Ogilvie said, ‘Oh.’
‘D’you know him?’
‘No, Colonel, but my uncle has met him.’
‘Your uncle, the Admiral?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
‘And did he venture an opinion?’
Ogilvie said with some hesitation, ‘He was not entirely in favour, Colonel.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll not enquire what exactly he said — we must not prejudge any man. Nevertheless, I have a shrewd suspicion and frankly I’m somewhat...but never mind, never mind. Form your own conclusions. It’s by far the better way.’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
Lord Dornoch went off to his office and Ogilvie entered the anteroom. Surgeon-Major Corton looked up from behind the Times of India and greeted Ogilvie warmly. The atmosphere of the Mess, of a way of life, at once enfolded him; as at Corriecraig, he had the sense of homecoming. It was as though he had never been away from the regiment. He slipped straight back into the past without effort. Going along a little later to his room, he found that his servant had already unpacked his trunks and that everything was in its familiar place. On his chest-of-drawers was the silver-framed photograph of his parents, together with his silver-backed hairbrushes. On the other side of those brushes there now stood another photograph — of Mary Archdale, taken in an exclusive London studio against a fake background of potted palms and marble columns and font-shaped stone receptacles containing a profusion of flowers. She was in a daringly low-cut dress, and the expression of the eyes was provocative and mischievous. She was very, very lovely; Peshawar would not be the same without her. Since the day the regiment had first arrived on Indian service, she had been there: now there was a vacuum, to be filled, no doubt, by intensive work on the slack sepoys and the unsatisfactory Alan Taggart-Blane: poor substitutes both!
Ogilvie stared, devouring, at the photographs. It was an excellent likeness, but as insubstantial as all photographs : somehow, the more you looked, the more the reality escaped you. But looking, Ogilvie’s thoughts went back to Corriecraig, where ultimately his uncle had spoken out, unburdening himself of what he had hesitated to talk about that early morning by Loch Rannochside. The Admiral’s words had hurt, and the hurt was still there, but so was the resolve that had been strengthened rather than shaken by what the old man had said. Rufus Ogilvie had left the matter until all but a week of his nephew’s stay was up; and then, with the two of them alone over brandy and cigars after dinner, he had brought the conversation round to the question of marriage, though he had not at that point spoken the name of Mary Archdale, Scarlet Woman — or so one would have believed her, from the ponderousness of an elderly approach. In the end James had forced the issue. ‘Uncle Rufus,’ he had said shortly, ‘please, for God’s sake, say what you want to say. You’ve heard from Father, haven’t you?’
The Admiral had looked disconcerted at that; he had blown out his cheeks and then said mildly, ‘Well, yes, I have, it’s true. I’ll not deny it. The fact is, your mother’s in a tizzy.’
‘And she made Father write?’
‘I dessay she had some influence.’ Rufus Ogilvie studied his cigar, frowning and ill-at-ease. ‘As a matter of fact, y’know...I somehow read into his letter that he rather liked the lady.
Nevertheless, he’s under no illusions as to the effect it could have on your career. No more have I — hence this pi-jaw, James.’
‘A career isn’t everything.’ James waved a hand around the great dining-room, around the portraits of Ogilvies dead and gone, around the family silver on the table, and, by inference, around the Ogilvies lands beyond the old grey castle walls. ‘One day — and may it be a long time coming, Uncle Rufus — one day, this part of Scotland is going to have a need for me. The need could be more pressing than that of the regiment.’
‘Yes, I understand that.’ Rufus Ogilvie took a mouthful of brandy and swallowed with slow appreciation. ‘I do understand, James, truly. I loved the Service, you know that. I loved travel, I loved the ships, I grew attached to the men — simple fellows, rough and ready, often enough foul-mouthed, but real men and as honest and straightforward as the day. Like so many of our highland crofters. I loved, I suppose, the sheer power I wielded. It was literally life and death! They say, don’t they, that all power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. True up to a point, but nonsense when applied to gentlemen. Gentlemen—’
‘Uncle Rufus, I—’
‘Please don’t interrupt me, James. Gentlemen are not corrupted, because they always put their duty first — their duty to their ship, their regiment, their servants, their tenants, whatever it may be. That is the mark of a gentleman, boy — service. There’s a new breed now, of course, based upon trade. They’re not gentlemen yet, they’re not accepted by the county families but they will be, they will be one day! That won’t make them true gentlemen, and they’ll weaken the breed, James. They’ll have no sense of duty, and they’ll be corrupted, they’ll serve their own ends, but because they will have become accepted as gentlemen, we’ll all be tarred with their dirty brush because people will have forgotten what a true gentleman was.’ He jabbed his cigar towards his nephew. ‘It’s up to people like us to keep the breed pure, don’t you see? Do what we damn well can anyway! But where was I?’
‘You loved the Service,’ Ogilvie said grimly.
‘Ah, yes. Yes. It doesn’t fall to the lot of younger sons to inherit...otherwise I might well have been drawn back to Corriecraig when my father died. I think I would have sacrificed my Flag to that! And damme, but I’m downright glad to know you feel like that about the old place, James.’ The Admiral pulled out a vast coloured handkerchief like a string of bunting, and dabbed at his face with his cigar-free hand. ‘Nevertheless, certain basic facts remain. You, as the heir, need an heir of your own. I understand the lady—’
‘Is a lady, Uncle Rufus—’
‘Yes, yes, don’t misunderstand me, I’ve never suggested the contrary. I was going to say, I understand the lady is older than you by seven years, no less!’
James gave an irritated laugh. ‘Don’t be absurd. One is not past child-bearing at the age of...’
‘Go on.’
‘Thirty-one.’
There was sympathy in the old man’s face, but he said quietly, ‘You spoke that age with a certain hesitancy, James. Thirty-one’s not old, God knows, but no more is it the first full flush of youth, and you should one day have a bride of nineteen or twenty. Childbirth in the thirties is not easy for the mother. You must bear this in mind, James — for the sake of Corriecraig and the Ogilvie line.’ He hesitated. ‘There are other things. The lady has been married before—’
‘Yes, and is widowed — not divorced!’
‘Quite, quite.’ The Admiral waved his cigar. ‘But you know Scotland well enough! You know the Presbyterians — oh, and as far as that goes, the Church of England too, to some extent, it’s not just us Scots! Remarriage — whilst, of course, obviously permitted — is not looked upon well by the strictly religious. The flesh remains as one in their eyes, even after death. The resurrection of the body raises certain practical difficulties in the hereafter...James, my dear boy, I don’t exaggerate in the very slightest when I say that for various reasons many of the older and more God-fearing tenants of Corriecraig would regard Mrs. Archdale as living in sin with you, were you to marry her!’
‘Am I answerable for my conscience, and my life, to the tenant farmers of Corriecraig, Uncle Rufus, and to the Bible-thumping hypocrites, the sanctimonious maiden ladies of the manse?’
The old man laughed; but cautioned, ‘Not so loud, not so vehement — if the servants should overhear, you’d be tarred with the devil’s brush, boy! Of course you are not answerable to them, but you have a duty to them nevertheless. Remember one thing to your dying day and don’t treat it lightly: we Ogilvies are God and the Queen in their eyes, all rolled into one! They set their standards by us, and they use us as an example to their children and their children’s children.
You cannot ever let them down. The hurt would be so immense, so immense. It’s a very great responsibility, James, to be an Ogilvie.’ He added, ‘And it’s one you can’t lay down. You can send in your papers, leave the regiment — but you can never resign from being an Ogilvie!’
‘Is there anything else you want to say, Uncle Rufus?’
‘Yes, there is one thing,’ the Admiral said. ‘Now, don’t take this the wrong way, for it has to be said. Once said, it’ll not be repeated by me, and that’s a promise. But you must face it, and face it square. You said, and rightly said, that Mrs. Archdale was not divorced. But there has been talk, James—’
‘You mean, this talk says that she might as well have been divorced?’
‘Yes. I’m more than sorry, my boy, more than sorry. I’m fond of you — always have been. You’re a damn sight more my sort than my own son is. But I’m an Ogilvie too, and Corriecraig means just as much to me as it does to you. Corriecraig must have a suitable mistress once your mother’s in the Dower House.’ The Admiral was looking thoroughly uncomfortable now, but was clearly backing his words with deep and genuine feeling. ‘I ask you to ponder all this in your own time and in your own way, James.’
Coldly James asked, Was it my father who told you of this — this talk?’
‘No, it was not. My brother was never a tittle-tattle. And because of the respect and love I have for both him and your mother, I must for their sakes confess that my informant was your cousin Hector.’ He reached out a hand, clumsily. ‘I’m sorry, James, very sorry. Hector can be such a nasty little bugger at times, and I have frequently to restrain my boot from hard contact with his arse. But he has many links, naturally enough, with Peshawar and the Frontier as well as with the Government in Calcutta. If he keeps his ear closer to the ground than he really needs to, well, I can’t prevent it. Neither, in everyone’s interest, can we shut our ears entirely to what he — er — reports. You know as well as I do that there is an interchange of military society between Scotland and India — that the world is a small place on occasion, and that gossip has a very long tongue. I repeat — I’m sorry.’
Memories! Resentful ones; and regretful ones that, back in London again, he had been short with Mary when she had questioned him about his stay at Corriecraig; for he had preferred to remain silent as to his uncle’s remarks. This in turn had led to disharmony. There had been a passionate row, healed only just in time for her to come to Tilbury to see him off.
*
There was a full muster of the officers of the battalion in the Mess that night; and before dinner the talk in the anteroom was all of the possible action that now looked like becoming necessary against the Ghilzais. It was Surgeon-Major Corton who, with Rob MacKinlay, back from his staff course to resume command of a company, filled in the detail for Ogilvie. Corton said, ‘It’s all come down to money again.’
‘So Cunningham suggested. What’s the story, Doctor?’
Catching MacKinlay’s eye, Corton grinned and said, ‘It seems it’s all due to dear old Fettleworth. Bloody Francis may have rather badly overreached himself this time, don’t you think, Rob?’
MacKinlay nodded and said, ‘I fancy so. His panacea’s come unstuck, James.’
‘What panacea?’ Ogilvie was bewildered.
‘Well, James, since you went home on leave certain matters of high politics, as high as Fettleworth anyway, have become fairly common knowledge. Someone on the Staff has been guilty of an indiscretion, apparently, and when Bloody Francis nails the culprit, if ever he does, then a head on a charger is going to be demanded!’ MacKinlay laughed, and signalled the mess waiter to refill the officers’ glasses. ‘Put very simply, James old boy, it’s this: the Ghilzais have never been exactly keen on British influence in Afghanistan, they’ve been one of the more troublesome tribes in the main—’
‘Yes, I know that—’
‘Of course. And we’ve held them in check, haven’t we, kept an eye on ‘em, maintained our good old British vigilance, our iron hand of Imperialism for the benefit of the Raj—’
‘I say, steady on, Rob,’ Corton murmured. ‘Aren’t you sounding just a little like that fellow Marx?’
‘Sorry!’ MacKinlay grinned. ‘It wasn’t my intention. It was just that I was about to enlighten James on the point that the iron hand hasn’t been quite enough — as, it appears, Bloody Francis knew from the start—’
‘This,’ Corton said to Ogilvie, ‘is where the money angle comes in, if you haven’t guessed already.’
MacKinlay said, ‘Bribery. Fettleworth’s been diving his hand into his contingency account or whatever it may be — Government funds, anyway — and doling out the largesse to the Ghilzais. To be more exact, to their leader. Jarar Mahommed. Jarar’s become dependent on this subsidy — it’s a pretty big one, by the way—’
Was Fettleworth acting off his own bat, Rob?’
‘Not entirely. It was his idea in the first place, but he got Calcutta’s backing, via the Commissioner — he hasn’t done anything illegal or against orders — but this backing was not supposed to become too overt all the same. Bribery’s never been an official policy of the Raj not even when it’s called a subsidy — so a decent discretion has always been observed. Now, however, times are changing. I dare say you can guess the rest?’
‘Sorry, Rob, I can’t.’
‘Excesses whilst on leave have clearly dulled your brain, old boy. Calcutta’s instituted far-reaching economies. The India Office wallahs have been concerning themselves with matters of finance, James. The home Government sees too much money being poured into the Indian Empire, I think. Something like that, anyway. So Fettleworth’s access to the cash has been politely cut, and he’s been told to withdraw Jarar Mahommed’s — er — subsidy. Well, you can imagine how badly Jarar’s feelings have been hurt!’
‘And more so, his purse?’
‘Exactly. Our Divisional Commander’s a very worried old gentleman, James! His responsibilities have grown irksome and onerous — I don’t suppose you know, he’s been acting in the room of the Commissioner for some months — Fordyce is on sick leave and no one’s been appointed. Mind you, I give Fettleworth his due — he has a knack of doing the right thing in the end, even if for the wrong reasons very often, and he’s never shirked a fight. But, and it’s a big but, he likes having the leisure to be the lion of Peshawar society. And this time there’s something more pressing agitating his mind, so it’s said: he can’t risk being walloped by the Ghilzais. For that matter, none of us can.’
‘Ha! That’s scarcely likely—’
‘Come now, James, you’ve had quite enough experiences of the Frontier to know the fighting worth of the dear old Pathan! And when trouble comes,’ MacKinlay added, ‘it won’t be the Ghilzais alone. Things haven’t been entirely happy since those religious devils stirred up the Malakand rising, you know, and our march on Bajaur. The whole concept of the Durand Line could so easily be upset.’ He paused. ‘It’s not just that either. It’s us!’
Ogilvie’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Us, Rob? How’s that?’
MacKinlay shook his head and smiled. ‘You’re only just back from a long home leave. You’ll not have seen yet how a lengthy spell of inaction has affected the men. They’ve grown slack in the interval, James—’
‘And of course they’ve had no home leave—’
‘Exactly. Inaction gives ‘em too much time to think about home, however hard the R.S.M. and the N.C.O.s chase ‘em on parade and on exercises—not to mention the Colonel at Defaulters! Look, old boy...it’s 1897, they’ve been out here a long time, they’re fed-up, apathetic, and bloody unhappy. In addition to that, the Connaught Rangers have gone, as you know. Instead of them, we have the sepoy outfit—your outfit now—the worst bunch I’ve ever seen! You make sure you lick ‘em well into shape, James, before the fun starts!’
‘Ours isn’t the only brigade in Northern Command.’
‘True. But it’s a large part of Fettleworth’s Division, and the others
are in no better heart. We’ve all been too ruddy long in India, that’s the thing, James.’
‘But if action’s coming, won’t that buck them up, pull them together?’
‘Yes, of course, up to a point. The trouble is, the rot’s set in and it’s never easy to eradicate. The current state can’t be helping poor old Fettleworth’s ease of mind. In fact it hasn’t. There’s been a stream of bumph issuing from Division lately, all designed to pep up the Commanding Officers and get ‘em to put the guts back into the men. All it’s achieved is to cause immense irritation and ill-feeling. I’m sorry to depress you, James; but I believe you’ll see what I mean when you join your natives tomorrow. Their officers are a terribly crummy lot, though for God’s sake don’t quote me on that.’ MacKinlay looked across the anteroom, caught someone’s eyes, and beckoned. ‘You’ve not met our fresh-from-Sandhurst contingent yet, have you, James?’
Ogilvie confirmed that he had not. Two young subalterns came up and were introduced to him as Alistair Macfarlane and Roger Renshaw. MacKinlay asked, ‘Where’s young Taggart-Blane got to?’
Macfarlane said, ‘I’m sorry, Rob, he’s not feeling well.’
‘Before dinner? Already?’
The two subalterns looked awkward but didn’t answer. Coldly MacKinlay said, ‘I suppose you’ve taken him to his room.’
‘Er...yes.’
MacKinlay scowled. ‘Oh, all right. Just see he stays there.’ He nodded a dismissal, and the two young officers moved away. ‘A bad start, James. I’m sorry. You’re going to have to work very hard on that young man. He’s not doing his reputation any good at all, or his health either, what, Doctor?’
The Lion's Den Page 3
