The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘D’you think these people know about the terms, and mean to stop them getting through?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. They may indeed. On the other hand, they may be just engaging in the good old tribal pastime of attacking anything that moves in the area. It’s a thundering pity Jarar’s man died.’ Gilmour ducked suddenly as a bullet snicked the rock above his head. ‘The bastards! In any case, Ogilvie, it’s no good theorising about who they are. They’re shooting and they mean to wipe us out. They could do it, too, by a process of attrition. Have you any idea what the casualties are to date?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to think about that yet. I’ll get a report when I can.’ Ogilvie listened to the bullets whining overhead or striking off rock fragments. In this cover they were safe, at least until the enemy decided to move round and mount a flank attack. Almost despairingly he wondered what the next move should be. From the sound of the rifle fire, he judged that his force was well outnumbered; there would be little hope of mounting a successful counter-attack — as things were, he would hardly have the time to re-form the sepoys. The moment they all emerged from cover, they would be dead men; and they had not the strength, in either a numerical or physical sense, to shed their cannon-fodder as it were and emerge from the fire as still a fighting unit. The darkness would be a help, of course; but it was still too great a risk to take with the enemy in his commanding position. The only possible source of action would be, in Ogilvie’s opinion, the passive and undramatic one of sitting it out and hoping to reduce the enemy faster than they themselves were reduced. The cover was good on both sides, whilst to attack, the enemy must, like themselves, come out into the open.

  He said as much to Gilmour.

  ‘It’s a good point,’ Gilmour agreed. ‘We’ll just see who can last the longest — who can stand the suspense better! ‘ He laughed again. ‘That honour could well go to the enemy. They’re more used to it — and to this infernal cold! In the meantime, there’s going to be a delay in getting Jarar’s terms through, Ogilvie, if ever they get through at all.’

  ‘How serious is a delay going to be, Major?’

  ‘That depends on the length of the delay. It could be serious for Rigby-Smith and the rest of the regiment in Kunarja. If nothing is forthcoming after what he considers a reasonable period, Jarar may well become vindictive.’

  ‘Surely he’ll get word of this attack?’

  ‘He may — or he may not. Oh, I know all about the bush telegraph, Ogilvie! It depends how long it takes to operate, and on the extent of Jarar’s impatience to boot! When it’s a question of a set-back, he’s not the most resigned of men.’

  ‘If the regiment is massacred — in Kunarja, I mean—’

  ‘If the regiment is massacred, my dear Ogilvie, it means a full-scale frontier war, with the result that all the tribes will unite behind Jarar’s standard!’

  ‘Which could suit him very well, perhaps...don’t you think, Major?’

  There was a pause; then Gilmour said, ‘You mean, you think Jarar could be behind this attack, Jarar himself, trying to stir things up so that he extends his sway in Afghanistan? Yes, that could be! I have had it in mind myself, to be truthful. That makes it even more vital that the terms should go through, and go through quickly. I doubt if even Jarar would commit an overt act of war, such as massacring Rigby-Smith and his men, whilst terms virtually of his own choosing are under discussion.’

  ‘What are you suggesting now, Major?’ Ogilvie winced with the pain in his arm; he fancied his uniform was stiff with blood, but it was too dark to see. ‘I’ve already said, it might be possible to send a man through—’

  ‘Yes. I think I should try to get through myself, Ogilvie. I know the Khyber well, better than anyone else present I would venture to say. I can get a relieving force sent through to you here, and deliver the terms personally to General Fettleworth. Yes, that is what I must do.’

  ‘It’s a desperate risk. What about Miss Gilmour?’

  Gilmour turned his head and looked towards his daughter, who was crouched, a just visible bundle in the darkness against the background of snow, beside the cart containing her mother’s body. ‘She knows what duty is, Ogilvie. She knows that too well, perhaps! I shall leave her in your hands, to bring her safely through to Peshawar.’

  ‘It’s a big responsibility, Major.’

  ‘But one that I believe you know how to take. I shall have every confidence in you, Ogilvie.’

  ‘Thank you for that, Major.’ Ogilvie paused. ‘You’ve already said, you don’t think a man could get through, so how—’

  ‘A man couldn’t get through at this moment, no! Those Pathans are far too alert — but the alertness will fade a little, as you’ll see. When the time’s right, and I rather fancy that’ll be when we get some more snow, then I’ll make a break for it. Remember, there’s not a lot of distance to cover now, as far as Jamrud at all events. And now I think I’ll get some sleep, Ogilvie.’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘Is there anything you want, any help I can give?’

  ‘You can prepare me a picnic basket if you will, my dear fellow, and a good supply of ammunition!’ Wrapping himself tightly in his greatcoat after scraping a hollow in the drifted snow, Gilmour lay down. Ogilvie maintained his watch as best he could, dozing from time to time as sleep overcame him. The firing continued, more or less spasmodically, from both sides; a good deal of ammunition was in fact wasted. There was no actual attack. Working under cover of the total dark, and as silently as possible, the sepoys under Gundar Singh brought in the commissariat carts. At each attempt there was renewed firing, and the force suffered a number of casualties, but the operation was successful and the food was saved. Ogilvie saw to it that basic provisions were made ready for Gilmour’s use on his solitary trek for safety. Meanwhile Gilmour slept soundly in the hollowed-out snow bed. At midnight Taggart-Blane crawled up on his stomach to report the casualties : thirty-two sepoys dead, including two N.C.O.s, and another twenty wounded. As for the camp followers, it was impossible to be sure of the situation, but it seemed that they had suffered very heavy losses, and, owing to their propensity to panic, would certainly lose many more.

  ‘I was wondering about increasing the guard on them,’ Taggart-Blane said.

  ‘No. We can’t take the risk of losing more soldiers. It’s hard, but they’ll simply have to take their chance. How’s the general morale?’

  ‘Bad, James, very bad indeed. I doubt if we’re going to come through this. We’re all in a fair way to freezing to death!’

  ‘Don’t you lose heart! I’m going to need you more than ever now. Gilmour’s going through with the terms, on his own.’

  ‘Is he, by God! ‘ Taggart-Blane seemed about to say something else, but instead Ogilvie felt his arm suddenly seized and then felt Taggart-Blane’s breath fan his face and the subaltern’s mouth brush his ear. ‘Something’s moving, behind you. On the right of the rock. I can’t see what it is.’

  Ogilvie, feeling his very flesh crawl, turned his head and lifted his revolver. He could see nothing, hear nothing. There was no firing anywhere just at that moment; the night was peaceful, as peaceful as any in his own highland passes far away in Scotland. Then, suddenly, there was an excruciating pain in his side and he let out a cry. He felt something heavy come down on him and something strike his head, saw vaguely the sudden twist of Taggart-Blane’s body close by, and before he passed out he heard the stutter of gunfire and the bullets from what sounded like a Maxim gun snicking into the rock, and the long scream of agony, a sound of death, coming from the direction in which Mrs. Gilmour’s body lay in its primitive bier.

  ELEVEN

  The British regiments in garrison at Peshawar and Nowshera were in a festive mood, making advance preparations for Christmas, not now far off. The Officers’ Mess of the 114th Highlanders, lacking James Ogilvie absent on active service, and having had no news of him since he had marched out with the Rawalpindis, were perhaps less celebratory than the other regiments; but on th
e whole were no more inclined than were other British officers to wear their hearts on their sleeves during the Christmas season. At Division, amid a metaphorical jingle of sleigh bells, Lieutenant-General Francis Fettleworth, who always enjoyed any occasion when he could make speeches about the Queen and the Raj, was busily engaged in discussions with his aide-de-camp on the subject of the organisation of a dinner he was proposing to hold for the benefit of some visiting Civilians from Calcutta, a dinner to be held on Christmas Eve.

  He was laying down the law on the seating plan when his Chief of Staff interrupted him.

  ‘What is it, Lakenham?’ Fettleworth asked with a touch of irritation. ‘I’m really rather busy—’

  ‘Yes, sir, so I see.’ Brigadier-General Lakenham’s sardonic and sweeping glance took in the scribbles and diagrams and crossings-out that constituted the all-important seating plan, and took in the dandified, simpering figure of the aide-de-camp, Captain Grassbrook, latest in a lengthy line of A.D.C.s worn out by Bloody Francis. ‘Something of greater urgency has turned up, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘What? What’s turned up?’

  ‘This, sir.’ The Chief of Staff laid a document before the General, on the top of the seating plan.

  ‘Can’t I ever be left in peace, blast it all?’ He prodded at the document. ‘What’s this, then?’

  ‘A report from one of our Political Officers, sir. Major Blaise-Willoughby —‘

  ‘Feller with the monkey? I thought he’d left us.’

  ‘He has, sir. He’s at Army Headquarters in Murree...on Sir Iain Ogilvie’s staff. He—’

  ‘What’s he sending reports to me for, then?’

  ‘He isn’t. Not directly, that is.’ Lakenham bent and tapped the document. ‘This report was made to the Army Commander in Murree, who has sent it to you, sir — for necessary action.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fettleworth seemed taken aback. ‘Why the devil does he bother me with it?’ He nodded at the A.D.C. ‘All right, Grassbrook, that’s all for now.’ As Captain Grassbrook left the room, Fettleworth looked up at his Chief of Staff from beneath beetling white eyebrows. ‘It’s so damned important to give these beastly Civilians a good impression, y’know. Damned important! That’s why I’m taking such pains with this dinner.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘They do appreciate good organisation...and they’re a bunch of blasted gluttons, too. Filling their bellies always keeps ‘em happy! Don’t forget that, when you succeed to high command, Lakenham.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Now, the report, where is it? Ah, yes.’ The General started to read and, after a moment, looked up. ‘Who’s this from — originally, I mean? Who’s the feller in the field?’

  ‘I don’t know that, I’m afraid. I don’t think it’s important anyway. The facts are plain enough.’ Lakenham summarised them for his General’s benefit. ‘A Political Officer unknown, returning from detached service in the Khyber has observed and reported a small British force under attack from tribesmen between Landi Khotal and Jamrud — nearer to Jamrud than to Landi Khotal—’

  ‘He’d have been dressed as a native, would he not, this Political Officer?’

  Lakenham fumed at the non-sequitur. ‘Yes!’

  ‘No indication as to the identity of the force?’

  ‘No, sir, except that they are sepoys.’

  Fettleworth studied the report again, at closer quarters this time, through a large magnifying glass with a brass handle.

  ‘Damned odd. I’ve no knowledge of any force moving in the Khyber — have you? Which way are they moving?’

  ‘They’re not, sir—’

  ‘Oh, don’t be—’

  ‘They’re stationary, sir. Or were, when last seen.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, yes! An ambush, no doubt. Where are they from, then?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir. As you suggest, we have no official intimation. Nevertheless, I think we can make a few good guesses.’

  The Divisional Commander looked up. ‘Intelligent appraisals, Lakenham.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Rigby-Smith’s regiment, sir, was sent through to Kunarja—’

  ‘By God, Lakenham, d’you know, you’re right! So it was, so it was!’ Fettleworth sat back at arms’ length, his scarlet tunic-sleeves outthrust vigorously against his desk. ‘There’s been no word from there, has there?’

  ‘Not a thing, no.’

  ‘And you think this is the Rawalpindi Light Infantry, do you, hey?’

  ‘It’s possible it’s a detachment of theirs. If you’ll read the report again, you’ll see that it refers—’

  ‘Ah yes, yes, a force of approximately company strength, yes, I see.’ Fettleworth drummed his fingers on the desk-top.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what, sir?’

  Fettleworth snapped, ‘What’s your opinion, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I repeat, sir, I think it likely this force has been detached and despatched by Rigby-Smith—’

  ‘For what purpose, though?’

  Lakenham shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s just possible he’s sending terms for a settlement with Jarar Mahommed. After all, he was sent in for that purpose—’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. He was sent in to restore order and ensure the safety of the British Resident. Do let us get our facts correct, Lakenham.’

  ‘Very well, sir, then perhaps he’s sending the British Resident out for his own safety.’

  ‘And remaining behind himself, with the main body of his regiment?’

  ‘For all we know, sir, he may be accompanying this force. On the other hand, if he is remaining behind, it may well be to discuss terms of a settlement with the Ghilzais, mayn’t it?’

  ‘Well, possibly, possibly. I wish I knew! How the devil are we going to find out?’

  Lakenham said, ‘By making contact with the force, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you are missing the point of this despatch, sir.’ The Chief of Staff breathed heavily down his nose, feeling frustrated and annoyed; his General could be exceedingly obtuse at times, though he had an underlying and often useful craftiness that helped the command quite considerably in their dealings with the natives. ‘The force has been under attack — I repeat, under attack — and will undoubtedly, in my opinion, now be liable to attack all the way through the Khyber to Jamrud. The report speaks of many sick or wounded, in litters and commissariat wagons. The weather there is diabolical, as we all know. I—’

  ‘You’re suggesting I send a relief force?’

  ‘It might well be wise, General Fettleworth, it might well be wise.’

  ‘But the — the damn G.O.C. makes no such suggestion! I suppose he’s landing me with a decision.’ Fettleworth pulled at his drooping, yellowish moustache. ‘By God, Lakenham, that son of his Ogilvie! He’s with the sepoy battalion.’ He looked up. ‘D’you think he’s marching with this force that’s under attack? Do you?’

  ‘I have no idea in all the world, sir, but it’s a possibility.’

  ‘H’m, yes, it is.’ Fettleworth ruminated for a while, then went on sagely, ‘Yes, you may be damn right, Lakenham! It may be necessary to send someone in to meet ‘em, I suppose. Who’ve we got that’s any good?’

  ‘Our only experienced battalion is the one brigaded with the sepoys, sir — the 114th Highlanders. Young Ogilvie’s own regiment.’

  ‘But they’re our only Scots!’

  ‘True, sir, but—’

  ‘I wanted their pipers for my dinner on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘Quite, sir, quite. But the demands of—’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, I’m not a bloody fool, Lakenham.’ Fettleworth frowned, then said energetically, ‘By God, I tell you what! Why shouldn’t we use the blasted Khyber Rifles, sitting on their arses in whatsit, Landi Khotal — hey, Lakenham?’

  Lakenham shook his head. ‘No, sir. With great respect, that would take far too long — and in any case, in order to contact Landi Khotal,
a patrol would have to pass the point of ambush—’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s true.’ Fettleworth drummed on his desk. ‘Oh, very well. You’d better tell Lord Dornoch to prepare his regiment to march. Those Highlanders are rough and ready and uncouth enough, God knows, but they should be well used to snow!

  *

  Two weeks before Christmas Eve, the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys proceeded from cantonments for the mouth of the Khyber, accoutred for war and dressed for a foul winter and accompanied by their pipes and drums. Bloody Francis had managed to make their departure into an occasion, and had insisted on the pipes and drums playing them out in full splendour, for some of the Calcutta Civilians had arrived already in Peshawar. He himself took the salute, standing on a dais in a cold wind out of Afghanistan that spoke of the northern and western snows. The 114th Highlanders marched out, in better heart now than for months past, to succour a brother regiment of the British Raj, marched as the upholders of the Pax Britannica that had for so long, through so many generations, held the Frontier more or less in check with a curious but mostly effective mixture of benevolence and violence that had begun with the days of the East India Company’s army. They marched out as soldiers of the Queen, past Bloody Francis and his staff and the highly-placed Civilians, with their colours streaming along that cold wind, with the kilts of the files a-flap around their knees, with the pipes and drums beating out the throat-catching strains of ‘The Heroes of Vittoria’, ‘The Old 93rd’ and the ‘High Road to Gairloch’. As Lord Dornoch rode past he gave the Divisional Commander a punctilious salute, equally punctiliously returned. General Fettleworth, an emotional man whenever he thought of Queen and Empire, had tears in his eyes as the haunting notes of the pipers faded away into the distance, towards the barren Afghan hills.

  He descended from the dais, blinking.

  ‘Stout fellows,’ he said to one of the men from Calcutta, dressed in sombre black, and up and about remarkably early. ‘Stout fellows all!’

  ‘Yes, indeed, General. A necessary evil in a sense.’