Rutland's Curse [Paperback]

A courageous young officer, Peter Rutland, embarks on a dangerous mission to return a precious holy relic to its rightful owners - the religious authorities in Afghanistan. His father, a retired major, begs him to give up the commission, forewarning, "When your blood returns here it will darken the stones of our valley".

If you enjoy Sharpe, Flashman or Hornblower, then you will want to read about Lieutenant Peter Rutland, Royal Artillery. This is the first book of a series of adventures about this new military personallity.

You will want to follow Peter Rutland as he fights his way through Afghanistan in 1878, while serving under General Roberts or ‘Bobs’, who made his name in this small Victorian War with his famous march from Kabul to Kandahar.
Based on the 1878 campaign, a young Artillery officer embarks on a hazardous mission to return a holy relic, despite inside treachery and a long standing curse, whilst fighting a noble enemy and a personal war on Afghanistan’s bloody plains, where to his surprise he finds great loyalty and also love.

Roger Carpenter was born and bred in Surrey, England. He is 70 years of age, married, with a son and daughter; they are also married and have produced four granddaughters who are the joy of his life.

He and his wife have, for the past 38 years, lived in an old farm house in the North Downs. He had a horticultural company for many years which was one of the very first Garden Centres in Great Britain. He retired in 1987 and now manages 100 acres of woodland that they bought in Kent some years ago when it was neglected, overgrown and dark. After a great deal of work, the wildlife has returned to the woods.

During his National Service, he served in the Royal Artillery from 1953 to 1955 where he met three other gunners who are named in the dedication page, Tom, John and Paul. They are all still very good friends and in frequent contact. It was during his time as a Gunner that he developed an interest in military history.

He did target shooting for many years (alongside John and Tom) and annually shot at the both summer meetings at Bisley. He is a life member of the National Rifle Association, the National Small Bore Association, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds and the Woodland Trust. The high point in his shooting career was to win the NSRA Surrey Championship in 1981.
As an avid reader of C.S. Forester, Alexander Kent and Bernard Cornwell, he immersed himself in his main interest of late 19th and early 20th century military engagements and weaponry before writing "Rutland's Curse," his debut novel.

He is currently writing a sequel based on the same officer, Peter Rutland, serving in the Boer War.
For more historical details visit his website - roger-carpenter.co.uk

Rutland’s Curse
Prologue
SHERPUR FORTRESS, KABUL, AFGHANISTAN, 1879

Peter staggered in a daze to the breach in the wall. The side of his uniform from collar to puttees was plastered with blood, he could feel it wet on his face - freezing in the bitter air. He shook his head to clear his thoughts but the overwhelming screaming was swamping his mind. Hundreds of voices clashing and blending; howling war cries mixed with the screams of the wounded. He clapped his hands over his ears to shut it all out; he wanted it to stop so he could think - just a moment’s quiet to let him think but the howling horde was getting closer. Through the swirling gun smoke raced the religion-crazed, Afghan zealots holding their black banners aloft, leading the unstoppable charge across the arid rocky ground towards the weakening defenders.
"Canister! Independent targets!" He shouted out the fire command through the choking dust to both his Bombardiers. In the wild activity they acknowledged his order with a quickly raised hand. Thank God both of them were still unhurt.
He looked up at the firing platform on the wall above him where the 4th Sikhs were loading, firing and dying, amid gun smoke and blood. Hundreds of empty brass cartridges littered the ground at their feet but the hail of bullets fired from their Martini Henry rifles was still not enough. Nearly one third of the Sikh company had fallen while most of the survivors now showed wounds through their torn and bloodstained uniforms. He wiped his smoke-blackened hand across his sweating face.
"Drivers!" He turned and yelled to the men grouped behind him holding the reins of the stolid artillery mules "All of you! Get spare carbines, down here, between the guns!"
This swarming Ghazi charge was not going to be held by just his two 7 pounder screw guns and the remaining Sikhs but a few extra carbines will help a little. Maybe some reinforcements are on their way. Maybe?
His blood soaked uniform was slowly drying out in the freezing wintry Afghanistan sun, stiffening the cloth as it caked hard. It was not his own blood but that of some poor Sikh who had taken the full force of the exploding Afghan shell and, in dying, had spread his blood and intestines all over Peter. Enemy bullets were slamming into brick and flesh all around him as the sniping tribesmen fired into the Sherpur fortress in seemingly ever increasing amounts.