The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  But — first, the cash. And that, of course, meant the Civilians.

  ‘Who,’ Fettleworth said some minutes later to his Chief of Staff, ‘are fortunately here in Peshawar — or enough of them are! Enough, that is, to make an appreciation of the urgency, and inform Calcutta by telegraph accordingly. What?’

  ‘You forget the question of time, sir—’

  ‘Oh, no I don’t I’

  ‘Calcutta, sir, is not noted for its speed of decision. I—’

  ‘I know that, Lakenham, my dear fellow. But you forget that Calcutta is not noted for its desire to do battle with the tribes when such can be avoided!’

  ‘True.’ Brigadier-General Lakenham nodded, frowning, hunching his shoulders in an easy-chair. ‘True — oh, certainly. Yet they risked that very thing, sir, when they cut the subsidy in the first place. We mustn’t forget that.’

  ‘But they didn’t appreciate the risk then, Lakenham!’ Fettleworth leaned across his desk with bulging stomach. ‘They took no notice of me at that time, blast ‘em — but now it’s different! There’s a regiment held prisoner in Kunarja if young whatsisname’s to be believed — and that’s borne out by Gilmour’s despatch. An entire regiment of the Indian Army! They’re not going to find that so easy to sneeze at. Calcutta won’t want a full scale frontier war to break out just on the brink of Christmas — and that, damn it, is precisely what I intend to threaten those blasted Civilians with! It’ll be common knowledge that I’ve already marched the 114th Highlanders through the Khyber — and if Calcutta doesn’t meet Jarar Mahommed’s terms half way at least, then we’ll undoubtedly have a war on our hands!’ He sat back, puffing a little, his face a deep and dangerous red. ‘Don’t you see, Lakenham?’

  Lakenham said cautiously, ‘Yes, of course I see. But I presume you’ll be consulting first with Sir Iain Ogilvie in Murree?’

  ‘Then you presume wrong, Lakenham, for I intend doing no such thing. You yourself spoke of speed — and speed’s to be the keynote. Think of poor Benson-Pope in Kunarja—’

  ‘Benson-Pope? He’s here in Peshawar. It’s Rigby-Smith in Kunarja.’

  ‘What? Oh, confound you, Lakenham, I knew it was some double-barrelled name! Think of Rigby-Smith, then. We must hurry, Lakenham, we must hurry, and we must brook no delay. I shall handle this personally and at once!’

  ‘I think, sir, you forget one important thing. Whatever the speed, Lord Dornoch must by now be well on his way to Kunarja with the 114th. Even assuming Calcutta’s agreement by this very noon, sir — how does a despatch to Kunarja reach Jarar Mahommed before Lord Dornoch does?’

  Fettleworth nodded: ‘I’d already thought of that! It’s true enough, of course — but the point is, there’s nothing we can do about it! It has to be accepted, has it not? We haven’t wings to fly with. Lord Dornoch is a man of experience and discretion, and I trust him to act both promptly and properly to relieve Rigby-Smith if he finds it necessary. If he does find it necessary...well, then, that’s that, is it not?’

  ‘In other words, sir, you’re pinning your hopes on Jarar Mahommed not yet having taken any revenge on Rigby-Smith and his regiment?’

  Fettleworth nodded again, vigorously. ‘That’s it in a nutshell, my dear fellow. I’ve no doubt Jarar Mahommed has his Calcuttas just as I have though for my part I would dearly love to have his way with them — cut off their blasted heads!’ His face went an even deeper red. ‘My compliments to Mr. Peabody,’ he said, naming the most senior of the visiting Civilians. Not now, but immediately he has breakfasted. I shall wish to speak to him privately.’

  *

  By Christmas Eve the word, as ever on the sub-continent of India, had by some mysterious means spread throughout the cantonments at Peshawar, the word that a detachment of sepoys escorted by highlanders was marching in from the Khyber Pass after a gruelling experience, and was expected hourly. The result was that James Ogilvie and his half-company of the Royal Strathspeys, and all that were left of his suffering sepoys, were met by a wild acclaim from the whole garrison. Those of the column who were still marching immediately smartened the step when they heard the cheering. Colour-Sergeant MacTrease worked a miracle of recovery on the Scots, who were in any case nothing like so wearied as the sepoys. The sepoys were mostly being borne along in the commissariat carts; so, still, was Ogilvie himself. Drawn almost unseeingly between the ranks of excited, cheering men and women, he felt only sadness; there was no elation. Too soon now, the other story must spread, the story of beastliness and murder, and there must be a Court Martial and then, perhaps, a hanging, for Lal Binodinand lived yet, miraculously.

  The Divisional Commander was there himself, in very person, to meet his returned warriors, his face gravely concerned. ‘No ceremonial, Captain Ogilvie,’ he said, as Ogilvie tried to get out of the commissariat cart’s indignity. ‘Fall out the men immediately — immediately! Poor fellows. They’re heroes to a man! They shall have a good Christmas dinner, and the sick and wounded will have the best attention from my Medical Staff. How are you yourself, Ogilvie, my dear fellow?’

  ‘Not so bad as some, sir.’

  ‘Bravely said, bravely said! But you shall not stir until you are better, Ogilvie, to be sure you shall not! I shall come to you for your full report as soon as the doctors say I may do so, but otherwise than that, you shall rest. You have done splendidly — splendidly! I have had news of you, you see, my dear fellow.’ Fettleworth beamed. ‘You will be glad to hear that young Taggart-Blane got through safely, and already I have acted to implement Major Gilmour’s despatch!’ He paused, looking closely at Ogilvie’s face. ‘Why, what’s the matter, my dear fellow?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. I’m sorry, sir — just a twinge of pain, nothing more.’ Ogilvie’s face was ashen. ‘I think I should give you my report at once, sir. I’m quite fit enough for that.’

  ‘Where’s your Medical Officer?’ Fettleworth asked abruptly. ‘Here, sir.’ Surgeon-Major Corton had come up behind, and Fettleworth swung round.

  ‘Is Captain Ogilvie fit to make me a full verbal report now, Doctor?’

  Corton nodded. ‘Yes, sir, he is.’

  ‘Then, if you please, Doctor, see that he is taken to his room and made comfortable, and I shall receive his report there. And quickly, man, quickly, or we shall all catch our death of cold!’ Fettleworth’s eye lit upon another of the commissariat carts. ‘God bless my soul, who’s the woman?’

  ‘Major Gilmour’s daughter, sir—’

  ‘The devil she is! Poor girl, poor girl. Is she sick?’

  Corton said, ‘She has been, but all’s well now. A good night’s sleep in a decent bed, and some brandy first, and she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Then I shall speak to her when she is fit. Ladies do not appreciate being fussed with ceremony when they are not feeling at their best. Clear your sick away now, Doctor.’

  Darkness was already approaching as the men cleared the parade-ground, the sick and wounded being taken over by the medical orderlies. Lieutenant-General Fettleworth remained until they had all gone, with his Chief of Staff and his aide-de-camp beside him. As the last of the returned soldiers moved out of sight, the garrison bugles sounded out for sunset. The notes rang loud and clear and melancholy across the parade now deserted but for Fettleworth’s group and the colour-guard at the flagstaff. Fettleworth stayed motionless, as though cocooned in glory. The Queen’s Colour came down, slowly, reverently, and as it began its gentle descent one bugle after another sounded out, lifting brassy voices from the various regimental flagstaffs in honour of the old lady in Windsor Castle. It was the end of one more day in India, one more chapter of Frontier service about to close if Fettleworth had his way...his mind rioted, filled itself with extraordinary and conflicting thoughts and nightmares in which Her Imperial Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, was circumscribed and imprisoned by a handful of blasted Civilians in morning coats, hateful little men who were always doing their best to over-rule the military power — but who didn’t always succeed, rot ‘em!
As the bugles were stilled, Lieutenant-General Fettleworth gave a triumphant if inapposite snort. He had done king’s work that day, damn it! Kings of old, who had really ruled in fact as well as in theory, could have done no better. He had virtually kicked the backsides of the Civilians from Calcutta, imposing his iron will and his splendour as Commander of Her Majesty’s First Division in Nowshera and Peshawar, four grades removed from God, and he believed he had won the day. There would be much honour, and he would have struck that extra blow for Empire! Fettleworth, giving his nose a vigorous blowing, turned away and bounced into the building behind him, to receive Captain Ogilvie’s report of the situation inside Kunarja.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘I doubt if in fact, Ogilvie, you can add anything to Taggart-Blane’s report, considering you both left Kunarja together,’ Fettleworth began, as he sat in a creaky wicker-work chair by Ogilvie’s bed.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not in terms of hard fact. But you are a more mature and experienced soldier, Ogilvie, and may have formed some impressions. Taking into account that you must have some acquaintance with the native mind, that is.’

  ‘Yes, sir. At least, I can report the opinion of a much more experienced officer than I — Major Gilmour.’

  ‘Quite. Now, how did he see the situation? Did the feel that the hostages were likely to be ill-treated — or should I say, massacred if the terms were not met?’

  ‘He did, sir.’

  Fettleworth nodded. ‘As I thought — just as I thought! I’d like you to repeat that to the Civilians if necessary, and also tell ‘em all about your experiences in Kunarja.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now, did Gilmour feel action was urgent — really urgent — action, that is, on Jarar Mahommed’s proposals — in order to prevent any such massacre? What I’m anxious to determine, you’ll understand, is how much time we have. Can you make an appreciation, Ogilvie?’

  ‘Sir, Major Gilmour was, I think, of the opinion that Jarar Mahommed would probably not be precipitate...that he would realise that more time would be needed, in view of conditions in the Khyber Pass.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fettleworth glanced up at the Chief of Staff, visible in the shadows behind the paraffin lamp on a table. ‘No need for the Civilians to be told about that, Lakenham.’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  ‘I have to be in a position to force their hands. But in addition, Ogilvie, I must know if it is necessary to send yet more troops through to Kunarja, to back up your own regiment. What’s your view? Come now — don’t be afraid to express an opinion to your General, my dear fellow! No general can act without intelligence.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Ogilvie gave his opinion without further hesitation, for this was something he had thought about a good deal whilst being carried towards Peshawar. ‘I believe Lord Dornoch will have adequate strength to contain the situation, sir. Personally I believe Jarar Mahommed will allow more time for an answer to his terms...and I also believe, and believe strongly, sir, that to send another regiment through now would act only to persuade him that we were about to reject his terms out-of-hand, and that we mean to try to subdue him by force.’

  ‘That sounds logical enough, indeed it does.’ Fettleworth paused. ‘Lakenham, what do you say to that?’

  ‘I agree it’s logical, sir. Whether or not we send more troops must, in my view, depend entirely upon how far you wish to extend this situation—’

  ‘Damn it, you know very well I don’t wish to extend it at all! I wish to preserve the peace! That’s my one aim!’

  Lakenham said, ‘Then I suggest we hold our hands—’

  ‘Yes, and put some more blasted dynamite under the bums of the Civilians while we’re holding ‘em! It’s time that’s important now. Vital. Time, time, time! A quick reply from Calcutta on the telegraph — and then another expedition, with the confirmation of the agreement. And a hope in the meantime that Dornoch will be able to hold the balance between Jarar Mahommed and Rigby-Smith! Would you agree with that, Ogilvie, as the man who has so recently been on the spot as it were?’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I would. To be honest, I see no other course.’

  ‘Very well, then that is how the situation will be handled. Have you anything further to report, Ogilvie? Any recommendations for acts of courage, for instance, individual acts?’

  ‘There will be some, sir, yes—’

  ‘But all in good time, perhaps, all in good time.’ Fettle-worth rose to his feet. ‘I should not overtire you now—’

  ‘Sir, you already know of the deaths of Major and Mrs. Gilmour—’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed. A sad loss. They’ll be buried with full military honours, here in Peshawar.’

  ‘There is also another death to report, sir.’

  ‘Obviously, there were many—’

  ‘No, sir! There was...there was a murder. A murder on the march.’

  *

  ‘I could scarcely believe my ears, Lakenham! Murder’s murder, and of course it’s terrible — I’m not denying that. But this other thing, this damned buggery. Good God! A British officer, Lakenham, a British officer, getting himself involved in such a disgraceful affair. Lowering himself in the eyes of the damn sepoys — behaving like that with a bloody native! In my command. Just wait till those blasted Civilians get to hear about this!’

  ‘I would hope they—’

  ‘The whole bloody Division will become known as the Oscar Wildes!’

  ‘We must not—’

  ‘Frankly, I blame Dornoch — allowing such a cad to join his regiment! Bah!’

  ‘Sir!’ Lakenham, in the privacy of the General’s study, almost shouted. ‘Sir, we must not lose our sense of proportion. The fact of the murder is, I agree, most serious. I don’t condone the other thing, far from it, but I think we must both admit it’s happened before—’

  ‘When?’

  Lakenham made a gesture of irritation. ‘I can’t be precise, sir. What I’m saying is, buggery’s never been unknown in the army. It may be distasteful—’

  ‘Distasteful! ‘ Fettleworth raised his arms in the air.

  ‘But it happens, and we’re not a bunch of old women, sir. We must not allow ourselves to react like a — a meeting of vicars’ wives. Let us deal with facts and not concern ourselves with hysterical moralising. To this end I suggest we should not prejudge Taggart-Blane. I see no conclusive proof, legal proof—’

  ‘But young Ogilvie said—’

  ‘Young Ogilvie said too much in my opinion, sir. There’s been too much hearsay and no—’

  ‘On the contrary, Ogilvie acted perfectly properly, Lakenham. Perfectly properly. In the absence of his Colonel, it was his duty to acquaint me with every possible relevant detail. That happened to include the whole character of Taggart-Blane and the way in which he struck his equals. In—’

  ‘I would not have considered it entirely proper, sir, to place a man in arrest whilst marching through the Khyber under war conditions. I consider that a somewhat over-rigid act, a case of going too much by the book.’

  Fettleworth shrugged. ‘Possibly, but it’s hard to fault an officer for sticking to regulations in a case of murder. Remember Ogilvie was under considerable strain, both mentally and physically.’

  ‘True, but—’

  ‘No, no, I’ll hear of no blame attaching to him, Lakenham, none at all. Besides, no-one’s suggested...’ His voice tailed away, and he looked suddenly up at the Chief of Staff, his face, usually so red, almost green-looking now. ‘By God, Lakenham, it’s just come back to me God bless my soul! Give me strength!’

  ‘I don’t believe I understand, sir?’

  Fettleworth thumped his desk. ‘That Taggart-Blanc God, and I treated him as a confounded hero!’

  ‘He’s still that, sir. He still came through the Khyber—’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. But listen. Taggart-Blane said to me, when I interviewed him that night, that he’d killed a man. ‘I killed a man.’ His very words! Naturally, I took
them to mean he’d shot a man in action and was being somewhat pansy about it — but I see those words in a very different context now Why, the whole way it came out...it was a kind of confession, Lakenham, don’t you see? Ogilvie did admit the evidence against that havildar was pretty thin in basis purely circumstantial. Good God, what a scandal!’

  Lakenham stared back at the General, his own face deeply troubled now. ‘By God, sir! A scandal indeed — if true! But is there not a degree of — of pure circumstance in this also?’

  ‘No! “I killed a man.” Circumstantial my backside, Lakenham! I was there — you were not. I heard the man! I agree the hindsight, but repeat what is now my conviction. Listen, Lakenham: a British officer, in a good regiment, straight from Sandhurst, with his whole career before him, monkeys about with a damn sepoy, a damn black native — and then murders him before he can talk about it! Assuming the first crime, I can well imagine the second, damned if I can’t! Now — does that hang together, Lakenham, or does it not?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir. This has taken me somewhat by surprise. Er...do you know whether the same sepoy was referred to on both occasions — that is, by Taggart-Blane and by Ogilvie?’

  ‘No, Taggart-Blane simply said “a man”. There was no explicit reference to a sepoy as such — but damn it all, Lakenham, it would be too much of a coincidence for me to stomach, if it were not the same man, in the circumstances! Gad! the man’s a rotter — a bloody cad! D’you know something else?’ Fettleworth thumped the desk again. ‘He allowed another man to be put in arrest in his place — and is continuing so to do! I’ve heard nothing of another and more positive confession, at all events!’

  ‘That is, if your suspicions arc right, sir.’

  ‘Oh, of course—’

  ‘And if I may remind you, I did make the point—’

  ‘That Ogilvie acted wrongly in placing the havildar in arrest — yes, yes. Well, perhaps you were right, Lakenham, perhaps you were. Certainly that arrest complicates the whole issue — now this has cropped up! Dear oh dear oh dear. This is a scandal that’ll rock the whole British Army to its foundations!’ Fettleworth got to his feet and stumped up and down his study waving his arms, his face back now to its customary dangerous red. ‘Buggery!’ he said suddenly.