by John Masters
He held the coin tight. God, God, I don’t want to be a freak.
At that moment the distant fire of remembered love warmed him. He could go out. All would be well. Anne loved him. From her he could learn what ‘love’ was, and so love her. But--if he went out to her the mysterious thing in him would die, and he and Anne would have murdered it.
He had sat here a long time, by the corporal’s body. A sergeant and two privates came. The sergeant said roughly, ‘Move over, sir, we have to take the corporal to the grave.’ No respect for Robin’s rank veiled the belligerence in his eyes. Robin moved away.
He heard steps behind him, turned, and saw Rifleman Jagbir, carrying the two rifles. ‘Why don’t you leave me too, Jagbir?’ he said with sudden bitterness. But if no man could be a part of him, if his spirit only sprang up to meet the wind’s, why did tears well up in his eyes?
‘Where shall I go, sahib?’ Jagbir asked with no warmth in his voice, but no coldness either, just wanting to know. Robin muttered, ‘Stay.’
Two more men had arrived on the gorge side. One wore a shapeless khaki uniform and a clerical collar, and kept wiping the snow off his thin-rimmed spectacles. The other was a tall private with a bagpipe under his arm. The captain saw them and called up. ‘We’re ready, padre.’ The presbyter took out a book, and the soldiers stood with heads bowed and topis in their hands while the snow fell on the cropped stubble of their hair.
Robin turned when the prayers were over and climbed quickly up the hill. The snow muffled the clang of the flying shovels. Faintly from the crest he heard the Highland lament, ‘Lochaber No More.’ It has no weakness in it, nothing of tearful sentimentality. It came from that place of the spirit which he sought so hard to find--from a strong, lonely valley.
When he reached the track the 13th was just arriving, the head of the battalion drawing level with Robin’s company where the men sprawled at rest at the foot of the hill. Maniraj gave the order to fall in, and Robin heard Major Whiteman, the second-in-command, ask, ‘Where’s Savage-sahib, Maniraj?’
Then he came up and saluted. ‘I’m here, sir.’ The groom held his horse’s reins, he mounted, and rode up alongside the major.
‘Oh, there you are. Where have you been? What’s happened? What are all these rumours? Blood! Are you wounded? Did you have a good scrap?’ The major’s large, round face peered half anxiously, half exultantly into his. ‘Bolton heard there’s been a big battle. A brigade galloper said nothing’s happened. Someone else said the MacDonalds are wiped out. The general’s sent for the colonel. What casualties have you had? Are you wounded?’
‘No, sir. We had two killed and seven wounded taking the hill. Nothing down here. The wounded are with the field hospital. Mclain’s company of the MacDonalds was ambushed over there and wiped out.’
‘Phew! All their rifles taken?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Phee-ee-ew!’
Robin said, ‘Mclain escaped. He says my company didn’t go to his help because I was frightened.’
The major swung heavily around in the saddle. ‘What, what! Did you hit the cad?’
‘No, sir.’
It was no use trying to explain to any of them how it had been, or how it had come about. He did not think that the muddle would ever be untangled. Mclain had been in the wrong place at the right time. On this occasion Robin ought to have hurried to the sound of the firing. On another occasion he would have been wrong to do so. British troops were always half asleep. So was he. Major Whiteman mumbled angrily to himself about the honour of the regiment. How would he react when he heard the other version of the story--the true version? Except that the Gurkhas certainly had not been afraid.
Robin saluted, drew out of the column, and waited until his company came up, then edged his horse into the empty space at its head and rode on. He rode with head up, looking into the snow and hoping to see through it, in some God-sent break, a vista of Afghanistan’s immense emptiness.
In the evening they came to the camp site on the wide plateau by the pass. The snow had stopped. Under the low clouds they saw the hills guarding Kabul, where an Afghan army surrounded General Roberts and his men. The time was sunset, but the steely light took on no colour, and they could not see the sun. Perhaps the sun shone for a minute over Kabul before it sank, because a single, long flash sprang out from the hills to the north of the city. It was a heliograph and it did not flash again. The darkness descended, and there was no more light to bring Roberts’s message to them. Officers and soldiers in the camp paused as they worked and gazed out over the rough, new-built stone wall towards Kabul, then turned to look at the brigade signallers waiting beside their heliograph, ready to answer; but there was no more light.
At supper-time Colonel Franklin still had not come back. He will be having supper with the general in the brigade mess, Robin thought, and afterwards they will talk some more about me. His brother officers ate in silence. Looking at their faces as they bent over the bowls of watery soup, he knew they had already heard the stories. He looked down at the table. He did not want them to think he was challenging them to meet his glance and announce by their expressions whether they were going to stand by him or desert him. The honour that meant so much to them was a strange thing. Up to a point it required them to uphold their friends, right or wrong; beyond that undefinable point it required them to find the offence unforgivable, to cut as cruelly as they could. Anyway, they were good fellows, and he did not want to embarrass them. It was possible that he and they had drawn closer now than ever before. For once they were all thinking about the same thing. It would not last for long, because already Shelley’s lines were coming between him and this sad affair. Soon he’d be away, to leave them worrying about him and never, never understanding.
When Bolton, the good adjutant, began to talk about the shooting prospects in Manali for the next season the others took him up in eager relief. Robin finished his meal quickly. The colonel did not return. Robin pushed back his stool, formally said, ‘Good night, sir,’ to Major Whiteman, and left the dining tent. In the anteroom tent he gathered up his sword from the pile on a folding table and buckled it on. His pistol belt he wore all the time, like the other officers. He went out.
The battalion held the long, eastern perimeter of the camp. He walked slowly about among the rough shelters of his company. Most of the men were asleep. He stood at the sentry posts behind the walls and asked the sentries if all was well. They watched the darkness with unstraining Mongolian eyes and did not turn their heads to answer him. All was well. They stamped their feet against the cold. It was impossible to tell from their tone whether they had decided to judge him or not. Perhaps some of them were wondering whether he might not be a coward. His affection for them brought him back unwillingly to the incidents of the morning. Old Maniraj was so worried that at stand-to he could hardly speak properly.
The left flank of the company lay in the angle where the MacDonald’s perimeter began. He heard angry voices raised there and walked over. Soon he could make out clearly what they were saying.
‘Och, awa’! Git oot of oor lines, ye bluidy little mon. Ye’re no better than the niggers, after a’!’
The brigade buglers had not yet blown ‘Lights Out.’ Dim lamps hung from the ridge-poles of officers’ tents. Robin saw three big Highlanders, their rifles and fixed bayonets slung on their right shoulders, and a single Gurkha. For a second he could not understand. Normally the Highlanders were pleased to have the Gurkhas visit them in their lines. Other Indian troops they never pretended to like, but Gurkha riflemen were even allowed to enter those Wet Canteens religiously reserved for British troops, and to order their own rum and pay for it. Indian sepoys were ‘niggers’ or ‘natives’; Gurkhas were ‘Johnny.’
Then Robin understood and began to be angry. The Gurkha’s back was to him. How could the poor devil know that he was to be held responsible for what one of his officers had done or failed to do?
Hurrying forward, he heard Jagbir�
�s voice spitting in cold, furious Gurkhali. ‘It wasn’t our sahib’s fault. It was yours! Why didn’t he obey his orders?’
Jagbir did understand after all. No one in the brigade could be thinking of anything else. Jagbir did not know a word of English. It was touching beyond belief. Robin wanted to cry, but he could not interfere with this, and he stood back in the shadow of a tent. One of the Highlanders gave Jagbir a rough push with his hand and said, ‘Get on awa’!’ Jagbir clapped his hands to his right hip, drew his kukri, and stood on guard, defying them to touch him again. The Highlanders unslung their rifles quickly.
Suddenly a change came over the quarrel. Through the mist blurring his eyes Robin saw the reason. Jagbir did look exactly like a bullpup about to take on three grown Saint Bernards. The biggest Highlander broke into a guffaw and shouted, ‘Ye’re a braw yin. Ah apawlogize. It’s onny yer officer we dinna like. On behaff of the MacDonald Highlanders, will ye honour us by takkin’ a drap wi’ us?’ They threw their arms around Jagbir, who put up his kukri, chuckled as suddenly as he had become fighting mad, and went with them. As he went he said earnestly in Gurkhali, ‘Your sahib should have stayed on the hill.’ The Highlanders said, ‘Och, let’s forget it, mon.’ None of them had seen Robin. He turned and went back to pacing the perimeter.
Soon a bagpipe squealed and droned from the Highlanders’ lines, then struck into the slow march ‘Soldier, lay doon on your wee pickle strae.’ All lights went out, one by one. For ten minutes the piper marched in and out among the tents and shelters and jumbled piles of baggage.
The tune died in a squeal of expelled air, and the camp was silent.
At midnight it began to snow again. The snow fell faster than by day, and in big, soft flakes, sheeting the squatting camels and the mules in their lines, and the churned mud of the camp. Intermittently the air shook soundlessly to the vibration of distant guns, where Roberts fought for his life in Kabul.
An hour before dawn the infantry bugles blared and the artillery trumpets screamed ‘Reveille.’ Minutes afterwards, while the camp came bustling awake, the MacDonald pipers marched up and down to the relentless lift of ‘Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wakin’ yet?’ Robin did not feel cold or tired or hungry and did not go to breakfast. Later an orderly came for him. Everywhere the tents were coming down, the shelters being packed away, the baggage loaded. Bubbling camels and shouting drivers surrounded the anteroom tent, which was still standing. Robin found Lieutenant-Colonel Franklin inside. There was no furniture left except a folding table and a Roorkee chair, in which the colonel sat. He was drumming his fingers on the table as Robin went in and saluted. Robin thought he was not angry, in spite of the grimness of his face, but only worried and battling with something he did not understand, perhaps did not even believe.
The colonel said, ‘The general’s very perturbed about what happened yesterday, Robin. Look here, tell me in your own words what really happened. It’s all so damn muddling.’ He smiled nervously and continued to drum his fingers on the table.
Without hesitation Robin answered him. He did not want to fight--he was not fighting or blaming anyone now--but after what he had seen last night, of Jagbir and the Highlanders, he had to tell the truth.
When he finished, Colonel Franklin stopped drumming on the table and began to crack the joints of his fingers. ‘That’s better than I’d heard--than the general believes, unfortunately. Why didn’t you say so? Perhaps you ought to have gone with Mclain, anyway. Or ought to have marched to the sound of firing--any firing. I don’t know. It’s a matter of opinion, unfortunately. Colonel Findlater is pressing for a court of inquiry. Court martial, he said, but there’d have to be a court of inquiry first, of course. Your father--’
‘My father’s got nothing to do with this, sir,’ Robin snapped, suddenly sharp and bitterly angry. ‘I’ll stand on my own feet. I may have made a bad mistake. But I’m not a coward, nor is any man in my company.’
‘No, no, Robin, of course not. Don’t speak to me like that, boy! No one will ever know now who was in the proper valley, unfortunately.’
Colonel Franklin continued to crack his joints. Outside, the mess havildar bawled abuse at a rifleman for packing the sahibs’ crockery without due care.
‘Did you confer with Maniraj? Did he urge you to do what you did, against your own judgment?’
‘No, sir,’ Robin said coldly. ‘In fact, I disregarded Maniraj’s advice.’
‘Of course he wouldn’t get into any trouble. It’s your responsibility. But it might take out the sting--out of the talk. Just inexperience, they would say. And of course we in the regiment would know that it wasn’t really Maniraj’s fault. I mean, it wouldn’t affect his chances for promotion to S.M., though you know as well as I that he hasn’t got any.’
‘Maniraj had nothing to do with my decisions, sir.’
‘Well, I’ve talked to him. He says he held you back when you wanted to go forward. Of course it is still your responsibility, but the talk, the bitterness, will be much less--’
‘Sir, Subadar Maniraj is lying.’
It was horrible that Maniraj should be brought to lying for him. That was the trap in all human relations. Out of sweetness there always grew corruption. In this case, from love, Maniraj had committed the first sin against God--? lying. And so had he himself. Yesterday, on behalf of Mclain.
‘Well--’ The colonel sat motionless for a minute. Then he said, ‘I don’t think you’re a coward, Robin. But you’re rather a prig sometimes. And extremely selfish.’ He jumped up and jammed his topi on his head. ‘The general’s going to think about it. If it wasn’t for your--well, I must be going.’ He paused at the tent flap. ‘Remember that it isn’t just between you and Mclain. It’s between the British and Bengal Armies now. It couldn’t be worse.’
‘I know, sir.’
The colonel went out, and the tent flap dropped. For a minute Robin stood quietly in the gloom, then he too went out and walked to his company. They were fallen in and ready to move.
On the trail the pace was fast. The wind blew strong from the west, driving wet snow into their teeth so that they gasped for breath on the occasional ascents. For the most part the trail led down. Signs of habitation increased. Dogs barked from nearby villages. They had come out of the waste and were approaching the city.
Near midday firing broke out close ahead. The column closed up and came to a fitful halt. Robin remembered that it was Christmas Eve. He rode slowly up to battalion headquarters to find the cause of the delay. The other company commanders were there already. The group of horses danced in the road, spattering the slush from under their hoofs. The officers talked loudly together to keep themselves warm. ‘Who’s firing?’ . . . They’ll swamp him if we don’t get on.’ . . . ‘Why don’t we attack en masse? Why don’t...?’ They peered into the snow as though they could see the four or five miles to Kabul. Visibility was two hundred yards, and the snow had swallowed up the houses, the mountains, and the plain.
A galloper came down the column, the same Sikh trooper who had come yesterday to Robin from brigade headquarters. Colonel Franklin looked up quickly when he had read the message. He said, ‘Savage, report to the general at once. I’ll have your company sent up to you at the double.’ He took off his topi and wiped the sweat from his forehead. As Robin swung his horse the colonel followed him until they were out of the other officers’ hearing. Then he said in a trembling voice, ‘Robin, it’s providential. And it’s damned good of the general. Don’t make any mistake this time, lad. We’re with you, all the Thirteenth.’ He waved his topi, and Robin settled down to the short ride, Jagbir and the groom running at his stirrups.
At headquarters the brigade pennon hung limp and wet from the orderly’s lance. The general, mounted among his mounted staff, received Robin with a stiff smile. ‘Mr. Savage, I have a task for you. I take it that you will find it welcome?’
Robin said, ‘Yes,’ flatly. The general thought that he was conferring a great favour by giving him this chance
to retrieve himself. So did all the rest of them. And it was true; but some Gurkhas were going to be killed, and the purpose of their death would be to save Colonel Rodney Savage, C.B., from the embarrassment of having his son court-martialled for cowardice.
The general said, ‘Good. That hill--you can just see the base of it through the snow--commands our road to Kabul. Frontier Force scouts have been up. There are about fifty ghazis behind a low wall on top. I am going to give them five minutes’ shelling, then I want you to lead your company’--he emphasized the word ‘lead’ slightly--’and take the hill at the point of the bayonet. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Be quick, now. There go the guns. And--ah, h’m--good luck. You know--’ He turned brusquely away, his heavy face flushed, apparently unable to finish his sentence. Somewhere nearby an unseen little dog was barking, setting the staff officers’ horses to dancing and rearing up. Robin saluted the general’s back and frowned at Jagbir. The dog stopped barking. The company had already arrived and was waiting by the side of the road, every man shaking with expressionless laughter. Six or seven other riflemen began to imitate dogs, and for a minute there was a noise like a dogfight in the ranks. All the time the guns roared from behind, unseen, and sent their shells whistling through the snow overhead.
When Robin explained the orders to Maniraj, the subadar’s old eyes glowed and the anxiety went out of his face. The riflemen moved to their places, and the yapping died away. They drew their bayonets and fixed them on their rifles. Robin saw the reddening of their eyes as they ran to get ready. Some of them were going to die or lose a limb for the sake of Colonel Savage’s self-esteem, but they did not look at it that way. That was an anaemia of his own imagination--his priggish imagination? The Gurkhas were going to show the MacDonalds of the Isles and Old Alma and the fanatical ghazis that an order was an order. They were spread out now, and all was ready for the signal.
