield her from the assault, taking up a position to block any intruder’s entrance to the room. The footsteps sounded loud in the corridor. More than one man was heading their way.
    Jack caught a glimpse of shadowy figures rushing down the corridor before the door was thumped hard. The sharp scrape of metal was loud in the small room, a rusty iron lock grating as it was wrenched open. He was tensing himself to fight when a desperate notion came to him. He spun on the spot, pushing Isabel in front of him and throwing himself towards the murkiest corner of the room, into what he hoped were the darkest of the shadows.
    Youngsummers lurched to his feet as he saw his daughter propelled towards mortal danger.
    ‘You blackguard!’ The protest burst out as the door was thrown open to crash back on its hinges.
    Isabel screamed at the sight of two armed men, their drawn swords flickering in the dull light that had belatedly reached the darkened room. Youngsummers blundered forward, reaching for his daughter’s arm, the rush of courage pitching him directly into the path of the men sent to kill them.
    The first man’s eyes darted around the room, searching for danger. He saw the thin young girl who shrieked as if the devil himself were arriving to claim her soul. He saw too the fat man who staggered into his path, his foreign words echoing loudly in the confined space. He did not see the third prisoner, the white-faced officer who had fought with such ferocity that afternoon.
    The second