The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  Colonel Rigby-Smith caught Ogilvie’s eye and a small flicker of triumph was apparent as he said, ‘Forming square, sir, and withstanding an attack.’

  ‘Really — really? Well done, Colonel Rigby-Smith, you are most sedulously attentive to my wishes, to be sure! Pray proceed. Captain Ogilvie!’

  Ogilvie approached the General and saluted. ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ll kindly wait upon me closely whilst the training programme is demonstrated.’ Fettleworth blew through his moustache. ‘We’ll see what you’ve managed to achieve, Captain Ogilvie.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Squares were formed, and duly attacked. Most of the attacks, fortunately, failed; but one square collapsed as a company of excited sepoys charged through it full belt, and this annoyed Fettleworth considerably. From that moment on, praise turned to bitter sarcasm and complaint. The men moved too slowly, their fighting spirit was not sufficiently apparent especially in defence, their marksmanship was poor; their bayonet drill appalling. Appearances, it seemed, had certainly been deceptive. Ogilvie came in for a good deal of personal criticism, so did Colonel Rigby-Smith and his officers. Fettleworth, however, was not basically an unjust man; and it was noticeable that he let the Indian officers down lightly and also that his attention, when that night he was dined at his own order in the Mess, was much upon the British regimental officers. Ogilvie believed that a long overdue shake-up, and a number of very necessary replacements, would shortly be forthcoming from Division.

  The sands, however, were running out; and it was while Fettleworth was in the anteroom after dinner, and doing stout work upon the brandy, that a Staff Officer arrived from his headquarters and asked, as a matter of urgency, to speak alone with the Divisional Commander. After a brief talk in Rigby-Smith’s office, during which Rigby-Smith himself was sent for, Fettleworth bustled back into the anteroom and held up a hand for silence.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Your full attention, please. Jarar Mahommed’s shown his hand. His damn Ghilzais have risen and are moving into the Khyber Pass. All the signs are that the rising will spread unless it’s nipped smartly in the bud.’ He paused, weightily, running an eye over his audience. ‘Gentlemen, I have instructed your Colonel to prepare the regiment to march as soon as possible and, by Gad, he’s got an uphill task in front of him!’

  FOUR

  Next day feverish preparations were put in hand, and not only in the lines of the Rawalpindi Light Infantry; adjacently, the 114th Highlanders were also preparing for action, as were two other battalions of infantry and a regiment of cavalry. Ogilvie, busy with his duties in supervising the overhaul of the sepoys’ war equipment, had no time in which to visit the Royal Strathspeys, but Taggart-Blane slipped across during the morning and came back to report to Ogilvie that the prospect of action was having a good effect on the Scots.

  ‘We’re a bloodthirsty lot, aren’t we, James...though I’m not so sure I am,’ he added.

  ‘You will be, when the fighting starts. Listen, Alan. Just face the fact that you’re going to be scared until it does start. It’s no disgrace, you know. We all go through it.’

  Taggart-Blane stared across the busy parade-ground. ‘I’m not scared. At least, I haven’t been before.’

  ‘You’ve not seen action yet.’

  ‘I had some experience of patrols before you rejoined, James.’

  ‘Yes, true. Well — keep your mind occupied until we meet the Ghilzais, that’s the best thing. There’s plenty to do here so you needn’t feel under-employed! I want a painstaking inspection carried out of all rifles and machine-guns, and—’

  ‘They were all inspected before Fettleworth’s parade, James.’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘I know. But we aren’t going to a parade this time, we’re going to war, and there’s a difference. Generals like rifles to be clean, and come to that, so do I, but a clean rifle isn’t always synonymous with a rifle in tip-top working order. So, if you value your life, you’ll carry out that inspection with the minutest eye for detail that you’ve used since birth!’

  *

  Later that day fresh intelligence reached Division concerning Jarar Mahommed and the rebelling Ghilzais, intelligence that to some extent negated the earlier report and tended to reduce the immediacy of the general situation: the Ghilzais had indeed risen, but were not as yet in fact marching on the Khyber Pass. So far, they had contented themselves with laying siege to the house of the British Resident in Kunarja, a town some twenty miles south-west of the Afghanistan end of the Khyber. It was through the agency of the Resident, a Major Gilmour, that Jarar Mahommed’s bribe, or subsidy, had hitherto been paid.

  ‘This puts a slightly different complexion on the matter,’ Fettleworth announced, having read the fresh report.

  ‘I don’t know that I agree, sir,’ Brigadier-General Lakenham, the Chief of Staff, said. ‘In my view, it’ll not be long before they do move to cut the Khyber. Anyway, in the meantime, what do we do about Gilmour?’

  ‘We send in a force, naturally.’ Fettleworth got to his feet and went across the room to study a large wall map. ‘The thing is, Lakenham, it won’t be necessary to go in in full strength. In the circumstances, I’d prefer merely to extract Gilmour, or anyway throw a defensive ring around his house, rather than deplete the Peshawar garrison and thus possibly lay us open to probes from elsewhere — you know what the damn tribes are like, after all! Bound to take advantage, blast ‘em! Also, I happen to know that’s the view Calcutta’s likely to take. There’s another aspect, too: to enter in strength means we’ve precious little reserves to throw in if needed — and I do like to have a strong reserve in hand. It always routs the natives, when you suddenly throw in fresh troops. It rattles ‘em, you see. You need to understand the native mind out here, Lakenham.’

  ‘True, sir, true. Yes, I take your point. I dare say one battalion would be enough at this stage.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Fettleworth returned to his desk, and sat in the swivel chair behind it.

  ‘Who’s it to be, then?’

  The General drummed his fingers on the desk-top. ‘I’ll send Rigby-Smith’s battalion of sepoys. It’ll do ‘em a power of good. I’ve never seen such a bunch of officers, Lakenham, quite appalling, not a gentleman among ‘em! Merchants’ sons the lot of ‘em. Not that I was so poorly impressed by Rigby-Smith himself — he has quite sound ideas, especially on tactics, but the rest of ‘em, poof!’

  ‘Then d’you really think it’s wise, sir?’

  Fettleworth looked irritated. ‘Yes, of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t have decided upon it, would I? Do try to remember, my dear fellow, that my responsibilities are not only to poor Gilmour in Kunarja, but also to my command as a whole. One of my duties is to see to it that the men get appropriate action experience — and also to pull a degenerate battalion up by its boot-strings!’

  *

  ‘We have been accorded the honour, gentlemen — accorded the honour, I say, by the General himself personally — of proceeding through the Khyber to the relief of the British Resident in Kunarja. We alone shall carry out this task, and we shall carry it out successfully!’ Colonel Rigby-Smith spoke with hoarse pomposity: he was really preening himself, Ogilvie thought. Even the crowns and stars on his shoulders seemed to have gained a new shine, a new and vigorous sparkle. He seemed to be spoiling for the fight; whatever else he was, he was no coward. Ogilvie, as the Colonel continued, looked around at the faces of the assembled officers, British and Indian. The Indians seemed mostly grave and non-committal, and the British officers gave little hint of eagerness: a long, hard march through wintry conditions faced them now and, coming as it did within sight of Christmas, the prospect was not a happy one. The Mess, the life in cantonments in Peshawar, with all its peaceful diversions, appealed far more than a tussle with, as it were, General February, to say nothing of the affronted and impoverished Ghilzais embattled in Kunarja. Irreverently, Taggart-Blane caught Ogilvie’s eye, gave him a nudge and whispered, ‘If
only Queen Victoria could see them now, what?’

  Rigby-Smith stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Who was that who spoke?’

  ‘It was I, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Do you normally, in the 114th, interrupt your Colonel when he is speaking, Mr. Taggart-Blane?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then kindly accord me the same courtesy.’ Rigby-Smith, standing with his behind to the fire, nicely warm, rose and fell upon the balls of his feet. Ever since the General’s visit, Rigby-Smith had tended to become an echo of Fettleworth, upon whose lengthy monologues he had on that inspection day most diligently attended. Now, then! As I was saying, gentlemen...I am ordered to be in every respect ready to march at first light the day after tomorrow — Thursday. To this end, you will all make yourselves fully acquainted with your various duties, under the overall orders of Major Fry and Captain Scrutton, and ensure that your companies and sections are brought to a first-rate standard of efficiency and readiness by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon, at which time I shall carry out a thorough inspection of the battalion. If there should be any deficiencies, the officer responsible will incur my very severe displeasure. I think I need go into no greater detail. You all know your duties. Captain Ogilvie?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You and Mr. Taggart-Blane are from henceforward relieved of your particular duties, which will be no longer relevant to a fighting force upon the march.’

  ‘Yes, sir. May we take it that we shall rejoin our regiment?’

  ‘You will do no such thing, sir! Why, sir, does the thought of action frighten you?’

  There was a sycophantic laugh from the assembled officers; Ogilvie felt the blood rush to his face. ‘By no means, sir. I’ve seen plenty of action the last few years, and in any case I have no doubt that the 114th will soon be coming through the Khyber behind us.’

  ‘Why so, Captain Ogilvie?’ Rigby-Smith’s voice was sharp and hostile.

  Ogilvie shrugged. ‘It’s possible reinforcements will be needed, and it would be logical for the General to despatch the rest of the brigade, sir.’

  There was suspicion in Rigby-Smith’s face, suspicion that a veiled suggestion had been made that his regiment would not be able to cope on its own; but evidently he decided to let it pass. ‘Well, Captain Ogilvie and Mr. Taggart-Blane, I have other work for you to do. As no doubt you are aware, I have some of my British officers absent on leave and on Staff duties. You, Captain Ogilvie, will therefore take charge of E Company as acting Company Commander, with Mr. Taggart-Blane to assist you. You will quickly acquaint yourselves with these duties, and see to it that E Company does not lag behind the others in their readiness tomorrow afternoon.’ He blew out his cheeks in a Fettleworth gesture. ‘That is all, gentlemen. You may disperse about your concerns.’

  Rigby-Smith, relinquishing the fire to a wider distribution of its heat, strode from the anteroom. There was a buzz of conversation after he had gone, and the second-in-command, Major Fry, came across to Ogilvie. ‘A word in your ear,’ he said, taking his arm. He led Ogilvie to a corner of the room, and they sat, in sagging leather armchairs, by a window over-looking the square. Fry, a squat and gloomy-looking man, bald, with bad teeth and a poor colour, bent his head towards Ogilvie and spoke in confidential tones. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ve never been made very welcome in the Mess,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve noticed an air of reserve myself, Major,’ Ogilvie said with a grin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ogilvie. Very sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it’s understandable—’

  ‘Decent of you to take it like that. Thing is — what I wanted to say, you know — that’s in the past now. We’re glad to have you with us, Ogilvie, very glad.’

  ‘Thank you, Major.’

  ‘It’s not good to be short of us British officers in action. Of course, I’m saying nothing against the natives, the subedars, you know. Nothing.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re first-rate chaps. But we British...well, you know what I’m getting at, I don’t need to put it all into words, do I? Yours is a fine regiment — you Scots are fine soldiers, Ogilvie, we all of us know that.’ Major Fry pulled at his moustache and looked worried. ‘Thing is...well, it’s awfully difficult to say this, but I’d better come straight out with it. I gather young Taggart-Blane’s not been long with your lot, has he?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t, Major. Why d’you ask?’

  Fry, stroking his bald head, gave a slightly embarrassed cough. ‘How’s he going to shape up in action, Ogilvie?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him in action. But I’ve absolutely no reason to doubt that he’ll shape just as well as anyone else. After all,’ Ogilvie added drily, ‘he’s British — isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Yes, indeed. It’s merely that he’s totally inexperienced, not only in fighting as such, but more importantly in the ways of the Frontier.’ Major Fry hesitated, coughed again, and looked up at the ceiling. ‘There’s — ah, um something else, too. It’s hateful even to mention, but—’ He broke off, pursing his thick lips and frowning.

  ‘What is it, Major?’ Ogilvie, knowing what was coming, determined to knock it smartly on the head.

  The second-in-command, bringing his gaze down from the ceiling of the anteroom and his face even closer to Ogilvie’s, murmured, ‘Perhaps — yes, perhaps we may put it this way. He — ah — has a nickname among certain of us...’

  ‘What nickname?’

  Again Fry’s eyes moved to gaze upon the ceiling, and he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue before saying, ‘Yes, the nickname — it’s — ah — Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘Oscar Wilde?’

  ‘Indeed. The Marquess of Queensberry—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Major Fry, I’m well enough aware of that story, and I fully understand the implications of the name, Oscar Wilde, Major.’ Ogilvie’s tone was crisp, coldly angry.

  ‘Am I to understand that you have actual grounds for pinning this nickname, this label, upon Taggart-Blane?’

  ‘Oh no, no, no, no! Indeed not!’

  ‘Then why pin it?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Dangerous — I would have thought.’

  Fry’s tune had changed considerably. ‘It’s just an impression we’ve got. Nothing more.’

  ‘I see. Then in that case I suggest, with all respect, Major Fry, that you keep your opinions and your nicknames to yourself entirely — and see to it that your friends do the same!’

  ‘Really! I consider that impertinent in an officer of Captain’s rank when speaking to a Major, Ogilvie—’

  ‘I’m sorry, but there is a point of principle here. I’m still an officer of the 114th Highlanders whether or not I’m temporarily attached to this regiment and so’s Taggart-Blane. To that extent at least, while we’re with you, he’s my responsibility. There are such things as the laws of slander, Major, and if you or anyone else makes it necessary, I’ll not hesitate to make a report to my Colonel the moment we come back through the Khyber. And as I think you must be aware, Lord Dornoch is an officer of immense influence — and one who is immensely proud of the good name of his regiment! I don’t believe I need say any more?’

  ‘No, you need not. I understand perfectly!’ Major Fry bounded to his feet and hurried away, fat and furious; but not before Ogilvie had seen the scowl and the suddenly renewed hostility — or before Ogilvie had read into his final remark all that he had been intended to read. Furious himself at the implication, Ogilvie left the anteroom. The second-in-command had been correct enough in calling his words impertinent; but Ogilvie had felt, and felt still, that he owed that much to a young subaltern who, in terms of Indian life and Indian station intrigue, was no more than a babe in arms. Loyalty still ranked high in the Ogilvie order of priorities.

  *

  The bugles, rousing the men from sleep, sounded out clear into a chill morning. Within minutes the regimental lines came alive, with hurrying, still half-asleep men, with the shouts of the havildars and the naiks, t
he neighing of horses from the horse lines, the stamp of hooves, of human feet, the hither-and-thither scurryings of the camp followers, that oddly assorted collection of depressed humanity, scourge of all the native units, that would accompany the regiment through the Khyber into Afghanistan, and if necessary into action, the camp followers that would be concerned with the sepoys’ commissariat on the march, and whose backs would supplement those of the mules and the carrying capacity of the wagons.

  Dressed and ready, Ogilvie watched for a while from the windows of the Mess as the servants prepared an early breakfast for the officers. The wind was going to whistle round men’s bodies once they entered the Khyber Pass, Ogilvie thought with a premonitory shiver — would tear right through the heavy greatcoats of the officers, the scantier wrappings of the sepoys. But this was what he had come to India to do — and they would not have to face conditions as bad as, for instance, those in the Koord-Kabul Pass farther north; in all conscience it would be little colder than Corriecraig in winter! Ogilvie wondered how his uncle’s smelly mechanical contrivance, the Panhard-Levassor, would behave under winter conditions of snow and ice and high, bitter winds. He smiled to himself; one day, perhaps — though such a thought would bring horror to the hearts of Colonels — an army might move to war in motors! Ogilvie would have welcomed such a foot-saving means of transport through the Khyber Pass, at all events, had it been even a remote possibility; but men’s feet and the commissariat mules’ hooves and the simply-constructed wagons were surely the only things that would ever move through that terrible cleft in the border mountains, where every high crag held likely death from the sniper’s bullet, where every blind turn in the track, or what passed for a track, held the possibility of an ambush...

  He turned from the window as he smelt hot coffee, a smell that sharpened his hunger though he had woken to a headache and a furred mouth after some celebratory drinks the night before — celebratory of forthcoming action, for an unwelcome inebriation among the officers had temporarily dulled their dislike of leaving cantonments for the snows and the bullets. Some of them, he thought grimly, would be feeling pretty bloody this morning! For his part he had had a sleepless night, worrying about Taggart-Blane and the insinuations of Major Fry. It was a thoroughly unpleasant business, and Taggart-Blanc would have to watch his step and give no possible ammunition to anyone — but it was scarcely a matter on which he could be explicitly warned. There was, really, nothing to be done...