The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Snow?’

  Gilmour nodded. ‘Plenty of it, too. You’ve been through the Khyber in snow?’

  ‘Not while it’s been actually snowing.’

  ‘I have — once. It wasn’t easy, Ogilvie. God, the freezing cold, I can feel it still! You can scarcely make out the tracks at times, and there’s those bloody great long drops.’ He caught himself up. ‘Still — there it is, and no use crossing our bridges!’

  ‘It’ll be hard on the ladies, Major.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ Gilmour gave a short, humourless laugh, like a bark. ‘I had a tussle with myself, whether or not to ask to bring ‘em out with us, you know. I fancied Jarar was the greater risk, however. If things go wrong...’

  ‘If things do go wrong, what happens to the regiment?’ Gilmour looked at him quizzically. ‘Do I need to put it into words?’

  Slowly, Ogilvie shook his head. ‘No, you don’t really, Major.’

  ‘Jarar’s on the primitive side, you know. All these people are the same — basic barbarians. Talk about Genghis Khan! I’ve seen minor princelings out here do the most diabolical things — at least, diabolical in our terms. Flaying alive, boiling alive in oil, staking men out for the ploughs to over-run. Nothing I could do, by God! It used to make my blood run cold. I’d sooner my womenfolk faced the snows than that!’

  ‘I don’t wonder.’

  ‘Mind you, Jarar’s not so bad as some. I said as much to your Colonel, and I say it again, but if the terms aren’t met almost anything could happen. This is a hard country, with a hard history, a history of the most abominable violence and cruelty. I won’t dwell on that, though — with God’s help and a touch of luck, we’ll soon be out of it!’

  ‘Will you be coming back, Major?’

  Again Gilmour laughed, and shielded his eyes against the sunrise — a blood-red orb appearing over a declivity in the mountain range. ‘Well, that depends on many things, Ogilvie! Talking of which, I think we need a second line as it were. I mean, you should know what the terms are — just in case I don’t get through myself, you know—’

  ‘It’s my job to see you do, Major.’

  ‘I know. But other people may have other ideas. Jarar Mahommed’s edict doesn’t run one hundred per cent along the Frontier, Ogilvie. There are other interests, conflicting ones. Some of the tribal leaders would be glad enough to see Jarar take a tumble—’

  ‘Which is why I’m here with my company?’

  Gilmour nodded. ‘Yes, exactly. Well now, here briefly are the terms as discussed with Jarar, and agreed subject to Calcutta’s concurrence. They’re perfectly simple and straightforward : the subsidy to be maintained to the extent of seventy-five per cent; a British regiment to be stationed in Kunarja for the protection of the Residency when rebuilt, and to keep an eye on British interests including the free passage — so far as the Ghilzais are concerned, that is — of the Khyber. Jarar to give active assistance as and when required for the movement of any British troops in and out of his sector of Afghanistan. Broadly, that’s the lot. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes. Is there anything in writing, Major?’

  ‘There is. I have the document — it’s all set out in detail and signed by Jarar Mahommed, in the presence of Rigby-Smith and Jarar’s own major-domo, as witnesses. Jarar has the duplicate, signed by myself as the representative of General Fettle-worth. I have that document on my person, in my wallet. You’ll have to take that if necessary, of course.’ He smiled. ‘You have my full permission to rob the dead or wounded! When you read it, if you do, you’ll see that Jarar enters into a number of ancillary promises, to keep the Pax Britannica intact, and never, never again to destroy the Residency or incarcerate the Resident in his blasted palace!’

  ‘Think he’ll keep them?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Gilmour answered with confidence. ‘So long as he has that subsidy, he’ll toe the line. It should never have been withdrawn! It’s such a pity we have to be subservient to the dictates of that set of bloody fools in Calcutta...only, for God’s sake, Ogilvie, don’t quote me on that!’

  Ogilvie grinned. ‘I won’t, don’t worry!’

  They walked together to where Gilmour’s family were sitting on some ground spread with thin blankets in the lee of a rock. The women were well wrapped against the cold, but were shivering nevertheless, and Mrs. Gilmour was tending to weep at intervals, though in general she was doing her best to give the impression of stoicism in the face of misfortune and danger. Ogilvie was nevertheless convinced she would crack before long. He had a word with the ladies, then went off to walk down the resting column for some words of encouragement to the sepoys. As soon as the frugal meal was finished, he passed the order for the march to be resumed; and shortly after this they were all on their feet or on horseback again, stumbling along over the hard, ice-cold ground and the rocky jags for the Khyber. Within minutes Gilmour’s prediction was fulfilled and the snow, the blinding, blizzard-like snow, started driving down.

  *

  The snow was hurled into their faces by a tearing, biting wind, a wind that froze men to the bone and sent great white flurries whipping around them like whirligigs. Gilmour advised that they should press on so long as any movement was at all possible and so long as they could still make out the track. To stop now, Gilmour said, though the time might well come when they would be forced to, would be to invite burial in the drifting white danger, and a creeping paralysis of cold that would end in the snow-sleep of death.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ Gilmour shouted above the howl of the blizzard, his lips close to Ogilvie’s muffled-up ears, ‘we’ll be reasonably safe from any bandits while this lasts! Poor buggers’ll all be safe at home like sensible men...not that I wouldn’t a damn sight sooner take my chance with them than with this!’

  ‘Me too,’ Ogilvie shouted back. They rode on, their faces stiff and blue. Already the snow was lying a good six inches deep all along the track, and drifting in places to a depth of two or three feet into which the horses plunged almost to their bellies. The sepoys, on foot, were having a truly wicked time of it; but, when Ogilvie had ridden down the column, he had heard few complaints. The same could not be said of the miserable-looking camp followers: they were already wailing and whimpering at the harshness of the conditions, and making very heavy going of it all.

  ‘Where’s young Taggart-Blane got to?’ Gilmour asked suddenly.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Where’s Taggart-Blane?’

  ‘Rearguard. With my subedar. Watching out that no stragglers get left behind.’

  ‘They’ll not do that,’ Gilmour shouted. ‘The sepoys won’t leave their own kind behind in Afghanistan, Ogilvie, any more than we would.’

  Ogilvie nodded; that was true, but he had wanted to take every precaution. Men could fall into a drift and perhaps not be noticed unless there was a rider behind them. As for deliberately leaving stragglers, wounded men particularly...this would never be done in Afghan territory. Terrible things were customarily inflicted on captives, and indeed a regiment never left its dead unburied if it could possibly be avoided — even the dead could be defiled. This was partly why the camp followers were such a drag upon an army; they couldn’t be left behind either. Ogilvie peered ahead through the blinding drive of snowflakes; he could see, in fact, little more than half a dozen yards and the speed of the advance had slowed to no more than a crawl now. At any moment they might come off the track, finish in a maze of rocky jags and buried stunted trees, or at the bottom of a precipice: this latter would become more than a possibility once they entered the Khyber. Had it not been for Gilmour’s guiding presence, Ogilvie knew he would have been hopelessly lost already. But Gilmour knew this terrain well, under all kinds of weather conditions, and he could read the lie of the almost invisible land and navigate by the individual rocks as though possessed of magical powers. Even he, however, would be bested when darkness fell, so to press on now was the thing to do, and then rest the column, and hope that frost-bite
would not strike, through the night.

  *

  ‘And this is where we’d better call a halt, Ogilvie, if you want my advice. It’s as good as we’ll find. All right with you?’

  ‘If you say so, Major.’ Ogilvie lifted his right hand; the snow had slackened now and the daylight had not yet gone; the nearer files could see his signal. Ogilvie pulled up his horse; behind him Mrs. Gilmour and Katharine also stopped. The column came to a halt, and Ogilvie turned in his saddle, looking for Taggart-Blane. A few moments later he saw the subaltern, riding forward from the rear with Subedar Gundar Singh.

  ‘How are the sepoys?’ he asked as he dismounted.

  ‘In a pretty poor way, I think.’

  ‘So are we all! Anyone dropping out?’

  ‘A few.’ Taggart-Blane looked ill, on the point of dropping out himself but managing to keep going. He was not without guts. ‘I had them put into the commissariat wagons, and the camp followers are looking after them. Are we halting for the night now, or what?’ His eyes strayed to the women, concentrating, as before, on Katharine Gilmour’s legs.

  ‘Yes,’ Ogilvie said, ‘we’re making camp—’

  ‘Camp? without any damn tents?’

  ‘Call it what you like! Bivouacs would be a better term — and even at that, they’ll not be up to much! Alan, see that the sepoys all find adequate cover against any more snow, if you please, and pay particular attention to the men who dropped out. You can tell the camp followers, the women included, I’ll have their bloody hides if any man’s not fit to march tomorrow! I beg your pardon, ma’am,’ he added to Mrs. Gilmour, apologising for his sudden coarse language. ‘Under stress, one is apt to swear — I’m sorry!’

  There was no response from Mrs. Gilmour, whose face was pinched and frozen-looking; but Katharine smiled and said, ‘Oh, please, you really shouldn’t worry, Captain Ogilvie. Such a very little word! I’m sure my mother doesn’t mind.’

  ‘And you, Miss Gilmour?’ He returned her smile.

  She glanced at Gilmour, who had gone to his wife’s side. ‘I’ve heard worse,’ she said, bending towards Ogilvie and speaking in a lower voice, and still smiling. ‘Would you mind helping me down from my horse, Captain Ogilvie?’

  ‘Why, of course!’ He reached up and she swung herself down into his arms, so that for a moment he held her bodily. He felt a curious thump in his heartbeats; she was soft and yielding, and her skin smelled of fresh, expensive soap and elusive perfume — which was quite a feat considering she had lately been in Jarar Mahommed’s palace where fresh water and washing would scarcely have been a frequent occurrence in the usual run of events.

  He set her down in the deep snow. ‘Well, there we are,’ he said, sounding foolish.

  ‘Thank you, Captain Ogilvie.’ She looked into his eyes for a moment, then turned away and stared about her. ‘Did Father choose this place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing. Where do we sleep?’

  ‘In what cover we can find, Miss Gilmour. I shall see to it that you and your mother have as comfortable a bivouac as possible, you may be sure of that, and you’ll have every privacy.’

  ‘And a sentry?’ She dimpled at him.

  It was her look, as much as anything, that caught him aback and he gaped a little and repeated, ‘A sentry? For your protection against bandits? Certainly—’

  ‘Against men, Captain Ogilvie, bandits or not!’ She dimpled again. ‘Do I shock you?’

  ‘Er...no, of course not, I—’

  ‘Oh, yes I do, and I apologise humbly.’ She reached out and took his hand, very briefly. Then she had turned away to her mother and her back was towards him. It was, he noted, a very attractive silhouette against the dead white of the virgin snow beyond the track. His heart still beating rather more noticeably than usual, he moved away down the column. Taggart-Blane had already gone off in execution of his orders and already too, the sepoys were beginning to settle into their sorry bivouacs behind the rocks and boulders, dragging their inadequate clothing over heads and faces to keep out the snow. They would have to be aroused at intervals throughout the night, made to get up and move so as to keep their circulation going. In point of fact the snowfall had eased still more now; with any luck at all, they might pass not too terrible a night, though the cold would be with them still, would indeed be with them all the way into India. So too would be the snow already fallen...Ogilvie shrugged and moved on down the line. They would have to put up with it, that was all! One couldn’t expect to fight all one’s campaigns under blue skies — and come to that, the heat and dust and the parched throats of summer were, in their way, every bit as bad! Or were they? Great heat was not a physical hurt like great cold. Katharine Gilmour was probably a summer person; Ogilvie could imagine her in a summer dress, beneath a parasol, beside an English tennis lawn at some country house-party in the Shires, or the Dukeries, or cool and fresh in the secluded garden of some great London house...he swore suddenly as he plunged into a deep patch of the wretched snow and almost fetched up against a nasty-looking jag of rock protruding only partially from the snow’s mantle. As he recovered Taggart-Blane came from the rear of the line, towards him. ‘I think it’s snowed itself out,’ he said. ‘And about time too.’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘Let’s hope so. How’re the men now?’

  ‘Making the best of it. They’re a good crew, James. Some of the younger ones are taking it hard, though — not that they’re complaining. I’ll keep an eye on them. Like a mother!’

  ‘I might sound out the women.’

  Taggart-Blane raised an eyebrow. ‘What for?’

  ‘In case any motherly comfort is required — if there’s any actual illness. I’m sure the daughter would help, though I don’t know about Mrs. Gilmour. As a matter of fact, if she would, it could be the best thing for her — to have something to do.’

  ‘Oh, I think we’ll manage, James. Now, what are the orders for the night?’

  Ogilvie said, ‘I’ll want a guard of four sepoys and an N.C.O. to patrol the bivouacs continuously, and keep damn well alert for any trouble — bandits and so on, though I don’t really expect any attacks while we’re still in Jarar’s own territory. The really dangerous part will be after we’ve entered the Khyber. I want you to arrange a rota for the guard — one hour shifts throughout the night — and all the men are to be roused once in every two hours, and made to move around a bit, otherwise there could be danger of frost-bite.’

  ‘Right, James. And us?’

  ‘One of us, you and I and Gundar Singh, will have to remain awake. Let me know when you’ve organised the guards, then I’ll take over for the first watch.’

  ‘What about Gilmour?’

  ‘I’d sooner leave him to look after his womenfolk, then we’ll have one less worry to cope with!’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s a point, I suppose.’ Taggart-Blane threw his arms around his body, trying to beat some warmth into his veins. The day was darkening now and soon the last of the light would be gone; but the snow had almost stopped. Just a handful of flakes hovered, dithering groundwards in air that was now still and quiet. Taggart-Blane turned away to his duties, making towards the huddled line of sepoys, black humps in the whiteness, beginning to lose their outlines in the gathering night. They were all dog-tired now, wearied almost to the point of exhaustion by the long struggle through the snow.

  *

  Major Gilmour had insisted on standing a share of the guard duty. His wife and daughter, he said, would be perfectly all right without him constantly in attendance, and he himself was a soldier of experience. Ogilvie accepted his offer gratefully enough when he realised that Gilmour was determined not to be a passenger on the march; and it was in fact during Gilmour’s watch that the trouble, the agonising trouble, struck.

  Ogilvie, sunk in a deep sleep, felt the hand shaking him urgently awake. He came up from the depths quickly, to hear Gilmour’s voice, sharp but kept low and with some curious undercurrent in it. As h
e sat up he saw that although it was still not snowing, the night was overcast and moonless, with a heavy sky holding further snowfall to come. He could make out Gilmour only as a vague blur bending over him, a blur that was shivering with the intense cold.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked urgently. ‘Bandits, Major?’

  ‘No, no. Something that could be worse than bandits, Ogilvie. I think you’d better come and see for yourself. It’s your subaltern, young Taggart-Blane.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid it looks remarkably like buggery, if you’ll pardon the word. He doesn’t realise I saw...I did think of making a noise and passing on my way, then I thought that was perhaps not quite fair on you. You may want to deal with this once and for all. After all, he’s one of yours. I hope I did right, Ogilvie.’ There was the suspicion of a chuckle. ‘D’you know something?’

  ‘What, Major?’

  ‘I know this is far from funny, but really! Within range of the Khyber! Feller must be in the direst need. You’d think the sheer cold would make the whole thing impossible!’

  EIGHT

  Soundlessly through the snow, Ogilvie had approached. Furiously angry and sickened, he had seen the two men, close together. There had been some movement. He could not be entirely sure that he had witnessed the act of buggery; the light was not enough, but he believed Gilmour’s estimate had been correct. Deeply embarrassed, he had withdrawn to a distance and had then called out for Taggart-Blane. There had been an exclamation, a sound of fear; and within the minute Taggart-Blane had come up, shivering violently.

  ‘What have you been doing, what was going on with that man?’

  ‘Nothing...’

  ‘Nothing! Oh, come now! I know what I saw, I have eyes! You’d better tell me the truth, and quickly.’ Ogilvie glanced around; tactfully, Gilmour had left them alone.

  Taggart-Blane said stonily, ‘The man had frost-bite. His feet were frost-bitten. I had to do what I could. I...massaged his feet. That’s all. You’d expect no less, surely?’