Jack woke from a familiar nightmare of the Indian Mutiny when the Mutineers had attacked the British cantonments at Gondabad. He started up from his bed, naked as a baby and wondered what had awakened him.
“Donnelly!” Jack strode from his tent and looked around. Starlight gave a soft light to the camp, with the sentries silhouetted against the sky and the air humid, hard to breathe.
“Sir!” Donnelly had the sixth sense of the best servants, arriving at a trot. Dressed in his khaki trousers and shirt sleeves with his braces flapping loosely over his hips, Donnelly held his Martini-Henry in his hand, and his ammunition pouch was over his shoulder.
“Something’s happening, Donnelly,” Jack perused the skyline, quartering the ground as he searched for the enemy.
Donnelly nodded. “Yes, sir. Wh
