‘So long as they don’t molest us, Miss Gilmour, we’ve no need to worry. They’ll be reporting our progress back to Jarar Mahommed in Kunarja — that’s all.’ He paused, seeing the girl lift a hand to her eyes to shade them. ‘Miss Gilmour, is the snow affecting your eyes?’
‘Yes, it is — the glare—’
‘I know. It’s something we’ll all be troubled with. Close your eyes from time to time, to rest them...but otherwise, don’t worry.’ He refrained from mentioning the possibility of snow blindness. ‘You were about to say something, weren’t you? When you saw the Pathans on the crest?’
‘Oh — yes! Simply that at the moment I’m so much more interested in England than in the Indians! Tell me about your leave, Captain Ogilvie, and let me enjoy a good old bout of homesickness!’
‘All right, if that’s what you want,’ he said, and he did so. He told her about London, about the music-halls, the summer-dusty green of the trees along the Mall, the hooves of the horses clopping along the wooden blocks of Piccadilly, of the Thames seen from Tower Bridge and from Westminster Bridge, half a world away. He spoke of Kensington Gardens and the gracious houses along the Bayswater Road, of parties at the great residences of Park Lane and Mayfair, of Her Majesty’s Foot Guards beating out the solemn ceremony of Retreat on Horse Guards Parade, the rolling thunder of the brass and the drums echoing off the time-worn buildings of the Admiralty, the Foreign Office, the India Office itself, the bastions and symbols of England’s might standing rock-fast in the heat of a London summer evening. He told her, as they rode on along the snow-covered Afghan track, of Scotland, and. Corriecraig, of his uncle’s splendid monster, the Panhard-Levassor, and of the chauffeur whom his uncle insisted on calling the ‘engineer’. He told all this and more, but of one aspect of his leave he never spoke at all: Mary Archdale. He wasn’t certain of his reasons for this omission; but after Major Gilmour had ridden up between them, and separated them in order to discuss the future of the march with Ogilvie, he realised in retrospect that Katharine Gilmour’s eyes had held an unspoken query, as though she had suspected a reservation in his discourse, and was intrigued because of it...
When that night the column was fallen out, and bivouacs made, Ogilvie, with Taggart-Blane in mind, used their closer proximity to the Khyber as an excuse for doubling the watch. After consulting with Gilmour, he announced that Gundar Singh and the Major would take one turn of duty together, alternating with himself and Taggart-Blane. Taggart-Blane hunched his shoulders and looked the picture of misery, but said quietly, ‘Oh, all right, James, I know why this is, but I understand how you’re placed considering what you believe. You’re wrong, but there it is, you have to do what you think best.’
‘As commander of the column, I’ve many things to take into account.’
‘Yes, I know, I’m not really complaining.’ Taggart-Blane hesitated, then almost blurted out from lips that were blue with the penetrating cold, ‘James, I’d like to talk to you about — about something. Just a general talk, I mean. Would you mind?’
‘Of course I wouldn’t mind, but not just now.’ Ogilvie looked along the line of men waiting for the food to be brought up by the camp followers. With the going down of the day’s sun their spirits had noticeably sunk again. ‘I want to see the sepoys settled down first. I only hope to God we don’t get fresh snow during the night.’
‘Looks overcast and heavy again, doesn’t it? God...I feel I can’t take any more of this bloody cold, it eats right into a man.’
Ogilvie nodded. ‘It’s the same for all of us, Alan. We’ll have that talk by-and-by,’ he added, ‘if you think it’ll help.’
‘Thank you, James.’
‘Come along with me, and we’ll try and keep the sepoys’ peckers up with a few words of hope!’
They went down the line of half-frozen, suffering men, and just before the last of the light went Ogilvie, glancing up, just happened to see the silhouette of two more tribesmen on the heights, tall, bearded men clutching those old-fashioned, long-barrelled rifles with snaking bayonets affixed. Most probably they were more of Jarar Mahommed’s retainers, indeed almost for a certainty they would be; but they were a grim reminder of the less amenable elements who might lie in wait ahead, inside the Khyber, when they moved into the areas where, as Gilmour had said, Jarar’s edict did not necessarily run. There was much on James Ogilvie’s mind as he walked with Taggart-Blane along the primitive bivouacs and chatted, so far as his command of the dialect allowed him, with the half-frozen sepoys. That night one of his fears was realised and the snow came down again, not this time with the wind to drive it, for the air was relatively quiet; but it drifted down solidly, silently, suffocatingly.
Ogilvie, whose watch it was when the snow set in, roused Gilmour. ‘Do we march or stay?’ he asked.
Gilmour sat up shivering, and studied the falling snow for a moment. ‘We’ll not march,’ he said. ‘Not at night, in this. We don’t want to lose ourselves, Ogilvie — but staying put has its dangers too. My advice would be, rouse the men and keep ‘em on the move. You know — doubling on the spot, as it were! Keep ‘em well together, too — no dispersing.’
‘The general idea being to keep them on top of the snow—’
‘Rather than under it, yes, that’s it, Ogilvie. If necessary we’ll have to hang on to the hillsides like goats...anywhere where the damn stuff won’t lie too deep. It’ll be hell, but we’ll come through, never fear!’
That night they lost eight sepoys and nineteen of the camp followers, all from exposure; and there was no opportunity for the talk with Taggart-Blane, a fact that Ogilvie was later bitterly to regret.
*
They managed, next morning when the snow had stopped falling, under the most appalling difficulties, to clear enough ground to bury the dead in shallow hacked-out graves which they covered with stones and boulders and fragments of rock, knowing that soon the graves would once again be deep beneath a covering of snow. The sick — those who had not quite died from the rigours of that terrible night of clinging, like Gilmour’s hypothetical goats, to the hillsides — were placed in the commissariat carts or carried in makeshift litters by the camp followers, and the march was resumed under Gilmour’s navigational guidance. Progress was a good deal slower now, the going much more laborious. Both Gilmour and Ogilvie were worried about the time factor. Again at intervals they could see the watchful tribesmen, the Ghilzais, on the crags and peaks, the still-silent rifles pointing down towards them as if to remind them of what would happen should they make a wrong move. They went along now without much conversation, no more indeed than was strictly necessary for the passing of orders, for everyone was too tired, too bone-weary to waste precious breath. They merely stumbled on, plodding one half-frozen foot before another and dragging their bodies painfully after it. Taggart-Blane was red-eyed and drawn, with a dead-white stubbly face, a face, Ogilvie thought, too young for its sprouting beard. He was riding as though in a trance. Ogilvie himself was keeping going by sheer will-power and doggedness, forcing himself not to give way to his almost over-powering urge to go to sleep in the saddle, steeled by the knowledge that his was the responsibility and he must not fail in his duty. Gilmour seemed almost untouched by the hardships, the hunger — for they were conserving all supplies by a strict rationing — and the lack of rest. The man seemed almost invigorated by hardship, in fact, glad to meet a challenge. His wife, on the other hand, was in a bad way now. She had been placed in a commissariat cart, drawn by mules and positioned at the head of the line of march, where Gilmour could keep a personal eye on her. The sick woman lay in the cart as though already dead, unmoving but with her eyes open, open and staring blankly at the sky through the gaps in the wind-flapped canvas hood. It was clear now that they would be lucky to bring her alive through the Khyber; and as they rode Gilmour, who had just remounted after trying to encourage his wife by his presence at her side, brought the matter up obliquely.
‘It’s God’s will, Ogilvie. That’s
the one way to look at it.’
Ogilvie knew what he meant. He said, ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry, Major. But you’re looking on the worst side, aren’t you?’
‘Perhaps, I pray to God I am, Ogilvie. But we’ve so far only touched the fringes. I blame myself now. I should never have brought the women, in spite of Jarar...but there, it’s no good thinking along those lines, is it? What’s done is done.’
‘We must always look for hope, Major. It’s bad to — to even think of the worst.’
‘I agree with you, but certain matters must be discussed and must be planned for. Not to plan may well leave us in a greater difficulty at a moment when we are least able to cope with it.’ Gilmour hesitated, then went on in a voice harsh with his own emotion, ‘Ogilvie, if my wife should die whilst we are in the Khyber...I should like to take her body through into India. What do you say to that?’
‘It shall be whatever you wish, sir, you have my word on that.’
‘Thank you, Ogilvie, thank you with all my heart. But I must remind you there will be difficulties. The sepoys do not readily accept the carriage of the dead — they’re such a superstitious bunch. Also, they know we’d not allow them to carry their own dead on the march even if they wanted to. It could appear invidious.’
‘I shall accept that if necessary.’
‘But you are in command, Ogilvie. Can I ask you to jeopardise our mission?’ He lifted a hand and rubbed at his snow-affected eyes. ‘I have asked you — and I know I’m wrong to do so!’
‘It’s all right, Major.’
‘Wait. There are other aspects. Sometime or other we’re going to be attacked. If this happens after my wife’s death, then her body will need the same protection as if she were still alive. The Pathans...their vile revenges, even against the dead. I think you understand me?’
‘Yes, I do. In the circumstances, Major, is it wise to ask for this? If the protection is not fully effective—’ He stopped, unable to put the rest into words, and not needing to.
Gilmour said, ‘For my part, yes, I’m being unwise. I hope the cold hasn’t affected my judgment — I don’t believe it has, though it is becoming extremely trying to us all already. But, you see, my wife has always expressed a horror of dying in Afghanistan and of perhaps having to be buried on Afghan soil. She has not been happy in Kunarja, Ogilvie. She detests Afghanistan. But she was happy among the English community in Peshawar. I shall feel it no less than my duty to see, to the fullest extent of my ability, that her last wish is carried out. I think I failed her in life, Ogilvie. I must not fail her in death.’
‘Of course, I—’
‘She has not liked being exiled from England. She was very fond of home, you know, very fond...naturally, she realised I had a duty and that my life was out here, on the Frontier. I have never felt that I have sacrificed myself. But I may well have sacrificed her.’
And now you must make amends, Ogilvie thought. He looked sideways at Gilmour, saw the reflection of the man’s bitter thoughts, the thoughts that were taking charge of his face. It was late now to make amends; and amends could prove cumbersome, dangerous and foolish. But Gilmour’s mind was made up and it clearly meant everything to him that he should do this thing, and Ogilvie had not the heart to put forward further objections. He said no more; they must concentrate on keeping Mrs. Gilmour alive, though from what he had seen of her as she lay so inertly in the commissariat wagon he felt this to be a hope unlikely of fulfilment. They rode on in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts and fears for the future.
Two days later, a depleted company who had left more dead behind them on the march, they entered the Khyber.
NINE
They had moved past Torkham, the fortress at the Khyber’s western end, entering the pass without incident. Shadowed by the high peaks of the Safed Koh they had made agonisingly slow progress along the icy, snow-covered track that sometimes ran through the floor of the pass and sometimes ran loftily above the gorges, above the terrible drops down sheer rock sides on to jagged boulders and the rushing river, the waters that Katharine Gilmour had, with so much truth, called cruel. Again and again — more and more often now — they had seen themselves to be under observation from the hawk-faced men on the heights. Word of their coming would be passed ahead; this they knew. What they did not know, what they could not be certain of despite the assurance of Jarar Mahommed’s personal representative who still accompanied them, was whether or not the wild Pathans on the peaks belonged to tribes friendly, or tribes opposed, to the Ghilzai leader in Kunarja.
‘It’s almost too friendly,’ Gilmour said after a whole day’s march had brought not even a stray sniper’s bullet. ‘It could be a good sign, of course — a sign that Jarar’s in full control and we’ll get through intact. But it could be the precise opposite — it’s possible we’re being drawn into a trap, nice and deep!’
‘And you think that’s it, Major?’
Gilmour hesitated. ‘I do, yes. With my knowledge of the tribes...yes, I’m afraid so. It’s just a feeling, perhaps, Ogilvie — but it’s a strong one. I sense danger — more with every mile. As I’ve told you, Jarar has many enemies.’
‘Well, we just have to go forward, Major.’
‘Right — we have! ‘ Gilmour, his face and hands blue with cold, stared around the crests, frowning. Once again they were passing through a snow-free period and the skies were relatively clear though far from bright; the peaks stood out well, sentinels over the brooding silence of the pass. Vultures, apart from themselves, were currently the only signs of life. Vultures were the inevitable accompaniments of any march of men along the passes or in the plains, the horrible predators that waited for the next meal, veritable symbols of death-in-life. For the moment, even the watchful tribesmen were absent, though it could be presumed that the straggling sepoys were under covert observation from somewhere in the fastnesses of the mountain-tops. Suddenly Gilmour said, ‘Ogilvie, my wife is sinking. It’s not good. If only she could be more protected from this terrible cold.’
‘I’m very sorry, Major.’
‘It’ll come hard on Katharine.’
‘Yes. Does she realise?’
Gilmour nodded. ‘I believe so. I’ve said nothing, and she is putting on a good face for her mother’s benefit—but yes, I think she knows it can’t be long now.’ He said no more after that, and seemed sunk in his own thoughts as they moved on. Ogilvie was in a fever of impatience now as gradually the distance to safety lessened but left so far still to go, so far in which so much could happen. He was concerned still about Taggart-Blane; the exigencies of the march had not yet allowed him to have that talk the subaltern had wanted, and now in any case Taggart-Blane seemed to be avoiding his company, remaining surlily aloof during the halts for rest and meals, carrying out his duties and then going off alone to sit by himself. He was looking more and more pinched, more and more dog-weary like the rest of them; but there was something else in his eyes — a deep-seated gnawing anxiety that showed only too clearly where his real anxiety lay. Such preoccupation was bad for the conduct of the march, and as they rode along that day, Ogilvie determined that he would have that heart-to-heart talk with Taggart-Blane during the forthcoming night’s bivouac, though in all conscience he felt he could offer little relief to the man’s mind.
As it happened his good intention was once again frustrated. The column had only just been halted for the night’s camp and the sentries posted, when Gilmour, who had spent the last hours stumbling along on foot, grey-faced now, by his wife’s side, came up to Ogilvie and said, ‘She’s gone. My wife’s dead.’
‘Oh...I’m sorry. How’s Miss Gilmour taking it?’
‘I don’t know. She’s very pent-up. Well now, Ogilvie, we have to face the future — the immediate future.’ Gilmour swayed, and Ogilvie reached out a hand to steady him. ‘Your promise. That stands?’
Ogilvie nodded. ‘Of course. I gave you my word.’
‘I’m offering you the opportunity to withdraw. It
’s night, and we’re resting anyway. The digging of a grave will cause no delay. Naturally, it can only be a very shallow one...but we have an abundance of rocks and boulders to build a cairn.’
‘I’ll not withdraw, Major. We’ll take Mrs. Gilmour through to British India, to Peshawar, and proper burial where she wished it.’
There were tears in Gilmour’s eyes now. ‘You realise the risks, Ogilvie, the difficulties?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you still...!’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘Damn it all, it’s totally inadequate to say thank you, Ogilvie. I must...go to my daughter. Meanwhile, none of the sepoys knows. We must try to keep them in ignorance.’ Gilmour turned on his heel and walked away through the deep snow towards the wagon where his wife’s body lay. Looking after him, Ogilvie saw Katharine, faintly in the gathering dark, move from behind the wagon to meet him, and saw father and daughter embrace, and then, feeling like an eavesdropper on grief, he turned away and walked down the line, as he had for so many nights now, to see the meagre food distributed under guard, and the men settled into their refuge behind the jags of rock.
Sending for Taggart-Blane, he told the subaltern of Mrs. Gilmour’s death.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, James, very sorry.’
‘I’ve promised the Major we’ll take her on to Peshawar for burial, Alan. That means a strong guard on the commissariat cart, in case of any sudden attack. But I’d prefer it if the news didn’t spread that she’s actually died. The sepoys—’
‘You’ll never keep that dark!’
‘We can try at all events. So far, no-one knows except you and I. The Gilmours’ll put the best face on it that they can, and if the girl’s seen to weep, or break down, it can be attributed to her mother’s likely death, but not to her actual death. Understand?’
The Lion's Den Page 12
