The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  She laughed, for the first time since her mother had died. It brought life back to her face. ‘Why, that’s very nice of you,’ she said.

  *

  There had been no more snow; above them the sky was blue, and a pale sun shone, not enough of it to bring warmth to near-frozen bodies, but enough at least to bring a more cheerful spirit and a reminder that there were sunnier lands beyond the Khyber Pass. Enough, too, to force Ogilvie to consider a distasteful task, for even the vaguest hint of less icy conditions to come meant that their cargo of dead must be protected against any decomposition. While Katharine went once again about her self-imposed task of attending the sick and wounded with the dwindling medical supplies, the faithful Bandra Negi scooped up handfuls of the lying snow and packed it tightly about the bodies of Major and Mrs. Gilmour and Mulata Din, pressing it down hard so that it became virtually a block of enshrouding ice.

  Coming back safely through a renewed spurt of rifle fire, Katharine saw what had been done but didn’t comment. She said, ‘James, there are so many cases of frost-bite, it’s really terrible. There’s not much I can do, beyond setting the men to chafe each other’s limbs as often as possible.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done your best.’

  ‘I hope so.’ She ran a critical eye over him. ‘You seem much better. Please don’t overdo it, though.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised her, recognising a note of anxiety in her voice. ‘How’s Lal Binodinand now?’

  ‘Still much the same, a little worse perhaps.’

  ‘How long d’you think he’ll last, Katharine?’

  She shook her head. There was a curious look in her eyes, he noticed. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps — long enough to be hanged.’

  ‘That’s a hard way to put it.’

  ‘Put it how you like, it could be that way. And if so, then it’s hateful, utterly hateful and abominable, to keep a man alive and in pain only to hang him in the end!’

  ‘But Katharine,’ he said, taking her hand, which was chapped and raw and blotched with frozen blood. ‘He’ll hang only if he’s found guilty, don’t you see? He has to live, in order to answer the charge, and — and perhaps prove his innocence! Surely you can see that?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said dully. ‘Yes, of course I see it. But...oh, never mind!’ She looked around her, at the rock, at the jagged peaks above; her face held a high colour, almost feverish, and her eyes were bright and hard. ‘Do you know, there are times — yes, many times when I hate, hate, hate the British Raj and all it stands for!’

  Her fists were clenched and shaking; she had thrown off Ogilvie’s hand when she had been racked by the torrent of emotion waiting to come out. He said, ‘Katharine—’

  ‘How long have we been here? How long?’

  He shook his head; he didn’t answer. He was filled with an immense weariness. All count of time seemed to have deserted him and his feeling was that they had been in the Khyber since time immemorial, day succeeding day to bring more cold, more snow and danger, more strain to himself and his sepoys and to this girl — more strain and a terrible tightening of the rations and of the drinking water, long since eked out with melted snow which at least kept throats moist. He said, ‘It’s been a long, long hell, Katharine, I know that, but—’

  ‘Then can you not do something about it? Can you not order an attack? Are you not a British officer?’ Wildly now, she gestured at the commissariat cart. Her eyes were bright, more so now, though the lids showed fatigue and hunger. ‘My father would have mounted a counter-attack by this time, you may be sure! Why, why, why do you not do so?’

  ‘There are many things to be considered,’ he said lamely, feeling himself flush. ‘Among them you yourself.’

  ‘You should not use me as your excuse! ‘

  ‘Please, Katharine. Don’t make things more difficult.’

  He reached his hand out to her again; but she turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  *

  Around the perimeter there was a stir of movement, of what seemed to be sudden alarm. There was a renewal of the firing from the crests, but, oddly, no bullets came down upon them. They stared in puzzlement; the Pathans were showing themselves now, and moving — moving away, firing ahead along the pass. Ogilvie felt the thump of his heart, and a surge of crazy hope, a hope that surely must prove false!

  Then they heard it, and it was unmistakable.

  Very distantly yet, a mere suspicion of a sound beating out thinly into the freezing air, but coming almost imperceptibly closer as they listened and waited...the heart-stirring sound of drums, the wailing of bagpipes moving towards them along the track out of India. Not a word was spoken, but everywhere men came out from cover to stand and watch the sudden turn of events and then to cheer the Highland soldiers in.

  Distantly still, they saw the splash of colour against the everlasting snows. To Ogilvie it seemed almost as though it must be a mirage, a cruel trick of eyes affected by the white glare from the snow that had been with them for so long. Then his attuned ears picked out Pipe-Major Ross’s own composition, ‘Farewell to Invermore’, just before the pipers shifted into ‘Cock o’. the North’ and, with yells and wild cries the Highland line opened with their rifles and Maxims, bringing complete confusion to the ambushing tribesmen; fighting, now that fighting had come to them, as they had always fought before. There was, Ogilvie saw with a full heart, nothing basically wrong with the Royal Strathspeys.

  He laid a hand on Katharine Gilmour’s arm and this time there was no turning away. ‘It’s all right now,’ he told her gently. ‘It’s my regiment. It’s the 114th!’

  THIRTEEN

  Re-forming after a brief action, the kilted Scots marched in behind the skirl of the pipes and halted on the Colonel’s order. To hear the parade-ground voice of Bosom Cunningham, the Regimental Sergeant-Major, was music as good as the pipes themselves in Ogilvie’s ears. As the wind died in the pipes and the beat of the drums ceased, Lord Dornoch recognised Ogilvie.

  ‘By God, James, it’s you! I had the feeling it might be.’ Dornoch, heavily wrapped in thick clothing and wearing a Russian-style fur hat, took Ogilvie’s hand in a hard grip. ‘What the devil have you been up to? You look in poor shape, and so do your sepoys.’

  ‘We’re not too bad to march, Colonel—’

  ‘Bravely said, but untrue. No — I’ll not stand and argue that point! Tell me your news...and who’s the lady?’

  ‘Major Gilmour’s daughter — Miss Katharine—’

  ‘Good heavens! My poor young lady, I’m doubly glad to have been of some assistance! James, what’s happened —where’s Gilmour?’

  Briefly, Ogilvie told Dornoch of the march and of Gilmour’s death, and of that of Gilmour’s wife. The Colonel was gravely concerned and troubled as he studied Katharine Gilmour’s tired, drained face. ‘A tragedy,’ he said quietly. ‘A real tragedy. Your father’s whole life was given to his natives — I know his reputation well. I’m deeply sorry, Miss Gilmour — deeply sorry. He was a brave man, one of the best the Raj could have produced. And your mother—’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Dornoch,’ she broke in, looking down at the trodden snow. ‘It is a great loss to me.’

  ‘Of course.’ Dornoch turned away towards the hills, shaking his head. ‘Now we must look to the future. James, what’s this you said about Taggart-Blane?’

  ‘He volunteered to go through to Jamrud, Colonel, with the terms that Major Gilmour had been carrying to General Fettleworth.’

  ‘An officer of his lack of experience — and you let him go?’

  Ogilvie pointed out, ‘Colonel, there was no-one else — and he had a native guide, a man who knows the Khyber well.’

  Dornoch shook his head. ‘I take your point, but I fear he’ll have been lost. We saw no sign of him on the march, that’s certain! If he had come through before we entered the pass, we’d have been informed by Jamrud, I feel sure.’

  ‘He — or his guide, Colonel — they may have felt it safer to leave
the track and take some other route.’

  ‘There is no other route known to us.’

  ‘To us, Colonel, perhaps not. But to the guide? These men have ways that are unknown to—’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s perfectly true, but I can’t afford to use such an assumption as any basis for decision. It’s too vague, too unlikely. And by now time’s running short, and affairs will not be happy for Colonel Rigby-Smith and his regiment in Kunarja.’ Lord Dornoch stared around the pass, at the cruel jags of rock, at the hillsides now apparently clear of Pathans. The rifles of the Royal Strathspeys had accounted for a large number of the former ambushers, and the rest had made themselves scarce for the time being. ‘By God, this place gives me the shivers, James! ‘

  ‘There are similarities to Scotland, Colonel.’

  ‘True — but give me the Pass of Drumochter before this any day! Now: I must make the assumption that the terms will not in fact have reached General Fettleworth in Peshawar. I’ll not rule out entirely the possibility that Taggart-Blane may yet get through — he may have met some temporary set-back, some hold-up, or he may be wounded — but it’s a very faint possibility in my opinion. That leaves us with the likelihood that Rigby-Smith will be in danger and must be relieved. We’ll not delay, James. I’ll resume the march as soon as possible.’ He paused, scanning Ogilvie’s face. ‘I need hardly say, you’ll not be coming with us.’

  ‘But, Colonel—’

  ‘No argument, if you please. You and Miss Gilmour will continue for Peshawar under escort — I’ll detach a half-company for your protection. You’ll take all your sepoys with you — both the sick and the fit. They’ve had enough, poor fellows, more already than any man should be expected to stand. I shall manage very well in Kunarja with the main body of the regiment. You will also take—’ He broke off. ‘A word in your ear, James.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  They moved away a little, out of earshot of Katharine Gilmour. ‘That poor girl,’ Dornoch said in a low voice. ‘You must take the bodies of the Gilmours through with you, of course. I note there’s a third body packed in snow in one of the carts. What’s the story of that?’

  Ogilvie, hating his task, took a deep breath and told Dornoch the facts, such as they were known, of the murder and what had gone before it. Dornoch was shocked to the core. ‘A murder — and this terrible business, this sordid involvement of one of my own officers! Are you sure of your facts?’

  ‘As sure as I can be, Colonel, though I couldn’t swear to what I saw. But you did once mention — in regard to Taggart-Blane, you said—’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Dornoch tugged at his moustache. ‘I never really visualised a — a manifestation, though! By God, it’s damned appalling! A British officer and a sepoy! I doubt if we’ll ever keep this within the regiment, James, even if this havildar should hang — and who’s really to say he’s guilty? My God, I’m half inclined to hope Taggart-Blane doesn’t come through the Khyber!’ He blew his nose, hard.

  ‘I think we should not cross our bridges, Colonel. As you have said, it’s likely enough that Taggart-Blane is dead, and the havildar, Lal Binodinand, is undoubtedly dying.’

  ‘Dying?’

  ‘I believe so, Colonel.’

  ‘I’ll have the Surgeon-Major look at him.’

  ‘I think he’s already attending to the sick and wounded, Colonel.’

  Dornoch said, ‘I suppose you know one thing.’

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Lal Binodinand must be kept alive. He will go back with the rest of the sick, of course—with you. I’ll send the Surgeon-Major also — you have so many sick and wounded, and there is Miss Gilmour. Dr. Corton will be better used if he accompanies your column.’

  ‘We haven’t so far to go as you have, Colonel.’

  Dornoch nodded. ‘I know that. But you yourself are far from fit, and I consider it vital that you should get through — since you have the outline in your head, the outline of Jarar Mahommed’s terms. You shall report them personally to General Fettleworth — and I can only hope you’ll reach him in time. But as to Lal Binodinand : he must be kept alive in so far as medical knowledge can ensure his fitness—’

  ‘Simply to hang, Colonel?’ Ogilvie felt a horror similar to Katharine Gilmour’s, now he heard the matter expressed in words by another man. ‘Is this not...sheer cruelty?’

  ‘Cruelty or not, I have given you what you are to regard as an order. I shall give the same order to Surgeon-Major Corton — an order which he can, of course, obey only to the best of his skill and ability as a medical officer. Lal Binodinand cannot be allowed to die, and I think you must know very well why!’

  ‘I do not, Colonel. I—’

  ‘Then think, man, think! ‘ Lord Dornoch said harshly as he turned away to make back towards the others. ‘Here is a clue : do you wish it said throughout British India, in the messes and the clubs, in the courts and the Government offices in Calcutta, that the 114th Highlanders have a very neat and conclusive way of looking after their own?’

  *

  It was true, Ogilvie thought with a heavy heart as half an hour later he stood and watched the regiment move out. Lal Binodinand had in his dying agonies become a kind of symbol — a symbol of justice! He shuddered; what form of justice was it, that could make a man of honour like Lord Dornoch issue such an order? Dornoch had spoken under the pressure of his feeling for the regiment and had possibly been too forthright, expressing himself too baldly; for Ogilvie knew instinctively that genuine justice had also been in the Colonel’s mind when he had made that statement : Ogilvie’s own words to Katharine Gilmour came back to him — Lal Binodinand had to be accorded the opportunity of proving his innocence if he could. Regiment or no regiment, Dornoch would countenance no interfering with that basic human right.

  The main Scots column moved off from that place of ambush, that arena of the dead, with their colours fluttering out along a cold wind but beneath a sky that was still clear, with the pipes and drums beating out bravely into the grim surround of the hills, and the regimental tartan blown around the blue-tinged knees of close upon a thousand men. Ogilvie stood at the salute as the Colonel went by behind the pipes and drums, stood motionless until the long column had all gone past and the pipes at the head had faded into the vast distance of the Khyber. Singing came back to him, the song of men keeping up their spirits as they marched and slid and stumbled away to war:

  You trusted in your Hielan’ men,

  They trusted you, dear Charlie,

  They kent you were hidin’ in the glen,

  Death or exile bravin’.

  Will ye no come back again.

  The sounds faded; and soon the rear of the column had marched away out of sight. Turning, Ogilvie became aware of Katharine Gilmour standing by his side. She said brittly, ‘You’ve a very deep feeling for your regiment, James, haven’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Deep enough — yes, I have. We’ve had a long history. I don’t suppose you happened to notice the colour?’

  ‘The battle honours? Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Blenheim, Ramillies, Malplaquet, Plassey, Minden, the Siege of Gibraltar, Salamanca, Vittoria, Waterloo...the Mutiny. Yes, James, it’s a long record. I can understand your pride, but don’t...don’t ever give your life to the Army, to India. Please!’

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘That’s a strange thing to say, Katharine.’

  ‘Is it so strange?’ He saw she was crying now. ‘Perhaps it is...I don’t know. I’m barely able to think for this terrible cold and everlasting snow, James. But this India, this British Raj...it’s not worth it, not worth the deaths and the sacrifice and the sheer heart-break. They need us here more than they realise, of course, but they don’t want us. They hate us! Why don’t we let them see what it’s like without us? Why don’t we pull out and leave them to it, leave them to the bloodshed and the horror and the cruelty of their revolting land? Why don’t we?’

  *

  With the escort of the half-company under Secon
d-Lieutenant Renshaw, one of the Sandhurst-fresh subalterns who had joined the regiment with Taggart-Blane, the going seemed much easier. It was a friendlier feeling, to be marching — or in his case riding in a commissariat cart on Corton’s orders — with his own regiment, his own kind about him. The sick. and wounded were now in good hands, which was another comfort; and Katharine Gilmour, who had collapsed from sheer exhaustion soon after the main body of the regiment had left, was also being properly cared for.

  During a rest halt, Surgeon-Major Corton reassured Ogilvie about the girl. ‘I’m not worried, James,’ he said, puffing at a pipe. ‘She’s tough physically — she’ll be as right as rain once she’s properly fed and rested, never fear!’

  ‘Is there any fever?’

  ‘A little — just a touch. Nothing to worry about, I promise you.’ He tapped out his pipe against his boot. Soon after this the column was once again on the move. When they fell out that night to make their bivouacs, Ogilvie estimated that they had little more than twenty-four hours’ march ahead of them to Jamrud and British India, always provided there was not a further heavy fall of snow. Once again as they halted Corton came to him, this time with more gravity in his demeanour. ‘I want to talk to you about Lal Binodinand, James,’ the doctor said. ‘He’s not good. The prognosis is poor, decidedly so, unless, that is, I take certain measures. Unless I do take those measures, if I may drive the point home, James, the man’s going to die — and you’re not to tell me that would be the best thing, which I think is what you were going to say?’

  ‘Yes. Why can’t he be allowed to die in peace, Doctor?’

  ‘Because the Colonel says he cannot — and it’s not just the fact of the Colonel’s order that I have in my mind. He happens to be entirely right from all points of view — I needn’t go into them all now, I’m sure. Besides which, James, I’m a medical man. It’s my job to save life.’

  ‘For the hangman.’