The Lion's Den

by Philip McCutchan

  Ogilvie felt the blood drain away from his face, leaving him white-lipped and trembling. He said, ‘Do you mean, sir . that he should be his own executioner? Is that what you’re suggesting?’

  Wilkinson nodded. His eyes were hard now, his expression implacable. In a clipped voice he said, ‘Yes, it is. An admission of guilt so that Lal Binodinand may be released, and then a finish. After that, there will be ways of ensuring silence — you know what I mean. It’s a neat way to end it all, and very just. In my view — like the Captain who goes down with his ship — it’s the only way for an officer and a gentleman.’

  *

  The bullet through the temple, fired by the self-inflictory hand of the suicide! Yes, it was the traditional gentleman’s way out when all was lost and black. Although everybody might be well aware of the reason behind the act, it left no dishonour in its wake. The dead man was in a sense respected, for he had, after all, done the decent thing; and in so doing had redeemed himself in the eyes of his fellows, all of whom were naturally gentlemen too. And afterwards, his name would simply be no longer spoken in the Mess. It was neat.

  It was far, far better than the common hangman in the civil jail. It would not — and Wilkinson was indeed making much of this point — it would not take long for the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys to live down a suicide, especially that of a hero; in this particular case the real reason need never emerge, always provided no time was lost. There might be suspicions; but no decent man would ever voice them. Taggart-Blane’s terrible experiences in bringing through Gilmour’s despatch could be tacitly held to account for a young officer’s act of mental aberration.

  ‘You must talk to him,’ Wilkinson said. ‘He’s the only man who knows for certain whether or not he’s guilty — and if he is...’ He left the sentence unfinished.

  *

  It was an overwhelming responsibility, to talk a man into ending his own life; even to put the idea into his head was in a sense to usurp the prerogative of God. This was more a job for the padre; but, though a talk with the padre might well help him, Ogilvie felt that he could not, must not, attempt to shift the burden. Wilkinson had been right: this was better done as between two men of much the same age, two men of much the same experience in so far as both were combatant officers. Curiously perhaps in the circumstances, it did not seem the occasion for the often heavy and sanctimonious hand of the Church, the moral strictures, the sermonising and the pained looks. Better it should be down-to-earth, clean cut and objective.

  Slowly Ogilvie crossed the almost deserted parade-ground of the Royal Strathspeys. The whole area had an alien feeling, with the regiment away; it was like a school during the holidays, in the hands of the caretakers — or in this case, the base staff, the clerks and storemen and the natives who did the menial tasks around the cantonment. Here on this very parade-ground there had been a hanging, rather more than two years ago. Every detail was as clear in Ogilvie’s mind as if the terrible business were taking place at that very moment. Here, his company of the Royal Strathspeys had been fallen in; here, had been the dais upon which had stood Lord Dornoch, Fettleworth, and his own father, the latter having just taken over the command of the Northern Army; in front of the dais, between the escort under the charge of the Regimental Sergeant-Major, had stood the handcuffed figure of the guilty man — another murderer — listening to the reading of the Court Martial findings and the sentence of death; there, had stood the gallows, and beside the gallows the empty coffin, waiting for its occupant, currently alive and well. The man, a private reduced from the rank of corporal, had a little later swung from the gallows and as the corpse had swung the companies had been marched away to a lively tune, a contrast from the crepe — muffled drums and the sadly wailing pipes that had been the murderer’s accompaniment as he had been paraded before the regiment earlier.

  It had been a horrible business.

  Ogilvie moved on more quickly, with a shudder of distaste for what was past. He found Taggart-Blane in the Mess, thumbing through some old magazines from London. The subaltern had been to see him on two occasions while he had been confined to his bed; but on neither of those occasions had the murder of the sepoy, Mulata Din, been mentioned, though Ogilvie had noted the pallor of Taggart-Blane’s face and the miserable worry in his eyes, signs that gave away the turmoil of the mind. Today the pallor and the worry were there in even greater measure, Ogilvie fancied.

  He sat down beside Taggart-Blane. The subaltern asked, ‘Is there anything fresh from Kunarja, James?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I hope Fettleworth gets a move on, though.’

  ‘Yes. It was a rotten enough Christmas for us; God knows what it was like for those poor fellows in that filthy palace.’

  Ogilvie himself had been scarcely aware that Christmas Day had passed; there had been too many worries on his mind, and all he had registered had been a change in his invalid diet, and a visit from Fettleworth, and another from Taggart-Blane. Abruptly, his voice made unduly sharp by his distaste for what he had to do, he said, ‘Alan, there are things we have to talk about now. We can’t delay any longer. It would appear that Lal Binodinand is likely to live — indeed, I don’t believe there’s any doubt about that. So...’

  ‘Well? Go on.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, you know what I have to say! Can’t you try to make it easier for me?’

  Taggart-Blane shrugged and threw down the magazine. ‘Why the devil should I make it easy for you? It’s not very easy for me, you know. Or has that escaped your bloody lofty notice?’

  ‘Of course not. I know how you’re feeling. On the other hand...’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I rather wonder why it’s quite so bad for you. That is, if Lal Binodinand is guilty.’

  Taggart-Blane stared for a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, come, my dear fellow! You know very well why. If you want me to spell it out for you — because of what the man may say at his Court Martial — that’s why!’

  ‘Then you did—’

  ‘No! James, I did not! I was only doing what I could for his frost-bite. Nothing more. I’ve told you that already...oh, don’t worry, I know you’ve never believed me. You think I killed Mulata Din too, don’t you?’

  Ogilvie looked away across the anteroom. A shaft of sunlight had stolen in and had touched the comfortable worn leather of the chairs, the sketches of former Colonels, the group photographs on the walls. So many happy times had been passed in here; it was hateful even to think that this place could be touched by scandal. Bringing his attention back to Taggart-Blane he asked quietly, ‘Did you, Alan? Did you kill him?’

  ‘No, I did not. But even if I had, James, I doubt if I’d tell you! ‘

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’ Ogilvie hesitated, then decided to approach the real point more closely. ‘I don’t think I need stress the effect upon the regiment—’

  ‘If anything comes out — if any damn lies stick? No, you needn’t! Can we take the sermon as delivered, please, James?’

  Ogilvie nodded, seeing the increasing distress in Taggart-Blane’s face. ‘All right. But just for a moment, I want you to listen to a hypothetical case. Supposing an officer, any officer from any regiment or corps, was compromised in a dishonourable way—’

  ‘Just shut up and listen. Believe me, I’m sorry for the word, but we must be realistic now. Let us make that supposition; and suppose also that no charge, no real accusation in fact, has yet been made...but the officer concerned knows that he is in fact guilty. What—’

  ‘I must say this is all rather pointed. Are you asking me to condemn myself out of my own mouth — and then you rush panting to Bloody Francis Fettleworth to get his signature on my death warrant?’

  Ogilvie flushed. ‘Nothing of the kind. I asked you just now to try to make my job a little easier. Now I ask you again. Let us stick to the hypothesis. Let us go back to this officer. He knows he’s guilty. What can he do?’ He leaned forward. ‘What, in point of actual fact, has often been done in
such circumstances?’

  Taggart-Blane gave a cold, tight smile. ‘Easy! He shoots himself, doesn’t he? Makes a bloody mess, but it’s a better mess than the one he left behind. Well? Am I right? Have you come to advise me to put a bullet in my head, with my own hand? You — whose life you said I saved that night in the Khyber — you come to tell me this, James?’

  Ogilvie looked away, his face deeply troubled. He didn’t answer; but was surprised a moment later to hear Taggart-Blane’s sudden loud laugh in his ears. The subaltern said, ‘Oh, really, James, you needn’t feel quite so dreadful, for I’ve no intention in all the world of shooting myself! For one thing, it’s too damn traditional, too much expected of the wrong ‘un. I’m never much impressed by the right thing to do. And I’m damned, James, if I’m going out of this world like some rotten little regimental paymaster who’s done a bunk with the funds and can’t repay — I’m damned if I am! I’ll be honest and admit I don’t think I’d have the guts...not even, dear James,’ he added with another laugh, ‘for the sake of the bloody regiment! .Frankly, the regiment doesn’t mean all that much to me. Sacrilege, of course, but honest sacrilege.’

  ‘So you’re—’

  ‘So I’m not going to behave like a gentleman, James. I definitely am not. What’s the use of spilling all that beautiful blue blood?’ Once more, he laughed. ‘Now I’ll tell you what I am going to do: if ever I’m charged, I’ll fight And I’ll regard the choice of weapons as mine, James. They may not be very nice ones, but that’s too bad and must be accepted — for it’ll be my life I’ll be fighting for. I’m sorry, but the thought of scandalising the good name of the regiment quite fails to move me. Quite fails!’

  ‘And in the meantime, you’ll take the risk of Lal Binodinand hanging — for want of evidence against you?’

  Taggart-Blane snapped, ‘If he hangs, then at least I won’t — whatever else he cares to come out with before he dies! That, I can take — if I have to.’

  Ogilvie got to his feet. ‘You did this thing, Taggart-Blane. You and I...I think we both know that now. I assure you, the matter won’t rest here. When you’re brought to a Court Martial, you’ll not have a chance. You’ll be found guilty, and you’ll hang—’

  ‘Aren’t officers shot? Isn’t that the privilege of our rank and class, James?’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it, and if I were you I wouldn’t sound too frivolous. No, you’ll hang like a rat, for that’s what you’ll be, so long as you’re prepared to chance an innocent man facing the penalty that should be yours.’

  ‘Damn it all, James, you’re talking like a schoolboy’s essay! “Play up, play up, and play the game.” Besides, I rather think you’re acting utterly improperly by talking to me at all about what should be sub judice.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s yet reached that stage. Anyway, we’re on the North-West Frontier of India on what is considered as active service — not in the Old Bailey. There’s a pretty big difference. Think about all I’ve said — and then ask yourself whether the gentleman’s way isn’t the best way after all!’

  He turned away and left the Mess, fists clenched in impotent anger. The man was a cad. A sepoy might in some quarters — by such officers as Taggart-Blane perhaps — be regarded merely as a native, a lower order who could on occasion be a handy scapegoat for an officer’s shortcomings; but to James Ogilvie, Lal Binodinand was a human life in shame and peril and ignominy, and as such was to be protected. As against that simple fact, the regiment could no longer be allowed to count. Leaving the building, Ogilvie strode once again across the parade-ground, making for Brigade, to report to Colonel Wilkinson. On the way, however, he was met by an orderly from the General’s staff.

  ‘Captain Ogilvie, sir! The General’s compliments, and he wishes to see you immediately, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ogilvie returned the salute. ‘Any idea what it’s about?’

  ‘Not really, sir, no. But the General, ‘e seems cock-a-hoop...crowing about the Civilian gentlemen from Calcutta, ‘e was, sir, and not being complimentary at all, sir.’

  Ogilvie grinned, and went on more quickly. Shown into Fettleworth’s study, he found Bloody Francis in a most excellent humour. ‘Ah, Ogilvie, my dear fellow, I thought in the circumstances you should be among the very first to know, though of course this information is to be regarded as secret for the present: Major Gilmour’s report, and naturally my own recommendations, have had their effect and by God it’s a good one! Notwithstanding those blasted nincompoops of Government clerks, I’ve just received word by telegraph that Calcutta’s approved the terms — in full, with no cuts, no counter-proposals! Gad, for once they’ve acted quickly enough — they’ll no doubt have taken my point about the urgency in regard to Colonel Rigby-Smith’s position.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear that, sir.’

  Fettleworth nodded. ‘So you should be, my dear fellow. Now — there’s much to do. A very great deal.’ He paused, pursed his lips, and sucked in air. ‘By the way, Ogilvie, I gather you’ve already been spoken to by Colonel Wilkinson of Brigade. What’s the result?’

  Stiffly Ogilvie said, ‘None, sir.’

  ‘None? You’ve talked to Taggart-Blane, have you — hey?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘Sir, it’s as I said. No result.’

  Fettleworth looked dumbfounded. ‘You mean he won’t — won’t—’

  ‘No, sir, he won’t.’

  ‘Damn young blackguard! Why, it was virtually an order...’ The General blew out his breath, lifting the trailing ends of his yellowed moustache. ‘No, not an order of course. I withdraw that. But really! Can you imagine it — feller can’t be a gentleman, can’t possibly. Oh, confound all this!’ For a while Fettleworth huffed and puffed angrily, then said, ‘Well, we’ll have to leave Taggart-Blane for the time being, there’s more important matters to attend to, matters of action. I must send my acceptance of the terms through to Jarar Mahommed just as soon as it’s humanly possible to get them there! Forced marching — forced marching, Ogilvie! A full company, I think, with an officer to take personal charge of the documents, of course.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the photograph of his semi-visible Monarch. ‘It’ll have to be the Duke of Wellington’s — I’d hesitate to commit the 114th’s half-company again so quickly upon their recent ordeal — no, no argument on that score, my dear fellow, I’m adamant. But that brings me to you. You personally.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well now, you’ve had a most terrible time. I realise that. Really a dreadful journey. Indeed I do hesitate...but after all, you know the present situation in Kunarja better than anyone else available to me — and of course it was you whom Jarar Mahommed sent as Gilmour’s escort. You’re known to the blasted rebel! Therefore it might be prudent to — er. Well now! No, it’s asking too much altogether. I’m being unfair. But if you cared to volunteer, my dear Ogilvie...well...’

  ‘I’ll go, of course, sir,’ Ogilvie said with a sinking heart. Fettleworth was blandly disregarding the fact that he had had a longer total ordeal than his half-company. The prospect of yet another march through the Khyber appalled him, but duty was duty and it would be a foolish junior officer who failed to accede to the wishes of his Divisional Commander.

  Fettleworth looked immensely relieved. ‘Thank you, Ogilvie, thank you! You’ll find me not ungrateful, my dear fellow. Your task will be simply to carry the terms as my representative — you will be doing. Major Gilmour’s job in reverse — I shall not expect you to bear the responsibility of commanding the escorting company. That will fall upon an officer of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment.’

  ‘Yes, sir. May I make one request, sir?’

  ‘Oh, by all means, yes. What is it, Ogilvie?’

  ‘I should like to take Mr. Taggart-Blane with me, sir.’

  ‘Taggart-Blane?’ The General’s eyebrows went up in astonishment. ‘What the devil...may one ask, why ?’

  Ogilvie pau
sed, and stared straight ahead, at a point over the summit of his Divisional Commander. ‘It’s just an idea, sir. I’d like him to retrace that march...and think about what happened. This is a difficult situation, sir, not least for yourself, if I may say so. It could be that the Khyber will clarify matters.’ He hesitated. ‘Clarify them...in such a way that no formal charge will be necessary. I don’t think I can be more precise than that, sir.’

  Fettleworth stared back at him with his mouth sagging open. After a few moments he closed it with a snap. ‘I, also, cannot be too precise. I shall just say this: you have my permission to take Mr. Taggart-Blane with you, but on no account is he to be entrusted with any knowledge of the terms agreed. If he should become a casualty of the march from any cause, it is perfectly possible that the affair will end. I take it I echo, to some extent, your own thoughts, Ogilvie?’

  ‘Yes, sir, perhaps. But there would remain the question of Lal Binodinand, the accused havildar of the 99th.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. This has been much in my mind.’ Fettleworth cleared his throat rumblingly. ‘You may take it that in certain circumstances I would order an investigation to be conducted by Brigade, an investigation that would find the sepoy, what was his name—’

  ‘Mulata Din, sir.’

  ‘That the sepoy was after all shot by the enemy, in which case Lal Binodinand would be at once released from arrest and reinstated in his duties as havildar. It would, of course, follow that you yourself, as the officer who placed him in arrest, would be reprimanded for misplaced zeal and failing to conduct a proper investigation — a difficult enough task whilst marching through the Khyber, in all conscience! You would not mind this?’