‘A flask, sir. A drop o’ whisky works wonders, sir. The Admiral always takes one.’ Morrison, late coxswain of the Admiral’s barge, unscrewed the top of the flask.
Not for me, thank you, Morrison,’ Ogilvie said with a smile. ‘It’s a kind thought — but no. India teaches one to have a care!’
‘It’s just as you like, sir, of course.’ The flask was slid back into a capacious pocket; it would very likely come out again in a couple of minutes if the floridity of Morrison’s face, accented by the fringe of white whiskers, was anything to go by. The coxswain left and Ogilvie drank his tea and dressed quickly. When he reached the courtyard his uncle was tinkering with the Panhard, his hands covered with oil. There was no sign of the ‘engineer’.
‘Good morning, Uncle Rufus.’
An intent face looked up from the bonnet. ‘Morning, James, morning. Damn thing’s sulking.’ He went back to his work.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help,’ James said, going to the Admiral’s-side. ‘Why not leave it to what’s his name, MacNab?’
‘Stuff-and-nonsense, I know as much about it as he does.’ The Admiral prodded and fiddled and very obviously had no idea of what he was doing. Nevertheless, something happened; Rufus Ogilvie covered his surprise pretty well when the vehicle heaved and spluttered and vibrated and a spout of vapour issued from somewhere. ‘Get aboard, boy! ‘ he shouted. ‘Get aboard before she changes her mind!’ James did as he was told; his uncle steered somewhat erratically across the courtyard, heading towards the road beyond the main gatehouse. Soon they were going along at around ten miles an hour and the Admiral was holding on to his hat. The air was wonderful, fresh and keen, really invigorating, and Ogilvie took a succession of deep breaths, filling his lungs with the good highland morning. The colouring on the hills was superb. The road was a white dry dusty ribbon, curling away into far distances.
‘I dare say,’ his uncle observed, ‘it reminds you of Afghanistan.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite a place, so they tell me — Peshawar.’
‘Peshawar’s not exactly in Afghanistan, Uncle Rufus.’
‘Dammit, I know that! Never said it was.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Ogilvie felt his heart sink; his uncle was being a shade obvious, in his blunt seafaring tradition. The mention of Peshawar indicated that he was approaching his point, bows on and with good steerage way. Ogilvie had no wish to discuss Peshawar within the context which his uncle so plainly intended to probe. Guilefully, he expressed an interest in the mechanics of the Panhard.
The Admiral was pleased. ‘Very simple — I’ll explain it. I wonder you don’t get one, James. It would be very useful in India, I imagine?’
‘My Colonel, I think, would scarcely approve!’
The old man nodded sagely. ‘I can see that, of course. Horses...just like sail...horses are for gentlemen. I concede that point. To become too mechanical is to place oneself in the hands of the lower classes to a great extent — unless one takes steps to learn the ins and outs, as I have done. But in, say, Peshawar—’
‘Uncle Rufus, you were going to explain—’
‘So I was, so I was! Nothing to explain really, James, and anyway I’m sure you younger men don’t need on old buffer like me to tell you about modern methods of propulsion. Mind you, the steam cars were — are — a good deal simpler in many ways. Several advantages, too. The motion of the piston, you see, being produced, as it is, by the direct application of steam pressure, gives a wonderfully strong starting force — and it’s tremendously useful when climbing hills. More suitable for Scotland really but I didn’t fancy the idea of stoking going on around me. As a matter of fact I believe they did produce something that was virtually automatic in action, but I don’t know...damn things can explode, I believe.’
‘Explode?’
‘Yes. But a man called Serpollet or something, a Froggy, invented the flash boiler back in ‘88 and that makes it a great deal safer. Instead of heating up all the damn water at one go, just a small quantity is fed into a hot coil at each engine-stroke and — and turned into superheated steam. Yes, much simpler than internal combustion.’ Rufus Ogilvie, who seemed in fact not to know very much about internal combustion, cleared his throat at this point and somewhat briskly turned the conversation. ‘I forgot to say there’s breakfast in the back. Cold ham, bread, toast, marmalade, flask of coffee. We’re not in a hurry, are we? I thought you’d like to have breakfast down by the loch, James.’
Ogilvie nodded and looked pleased. It would be grand, he told his uncle. To the Ogilvies at Corriecraig, ‘the loch’ meant Loch Rannoch, though in fact there were nearer lochs. But there was something about Loch Rannoch that appealed strongly, especially to James Ogilvie, and this his uncle knew well. In a not untuneful voice the old sailor began singing, as the wild highland miles rolled back beneath their wheels, that old Scots air of ‘The Road to the Isles’.
By Tummel, and Loch Rannock,
And Lochaber I will go,
By heather tracks we honey in their wiles...
If you’re thinking, in your inner heart,
Braggart’s in my step,
You’ve never smelt the tangle o’ the Isles.
They breakfasted by that glorious loch, set in the physical heart of Scotland’s history of wars and fierce loyalties; breakfasted beneath a climbing sun and a mist now clearing from the water to leave it with a face that reflected the blue of the sky. The very presence of the Panhard seemed to James Ogilvie an insult, a sacrilege, a spoilation of nature and of God’s peace; he could understand the bitter hatred of his uncle and men like him for the clanking monstrous engines that had sullied the grand old sailing navy’s spread canvas and roared their rude, uncouth, oily songs at the great winds of the world. Soon perhaps, he thought, as he drank strong coffee by that peaceful lochside, there could be another of these mechanically propelled vehicles in the district, and then a third, and a fourth. The roads would become hideous. The appeal of such picnicking lay in the fact that, organised shoots and so forth apart, you were the only ones doing it on any particular day...
‘You’ll want to be meeting old friends,’ his uncle said with sudden abruptness. ‘You’re being asked after, James. The Duncrosses, the Blairs, the Campbells from Glen Lochay—’
James laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt I am! If I have them in the right order — Miss Elspeth, Miss Hester, and Miss Lorna.’
Rufus Ogilvie stared at him squarely. ‘Well? They’re nice gels, all of them. Families are old friends of your parents. What’s wrong with that, boy?’
James shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘Then?’
‘They’re all looking for husbands, Uncle Rufus, as well you know!’
‘I call that uncharitable — ungentlemanly. Ungallant.’
‘The drift from the highlands—’
‘And downright rude to your father’s friends!’
‘In the Navy, don’t you call them the Fishing Fleet?’
The old man saw the spark of humour in his eye, and laughed. ‘Not on their own territory, James. When their mamas drag them down to Southsea, and Plymouth, and Chatham—then, yes! Poor gels, they’re flung to the wolves at one ball after another, largely to become wallflowers, with some admiral’s or captain’s wife working her guts out to fill their programmes tactfully. But up here, James, it’s not like that. Never was.’
‘You didn’t choose Aunt Katharine from a local family, Uncle Rufus.’
‘True. But who’s talking about you choosing anyone?’ James grinned. ‘You are, Uncle Rufus.’
‘Balls and bang me arse, I’m most certainly not, though it’s a matter you’ll have to give thought to before long. I merely made a suggestion that you do your social duty, that’s all. You can’t neglect old friends, James.’
‘I won’t, don’t worry. I know my manners! Is that all you wanted to say, Uncle Rufus?’
There was a short hesitation, then the old man said gruffly, ‘Why, yes, James, that’
s all. That’s all!’
Ogilvie knew very well that it was not, but guessed that his uncle shrank from spoiling the morning, the first morning back by the lochside, with argument that could, and would, become bitter. For his part, though he very strongly resented the smallest hint of interference, however well-intended, in his personal affairs, and was deeply angry at the very thought of hearing Mary Archdale discussed probably disparagingly, he kept his temper and refrained from precipitating anything that he might later regret. They talked of other things, making plans for his stay at Corriecraig, plans that, magnanimously on his uncle’s part, included learning to drive the Panhard. They enjoyed their breakfast, and then a brisk walk by the loch, and then they returned to Corriecraig and the start of the social round that awaited an officer of Her Majesty’s Service on leave from active duty. Ogilvie spent the month of September at Corriecraig; and the day before he was due to return to his rooms in Half Moon Street, with another fortnight yet to go before he would embark at Tilbury for Bombay, his uncle retailed, as the two of them breakfasted alone in the great armour-strewn dining-room, some items of news that had reached him in the morning’s post. The originator of the news was cousin Hector. It seemed that Hector’s long nose, prodding deeply as usual into the web of gossip enmeshed about his room in the India Office, had snuffled up the fact that three newly commissioned subalterns, green, ex-Sandhurst Gentlemen Cadets, had been gazetted, during Ogilvie’s absence, to the 114th Highlanders in garrison at Peshawar; and Hector’s letter contained a reminder that his father had met one of them — a certain Alan Taggart-Blane.
‘By God I have,’ the Admiral said. ‘He really needn’t have reminded me! Taggart-Blane — the elder brother — was one of my lieutenants, or rather one of my Flag Captain’s lieutenants, in the 4th Battle Squadron. Eighteen months ago that was. The brother came aboard in Portsmouth, for a wardroom party. He cheeked me — I happened not to be in uniform. Thought I was the ship’s cat or something. Tight as a drum! Disgusting, not that I normally mind drink. No, it was something else, James.’
‘Yes?’
The Admiral pursed his lips. ‘I shouldn’t pass remarks. I should leave you to form your own judgments. But having gone so far, perhaps it’s only fair to warn you.’
‘Well, go on, Uncle Rufus, I’m feeling tantalised!’
‘So long as that’s all you feel,’ the Admiral said grimly. ‘Once — years ago when I was a lieutenant myself — my ship was guardship in a North African port and I was on duty as Officer of the Guard. A Greek warship entered...it was our job to board all vessels entering and to wait upon their captains, to pass them all the port regulations and special orders.
So it fell to me to go aboard the Greek to represent my own Captain. I’ve always remembered what my Captain said when he gave me my orders. “Ogilvie,” he said, “bear in mind that it’s a Greek ship and we all know what these damn dagoes are like. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll wear tin pants and stand with your backside hard against a bulkhead.” That was what he said. Now, Taggart-Blane’s no Greek, but possibly you get the drift?’
James nodded. ‘I think so, Uncle Rufus. By God, though — I hope you’re wrong!’
‘So do I. I may be — I may be, no man’s infallible. But I’m damn sure I’m not wrong, all the same.’ He perused his son’s letter again. ‘Now, here’s the next piece of backstairs information, and it’s rather more interesting. There’s some sort of trouble with the Ghilzais.’ He looked up. ‘Does that mean anything to you, boy?’
‘Yes. The Ghilzais are a Pathan tribe, living in Afghanistan...they more or less control the passes into India.’
‘The Khyber?’
‘Among others, yes. They’re a warlike bunch, but so are all the Pathans. They’ve been friendly enough so far, though.’
‘It seems that’s not going to last, James. Hector says they’re likely to lose some subsidy or other and they’re reacting badly against the British. Hector thinks it likely your Division will be in action shortly. You’re a damn fortunate young man, James. There’s nothing like a good war for promotion!’
TWO
The India-bound P. & O. pulled away, slowly, from Tilbury beneath a mid-October drizzle, taking its leave-expired contingent of officers and civilians back to their far-off places of duty. It was a melancholy scene, as the sailing of a ship to distant seas always was; the poignancy of parting to another long spell in the sub-continent was heightened by the liner’s band, playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. James Ogilvie carried with him the image of Mary Archdale, waving a white handkerchief from the quayside, a dwindling figure soon to merge inextricably with the figures of the other Godspeeders. Mary was spending a few months longer in England, bowing to a necessary discretion, and had promised to return to India, if not to Peshawar, in due course. She would not be lonely as she had been during Ogilvie’s stay at Corriecraig; some old army friends had come back into her life, by a chance meeting in London, and they had invited her to regard their Cambridgeshire house as her home until she went back to India. Ogilvie, however, in spite of the social life of the ship, missed her company more and more as the liner steamed south for the Gibraltar Strait, and on through the Mediterranean for the slow, hot passage of the Suez Canal.
*
‘Captain Ogilvie, sir! Welcome back, sir!’ There was a stamp of boots and a swinging salute from Regimental Sergeant-Major Cunningham, first of the regiment to greet Ogilvie in cantonments. Cunningham was obviously delighted to see him back. ‘I trust you enjoyed your leave, sir?’
‘Very much, thank you, Sar’nt-Major. It’s nice to see the old faces again, all the same. Yours especially,’ he added as he shook Cunningham’s hand warmly. ‘How’s your good lady, Sar’nt-Major?’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
‘And the regiment?’
‘In good heart, Captain Ogilvie, in good heart considering.’ The R.S.M. paused. Despite his words, he had sounded unhappy. Looking away across the parade-ground where the drill-sergeants were shouting at squads of highlanders, away to the distant foothills of Himalaya rearing upward through light cloud, he went on, ‘Not that the men haven’t grown a shade too idle, a shade too much fat on mind and body, sir, from a long spell of quiet along the Frontier.’
‘No action, Mr. Cunningham?’
‘None, sir — none to speak of. Just patrol activity. But that’s a situation that’s due to change, and I’ll not be sorry!’
Ogilvie nodded. ‘I’ve read the papers, of course — up to the time I left England. And I gathered from the Times of India in Bombay that the Ghilzais are none too happy.’
‘That’s it, sir. They’ve been upset by Calcutta.’
‘By the Civilians?’
‘Aye, sir, by the Civilians.’
‘What’s it all about?’
‘Money’s at the bottom of it, sir, though I don’t know the ins and outs.’ Looking over Ogilvie’s shoulder, the R.S.M. stiffened. ‘The Colonel, sir.’
Ogilvie turned smartly, standing at attention and lifting his topee as Lord Dornoch came up, swinging his kilt around his knees.
‘Well, James. I’m glad to have you back with us, I must say, though I’ve no doubt you have mixed feelings! How’s Scotland?’
‘As good as ever, Colonel.’
‘I’m sure it is. There are times when I can’t wait to see it again, but when I do go home, I expect I’ll feel the same about India. That’s life, is it not, James?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
‘Did you call on the depot when you were at Corriecraig?’
‘Yes, Colonel. Invermore’s not changed.’
‘So I’ve gathered. We have three new subalterns from there — you’ll meet them shortly, of course.’ As the R.S.M. saluted and, on the Colonel’s nod, about-turned and marched away to his various concerns, Lord Dornoch laid a friendly hand on Ogilvie’s shoulder. Together they walked across the dusty parade-ground, in a coldish wind coming down from the Himalayan snow-line: the winter seas
on was now upon the district of Peshawar and the air was fresh. Farther west, in Afghanistan, the passes would soon be heavy with snow and ice. Dornoch said, ‘James, you’ve only this minute rejoined...it’s possibly unfair to give you news that may not be entirely welcome, but I feel trouble blowing up and there may, for all I know, be little time.’
‘Yes, Colonel?’
They walked on, slowly, Ogilvie matching his step to Dornoch’s. ‘The fact is...’
‘The Ghilzais?’
‘Why yes, indirectly. But there’s something else, James, and it’s this: a native infantry regiment, sepoys — the 99th Rawalpindi Light Infantry to be precise — they’ve been just recently brigaded with us as replacements for the Connaught Rangers, who’ve gone to South Africa to finish their spell of foreign service. It seems they’re a slack lot — indeed I’ve seen it for myself. Poor-quality officers — the usual mixture of British and Indian, of course, but definitely not up to standard. Orders have come through from Division that they’re to be brought up to active service standard at once. They’re to have a ramrod.’
‘Yes, Colonel?’
Dornoch gave an involuntary sigh. ‘The ramrod’s you, James. You’re to be seconded to the sepoy regiment with effect from tomorrow. You’re not going to be happy on parade with the short Light Infantry step — it doesn’t suit tall men! I’m sorry — you’re not my choice. I don’t mean I think you can’t cope, for I know very well you can — that’s not my point. My point is that I don’t want to lose you! But the order originated from General Fettleworth himself, so there’s no more to be said.’ The Colonel smiled. ‘You may take it from me, a lot has been said already — but, regrettably, to no effect at all. Well — how d’you feel about it?’
‘It’s a disappointment, Colonel.’
‘Only a temporary one. I’ll see that you come back to us the moment the sepoys are brought up to scratch — so work on them hard, James, in your own interest. Look upon it as added experience, which of course it is. A native regiment is a very different kettle of fish from one of ours, but I can promise you one thing: win the trust and respect of the sepoys, and you’ll get a very steadfast loyalty in return.’ They had reached the door of the Mess by this time, and the Colonel halted. ‘There’s one thing more: I’ve, also been ordered to send a subaltern with you, name unspecified. Well, I’ve made my choice, and I’ve made it because I know you’re a good soldier and you can do a lot for the young gentleman who’s going with you — and whom I do not consider is at this moment quite up to the standard of the Royal Strathspeys. His name is Taggart-Blane.’
The Lion's Den Page 2
