The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Or his health either,’ Corton agreed, and added, ‘The Colonel doesn’t know the half of it, James. Soon it’s going to be either a Court Martial, or invaliding home at the very least.’

  ‘How’s it been kept from the Colonel?’

  ‘I didn’t say it all had,’ the Surgeon-Major corrected. ‘A good deal of it, though.’

  ‘What about the adj?’

  ‘Black?’ MacKinlay laughed without humour. ‘Black’s the reason for the Colonel’s innocence! Black still likes his whisky too, just as much as ever, and since both he and Taggart-Blane are in the same unpopularity bracket, they’ve been known to sozzle in each other’s company.’

  Corton said drily, looking into his glass, ‘And I hope that’s all...for the sake of the regiment.’

  ‘I don’t think we should go into that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I think James should be warned.’

  ‘Let him see for himself, Doctor!’ MacKinlay laughed, but seemed embarrassed. ‘In any case, whatever one thinks of Andrew Black, he...’

  ‘I’ve heard things about Taggart-Blane already,’ Ogilvie said. ‘I’m not prejudging anyone — but if a certain thing is true, and appears to be so obvious, how the devil did he ever get through. Sandhurst?’

  Corton said briefly, ‘He has connections. And, who knows, possibly even someone in the War House...’ He shrugged.

  MacKinlay said, ‘God forbid!’

  ‘Aye. But such things happen, Rob. It was not until this Queensberry affair that people—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m not a babe in arms. But it’s still rather horrible, isn’t it?’

  *

  Next morning, B Company of the 114th Highlanders was paraded for a final inspection by James Ogilvie before he left them. He was not, as he said, going far — merely to the adjacent lines — or, he hoped, for long. But he took a personal farewell of each man, and gave them news of home. Talking to the Scots soldiers, his eyes noted the truth of what MacKinlay had said the night before in the Mess: they were largely sullen, with heavy looks. Many appeared unfit, as though the heavy drinking had not been confined to Black and Taggart-Blane — indeed, by the very nature of a soldier’s life, it would not have been; but in too many of these faces were the signs of a gross excess. Even Colour-Sergeant MacTrease showed signs of bleariness and an aching head. They were not insubordinate, but they were woodenly polite, almost studiously so, as if they were making a conscious effort to remember their stations. There was no eagerness, no real regimental spirit. Ogilvie was saddened; there seemed to be a crack coming in a fine regiment, the best. Even the fact of a subaltern like Taggart-Blane being gazetted, and accepted...Ogilvie caught himself up sharply: he had scarcely as yet met Taggart-Blane, just a brief introduction after breakfast in the Mess. Taggart-Blane had only too obviously been suffering from a hang-over, which probably accounted for the greenish pallor of the face and the dark shadows beneath the eyes, haunted eyes they had seemed to Ogilvie. The face was puffy and the body slight and thin, with sagging shoulders: not a pleasant specimen physically, but there had been something in the man’s face that seemed to indicate bitter self-knowledge and a desire to make something better of himself. Ogilvie could be no more precise than that; but on the whole he was not really so displeased with his new assistant as he had felt he would be. It was very early days and much remained to be discovered. One thing was certain: Alan Taggart-Blane was different from the usual run of infantry officers and possibly had very much more below the surface than most of them. Ogilvie reflected wryly that indeed he must have had something in order to make his way through Sandhurst to Her Majesty’s Commission, something beyond the lewd and disgusting desires of some fat old major-general in the War Office, as the doctor had seemed to suggest...

  ‘Captain Ogilvie, sir, and Mr. Taggart-Blane, from the 114th Highlanders, on secondment.’

  ‘Ah yes, yes, thank you, Captain Scrutton. Thank you, that is all.’ Lieutenant-Colonel Rigby-Smith of the Indian Staff Corps, commanding the Rawalpindi Light Infantry, had lifted his scraggy frame from his chair, then let it drop back again. He looked cagily at the two highland officers as his adjutant left the room. His face was red and beaky, overhung by heavy white eyebrows and bisected horizontally by a drooping walrus moustache, mainly white but yellowed at the trailing ends. He left his new acquisitions standing while he addressed them in a hoarse voice.

  ‘You come from a smart regiment,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘Colonel?’ The eyebrows rose.

  ‘In the 114th—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am aware of your regimental customs. In my regiment, I am addressed in the more normal manner, Captain — er.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Ogilvie, sir.’

  ‘Ali yes, yes. Ogilvie. I trust you will enjoy your time with us, gentlemen. And profit by it — whilst also profiting me. It will, I would venture to say, broaden your experience. A sepoy regiment is very different from a British regiment — very different, as you will find! You are now part of the Indian Army, not the British Army in India.’

  Why rub it in? Ogilvie thought. He said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You sound disparaging—’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, that was not my—’

  ‘But it so happens that the boot is on the other foot, gentlemen!’ Rigby-Smith’s protuberant eyes seemed to rake the Scots with fire. ‘The Indian Army is by the very nature of its existence better equipped to understand the Indian, and better equipped to fight on Indian territory.’

  Ogilvie felt Taggart-Blane stirring at his side. The subaltern asked, ‘And on Afghan territory, sir?’

  Colonel Rigby-Smith’s mouth dropped open. ‘What? What d’you mean, sir?’

  ‘I gather most of the fighting, when it takes place, takes place on the other side of the Frontier, sir.’

  ‘Then you gather wrong, sir, you gather damn wrong!’ Sweat broke out in beads on the Colonel’s forehead. ‘I, for my part, gather that you are newly arrived from England?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s—’

  ‘Then shut your mouth, sir, and speak only when addressed.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I am aware, without your telling me, that my orders are very good. Kindly do not use that expression again, d’you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Rigby-Smith simmered down. Now, Captain. Ogilvie. As I was saying, we of the Indian Army have extremely high standards. I shall expect you to observe them—observe our traditions and customs also.’ He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief. ‘You and I both know precisely why you are here and I shall make no bones about that. I asked for officers to be appointed from another regiment — asked — this was not imposed by Division — specifically because I have recently been sent new drafts of untrained sepoys straight from the fields of their fathers — and they must be licked into shape. My own officers, both British and native, have enough to do as it is and my havildars need supervision as in any other regiment or corps. I don’t deny that you will have a somewhat difficult task, difficult because it is bound to be, to some extent, invidious. You will have no company of your own, you will act generally, and you will be responsible only to me personally, whilst at the same time, of course, being fully attentive to both my second-in-command, Major Fry, and my adjutant. You understand?’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You must be most tactful in your dealings with my native officers — my subedars, of whom there are one to each company, and above all be scrupulously correct in regard to my Subedar-Major — Subedar-Major Mulim Singh, who has served in the army for almost fifty years — since the days of the East India Company, before the mutiny. In this connection I must point out that, although I myself have made use of the word, “native” is an untactful term to use in the presence of sepoys or Indian officers, and has indeed been so since the mutiny.’ Colonel Rigby-Smith blew out his moustache and glanced at his clock. ‘I shall expect you to draw up a training progra
mme, Captain — er — Ogilvie, in consultation with Major Fry and my adjutant, and the Subedar-Major. I should like to see this on my desk within forty-eight hours, when we shall talk again. That is all, gentlemen.’

  Ogilvie and Taggart-Blane saluted and turned about smartly. Outside the door Taggart-Blane let out a long breath. ‘Phew, I say! This isn’t going to be a bed of roses, is it? How the merry hell do we steer a safe and tactful course between all the people he talked about?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I’m not too worried, Alan.’

  Taggart-Blane laughed and said, ‘Hadn’t you better use the jolly old surname?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re not in the 114th Highlanders any more,’ Taggart-Blane said in a clever take-off of Rigby-Smith’s hoarse bombastic tones, ‘When in Rome ...’

  ‘We’ll not take all that too literally! We’re still part of the family.’ Always the 114th had prided themselves on the family feeling, the family tradition. They were as brothers; and as brothers even the raw subalterns used Christian names off parade to all officers in the regiment below Major’s rank. It was one of the differences, one of the departures from the norm that marked out the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys. Ogilvie, as they made their way towards their new Mess, added, ‘You were a shade tactless, though, to take Rigby-Smith up on what he’d said about Indian fighting.’

  ‘Yes...wasn’t I?’

  Ogilvie gave him a sideways look and a word of caution. ‘Take this seriously,’ he said. ‘It’s a job like any other. You’re so new out here you’re still wet behind the ears. A lot of your future is going to depend on how you shape in the next few months. Remember that! ‘

  ‘Oh, I’ll try. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you...a brother of mine who’s in the Navy, served under an Ogilvie. Remotely, that is. An admiral. Any relation?’

  ‘My uncle.’

  ‘Oh, really? That’s interesting.’ Taggart-Blane lost his interest quickly, however. ‘Look, I say...do you believe the Colonel was speaking the truth, when he said he’d asked for us?’

  ‘Something else for you to remember,’ Ogilvie said as they reached the Mess. ‘One always believes what the Colonel says! Especially so in this sort of situation.’

  ‘Which means you are rather worried after all.’

  Ogilvie didn’t answer that. They went in. A handful of officers sat around, the majority of them seedy-looking and paunchy. Not one got to his feet in welcome. They all stared insolently at the newcomers; one of them gave a loud, ungainly yawn. Ogilvie felt coldly angry at such incivility. He took in the furnishings of the anteroom: dingy, bare, almost sordid, dusty and untidy. This was not a rich man’s regiment. Of itself, such was of no concern to a soldier; what was important was the obvious lack of pride and the equally obvious slackness in the supervision of the Mess servants.

  The future seemed far from inviting. With a sinking heart Ogilvie advanced into the general unfriendliness.

  THREE

  It was a difficult and unpleasant period for James Ogilvie. He and Taggart-Blane were made to feel, in a very positive sense, that they were interlopers. This hostility came principally from the British officers; the subedars, the Indian officers holding the Viceroy’s commission, were more friendly, scrupulously polite, and on the whole anxious enough to please. The old Subedar-Major, Mulim Singh, was a tower of strength and an excellent man to turn to for advice. He had served with better regiments than this one, and though with the loyalty of his kind he never once criticised his present unit, he was as keen as Ogilvie himself to bring about an improvement.

  ‘I’m going to ask you to be frank with me, Subedar-Major Sahib,’ Ogilvie said after he had been a couple of days with the regiment. ‘I have formed the opinion that the officers are given little help and encouragement...that the trouble starts at the top, shall I say?’

  The Indian shrugged. ‘Is this not always the case, Ogilvie Sahib?’

  ‘Why is this, do you think?’

  ‘You ask the question generally, or in particular?’

  ‘In particular, Subedar-Major Sahib.’

  They were marching up and down the parade-ground, with Ogilvie adjusting his step to that of the elderly Indian. The old soldier pulled at his beard for a few moments and then said, ‘I believe the Colonel Sahib is a tired man. There is slackness because of this, and also as a result perhaps, there is much drinking in the Mess.’

  ‘More than in other regiments?’

  ‘More than I myself have observed in other regiments, Ogilvie Sahib.’

  ‘Why is this?’

  ‘How can I say? Perhaps it is a simple case of events following one another in a circle. I believe the British officers have become apathetic, that they see no point in trying to tighten the slackness of the rein...and that this feeling of hopelessness leads to more drinking, and this in turn leads to more slackness.’

  ‘Yes, that’s quite likely. But I’ve seen for myself, you have potentially excellent havildars and naiks.’

  ‘They would be excellent if they were given backing — backing by the British officers. I am sorry to say this, Ogilvie Sahib.’

  ‘I wanted the truth, Subedar-Major, the facts.’

  ‘Yes. Another fact is this: the sepoys and their N.C.O.s see the drinking, and the effects of it. This is bad for discipline. There is no energy, no initiative, left in the officers, you understand? The day plods on easily beneath the sun, and when the sun is down, then the drink flows again, and another day closes. Day after day, it is the same.’

  ‘Then it’ll have to stop! ‘

  The subedar-major turned his head, and smiled at Ogilvie. ‘You have a saying in your country, it is easier said than done. This you will find. The ingrained habit of drink is discarded only with great difficulty!’

  ‘Yes, but officers can be replaced.’

  ‘A word of advice, Ogilvie Sahib: do not run before you can walk. The cure you suggest is too drastic to be even considered yet. In the meantime, you and I, we shall see what can be done to improve matters. I promise you my support, Ogilvie Sahib, in full.’

  ‘Thank you, Subedar-Major Sahib, I value that very highly.’

  ‘As I value the army and the British Raj, Ogilvie Sahib. In both lies my whole life’s work. This will be my last posting, my last regiment. I shall wish to leave it, when the time comes, with pride, as you would wish to leave your own regiment of Highlanders.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Subedar-Major.’

  They parted company soon after this; Ogilvie spent the morning watching the havildars drilling their squads of sepoys. No other British officer was present on the parade-ground, apart from Taggart-Blane. It was very noticeable that the sepoys smartened up considerably when they saw they were being watched. The moral of that was obvious enough. So was something else: Taggart-Blane wilted more and more as the day wore on, and Ogilvie wondered how he would stand up to the summer’s heat next year. In the privacy of his room that night, he talked pointedly to Taggart-Blane about what the subedar-major had said in regard to the drinking.

  ‘There’s plenty going on at this moment,’ Taggart-Blane said, with a somewhat injured air at being withdrawn from it himself. ‘Quiet, but steady.’

  ‘That’s the insidious kind. No one minds the occasional binge. Don’t get pulled into it yourself.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘I’ve got eyes.’

  Taggart-Blane studied his finger nails and pursed his lips. ‘Well, I can take it, you know—’

  ‘Can you? Honestly?’

  ‘I never pass right out.’

  ‘The night I rejoined from leave, you’d been taken to your room.’

  ‘But I hadn’t—’

  ‘All right, you don’t pass right out — but you can make a damn silly exhibition of yourself all the same, when it begins to approach that stage. I’m no teetotaller, far from it, but you and I have simply got to keep our noses clean and that’s all about it.’

  ‘A strai
ght gentleman, very straight, but serious and a shade stiff.’

  Ogilvie stared. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh, I was just quoting,’ Taggart-Blane said with a shrug. ‘Quoting who?’

  ‘The R.S.M. — our R.S.M., old Bosom Cunningham. The R.S.M., referring to you in conversation with one of the Colour-Sergeants. I just happened to overhear. He was right, wasn’t he?’ A grin was lurking around the subaltern’s mobile mouth.

  Ogilvie had flushed. Irritably he said, ‘I really don’t know, and I’m not particularly interested. And don’t change the subject, which happened to be your drinking habits. You’ll lay off — understand?’

  ‘Is that an order?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Oh, all right, then. You won’t find it so easy to stop the others, though!’

  ‘No, you’re right, but I’m going to have a word with the Colonel all the same.’

  Taggart-Blane gave a nervous laugh, a high sound. ‘And put it to him that his British officers are a lot of boozers, and a bad example to the natives?’

  ‘More or less, yes. It’s not the sort of thing you can wrap up, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not, but sooner you than me, James. By the way, you seem pretty friendly with old Mulim Singh.’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘He’s a good fellow. Sound as a bell, utterly loyal.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Why, the Raj, of course, what else?’

  ‘What else?’ Taggart-Blane laughed again, this time with a touch of derision. ‘I wonder how his own countrymen regard his loyalty?’

  *

  ‘Damned if I don’t think I should order a full-scale review,’ Lieutenant-General Francis Fettleworth, Divisional Commander, said to his Chief of Staff. ‘Those damn Ghilzais...why the devil can’t they economise as well?’ Angrily, he blew out the ends of his moustache. ‘A show of strength...damme, it works wonders on the Pathan mind!’