A Revolution Of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The thumbnail portrait I give in this novel of Captain McKay, who made his home aboard the cargo boat The Thistle is a true picture.

  I have travelled all over the world and I find that Scots everywhere take their homeland with them in one way or another.

  The Captains of the ships like the one I have described make their cabins redolent with the land that is ingrained in their hearts and they can never forget.

  In Canada I found that almost every bridge had a plaque on it to say that it was designed and erected by a Scot.

  In India every British cemetery seemed to be full of Scottish names, who died promoting the Empire and one could say the same of almost every part of the world where the British have been.

  The Scottish Regiments were outstanding and remarkable fighters and the Scottish builders, architects and engineers were legendary in the nineteenth century.

  For me it is pathetic to see little pieces of heather between the pages of books or reports.

  Stags’ antlers and tartan flags hang in their quarters. Everywhere a Scotsman goes, however many years have elapsed since he has been home, his heart is still ‘in the Highlands chasing the deer’.

  Chapter One 1887

  Drogo Forde saw with relief that it was only a little way now to Ampula, the Capital of Kozan.

  He was exhausted and his horse had been lame for the last three miles.

  It was not surprising, considering that they had ridden a long way and almost every step of it had been dangerous.

  Never in his remarkable life of adventure had any mission been so fraught with terror as this last one.

  It was not that he had never known from day to day whether he would be alive or dead, but from hour to hour, even minute to minute.

  Yet he had been successful and he knew that the information he had concealed about his person and in his head would delight Lord Rosebery, the Secretary of State for India, when he received it in England as well as the Viceroy.

  Drogo wanted to go quickly to a British Embassy or Consulate where at least the more urgent items could be quickly transmitted in code.

  He was not certain whether he would trust the Embassy in Kozan.

  He thought that he would be wise to make a few discreet enquiries before he revealed his information, which might affect the security of India and the lives of hundreds of British soldiers.

  Because the country had a reigning King he knew that there would be a British Ambassador there.

  At the same time Kozan bordered with Russia and their spies were everywhere.

  As he thought of his destination, which he could see faintly in the distance, he remembered with pleasure that a cousin of his, whose name was also Forde, had been posted to the British Embassy at Ampula.

  He had not seen him for two years, but Gerald Forde had then said to him,

  “If your travels ever take you to Kozan, look me up and I shall be delighted if you will stay with me, unless you wish to be grand and prefer an invitation from the Ambassador!”

  “I should certainly not do that!” Drogo had replied. “And if I turn up unexpectedly, don’t be surprised.”

  “I shall not,” Gerald promised. “And take care of yourself.”

  He spoke seriously because being in the Diplomatic Service he had some idea of the missions his cousin undertook and how dangerous they were.

  But no one except those at the very top of the Diplomatic hierarchy had any precise idea of what Drogo Forde was actually doing.

  A Master of disguise, who surprisingly for an Englishman spoke a number of Oriental languages, he had, soon after he arrived in India, become deeply involved in what was known as The Great Game.

  As he was so intelligent, it was not surprising that he found ordinary Regimental life boring.

  After he had been extremely successful in two or three very unusual enterprises, the ‘Powers that be’ were only too grateful to let him do what he wished.

  They accepted his insistence that he should not be tied down to any particular posting, but should be able to move from one to another and anywhere in India that suited him.

  But never, he thought, had he been closer to death than when he had passed through Afghanistan disguised as a Russian and then through Russia disguised as an Afghan.

  Because he could speak both languages fluently, he had lived to tell the tale and that was what he intended to do now.

  Because of the secrecy of his mission, he had had to work alone.

  He only hoped that, when he reached Ampula, there would be a groom or servant in his cousin’s employ who could look after his horse.

  What he badly needed was food and sleep for himself, both having been in very short supply for the last month.

  In fact where sleep was concerned, he had been fortunate if he could snatch an hour under a tree or in a ditch.

  He knew that he often fell asleep when he was riding.

  ‘Only another hour,’ he told himself as his horse limped on.

  He was very thirsty and he found himself thinking of a stream that ran through the garden of his home in England.

  When he was a schoolboy, he had swum in it when it was hot and fished in it for the small trout, which he could carry home in triumph to his mother.

  It still hurt him to think of how much in pain she had suffered before she died.

  He remembered a little wryly that when he returned to England he would have to face up to the debts that he had incurred before he had left.

  He had borrowed everything he could from the bank and his friends to ensure that the last months of his mother’s illness were made as comfortable as possible.

  But eventually the doctors could do nothing to save her life.

  When he thought of his mother, his thoughts inevitably turned to his hatred for his uncle.

  Drogo’s father, who had been the younger son of the Marquis of Baronforde, had been, as was customary in England, pushed off with just a pittance.

  His father’s elder brother, Lionel, who, being the heir, had the courtesy title of an Earl, had been given all the money that was available.

  Drogo was well aware of how his father and mother had had to forgo every luxury in order to give him the best education possible.

  When he was old enough, he entered the Regiment that his father had served in with distinction.

  “I am afraid that the allowance I can give you will not equal that of most of the Subalterns,” his father had said, “but, as you are so intelligent, perhaps you can find ways of augmenting your income.”

  “I shall certainly try,” Drogo had smiled.

  Money had not concerned him very much.

  But, when the Regiment was sent to India, he found it frustrating not to be able to keep Polo ponies, as all the other Officers did.

  Nor could he afford the small comforts that were considered as essential in a hot country.

  It was not long, however, before he found himself intrigued and excited not by ways of making money, which to him was immaterial, but of serving his country.

  The Russians were infiltrating India, stirring up the tribesmen on the North-West Frontier and other borders in the North.

  Their objective, the Viceroy and those commanding our armed forces suspected, was to drive the British out of India and acquire it for themselves.

  Drogo was only one of many men who became involved in what was the finest and at the same time the most secret of all the Secret Services in the world.

  Because he was so intent on what he was doing, he had no idea that his name was spoken of with reverence in high places.

  What he could never forget, he told himself when he thought of home, was his uncle’s attitude when he had approach
ed him during the last months of his mother’s illness.

  He had gone to Baron Park, which was the huge mansion in which his uncle, who had now succeeded to the Marquisate, lived.

  He thought as he drove up the drive that it was the first time that he had ever asked his uncle for assistance and felt sure that he would not refuse him.

  He found the Marquis sitting in the magnificent library, which contained, Drogo knew, folios and first editions that were the envy of every museum in the country.

  He also appreciated the fine paintings he passed hanging on the walls, and the furniture that had been collected by the Forde family since their emergence into power in Tudor times.

  Everything, he knew, was entailed onto the eldest son and, just as his father had had to pinch and save, so he was expected to do the same.

  As far as he was concerned, nothing was more important than that his mother should have the very best medical attention and the few luxuries that for an invalid were essential.

  Nurses were rare and expensive and only by paying what seemed to him an astronomical amount had he managed to procure the services of two well-trained women from London.

  He knew that by their attentions they had already made his mother happier and more comfortable than she had been previously.

  As the butler announced him, his uncle came towards him holding out his hand.

  “How are you, Drogo?” he said. “I thought you were in India!”

  “I have come home on compassionate leave, Uncle Lionel. As I think you are aware, my mother is desperately ill.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” the Marquis said. “Please give her my kindest regards and good wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  They sat down in two comfortable armchairs in front of a large marble fireplace.

  “I have come to ask you,” Drogo began as he realised that his uncle was looking at him curiously, “if you would help me with the very large expenses that I have incurred in the last four months since my mother became so ill.”

  He thought that his uncle stiffened and went on quickly,

  “As you will understand, she has been examined by London surgeons on three separate occasions”.

  He hesitated for a moment before he continued,

  “The nurses who have come to look after her are the very best obtainable in their profession.”

  The Marquis shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his chair, but he did not speak and Drogo carried on,

  “The surgeons and the doctors have ordered her the most expensive medicines and food and, while I have borrowed everything I can from the bank and a great deal from my friends, it’s difficult to obtain any more.”

  Because he hated begging, he looked away from his uncle at a valuable painting by Reynolds hanging over the mantelpiece and said pleadingly,

  “I can only beg you, Uncle Lionel, to help me. I promise that, if and when it is in my power, I will pay you back every penny!”

  Even as he spoke, he knew with an instinct that had never foiled to advise him correctly that his uncle was going to refuse.

  The Marquis said as pleasantly as possible that he must be aware that, if he helped one member of the family, he would have to help the others.

  Keeping up the family house and estate was very expensive and William his son had an extravagant wife. In fact there was no surplus for anything else.

  Because it mattered so tremendously and Drogo was begging not for himself but for his mother, he pleaded with his uncle in a manner that he felt was humiliating.

  Yet nothing he could say was of any use.

  “Only a little, please, Uncle Lionel,” he said. “Even a few hundred pounds would be better than nothing. I cannot allow my mother to die for lack of food and proper medical attention, all of which has to be paid for.”

  The Marquis had risen to his feet.

  “I am sorry, my boy,” he said. “While I assure you that I am not unsympathetic, as Head of the Family, but like everybody else, I have rules that I must keep.”

  He paused before continuing,

  “One rule that I shall never break is not to lend money that has no chance of being paid back.”

  “But I promise you – ” Drogo began.

  The Marquis held up his hand.

  “There is no point in discussing it any further,” he said sternly.

  For one moment Drogo felt the blood rush to his head and he felt like striking his uncle.

  Then he knew that it would be undignified and at the same time would achieve nothing.

  “If that is your last word, Uncle Lionel,” he said at last, “there is nothing more I can say.”

  “Nothing, I am afraid,” the Marquis agreed, “but I hope you will stay for luncheon?”

  Drogo had thought that to eat his uncle’s food would, in the circumstances, choke him.

  Instead he said goodbye quietly and with a politeness that could not be faulted.

  Only as he drove away down the drive in a carriage he had hired to take him to Baron Park, did he find himself cursing his uncle.

  He did so with a fervour and a fluency that he had learnt during one of his expeditions when he had been disguised as a mad Fakir.

  *

  Drogo Forde’s mother had died a month later.

  Only by humiliating himself by borrowing money from friends of his father, whom he hardly knew personally, did he keep her comfortable to the end.

  When she was dead, he sold everything that was saleable in the house, which paid back a little of the monies he owed.

  He also put the house up for sale with only a small chance of finding a buyer.

  Then it was a relief that he could escape from his unhappiness by returning to India.

  During these last months the pain of losing his mother, whom he had adored, had not been as intense as it might have been.

  This was for the simple reason that he had been too concerned with keeping himself alive to think of anything else.

  Now his mission was over.

  He had achieved what those with whom he had discussed it had thought impossible and, although it seemed incredible, he was still alive!

  At last ahead of him he saw the gateway into Ampula and realised that he had been in Kozan for the last mile or so and therefore out of danger.

  He had been certain for the past few days that the Russian agents who he thought had penetrated his disguise were only just behind him.

  But for the moment, at any rate, he was safe and he thought now that there was no place in the world that looked as attractive as Kozan.

  It was a small independent country on the Eastern border of Romania.

  To the North Kozan was bordered by Bessarabia, and Drogo knew that its people were a mixture of Russian and Romanian with some Turkish elements from the South.

  Ampula was situated on the coast of the Black Sea.

  He tried to remember what else he knew about it, but for the moment he was so tired that it was difficult to think of anything but an aching desire to sleep.

  As he entered the City, it was just as he expected, streets filled with a motley collection of men of diverse origins.

  They were colourful in their variety of clothes and many of them were strikingly handsome.

  Some were small and grotesque, as if crushed by overwork and perhaps starvation.

  There were children and dogs, cows and horses and, as he expected, silhouetted against the sky minarets of the Muslim mosques.

  There were also the conventional domes of the Greek Orthodox Churches.

  He rode through the narrow streets, which in the fading light looked extremely attractive with their strangely-built houses, each one different from the other.

  Then, as he rode into the more impressive and obviously richer part of the City, he asked his way to the British Embassy.

  Having found the Embassy, he knew that where his cousin lived would not be far away.

  He found himself in a quiet street where the people in their carriages movin
g through it obviously belonged to the wealthy class.

  His cousin’s house was towards the far end.

  It had only a narrow frontage, but had a quite impressive-looking front door.

  Drogo dismounted and, in the rough clothes in which he was disguised, he thought that it would be hard for Gerald to recognise him.

  He raised the polished doorknocker and because he was so tired it was an effort to knock two or three times.

  The rat-tat sounded so loud that almost instinctively Drogo looked over his shoulder in case he had aroused the curiosity of anyone in the street.

  There was no answer to his knock and he thought apprehensively that perhaps the house was empty.

  If that was so, he would have to go back to the British Embassy for he was at the moment almost penniless.

  For the moment, however, he had no wish to be questioned by the Ambassador and he was not certain how much he should tell him.

  He had spent all the money he had last night in bribing a Russian to fetch him some food from the market, as he did not dare to leave his horse in case it was stolen.

  Just as he was raising his hand to the knocker once again, the door was opened.

  An elderly man with white hair and a moustache asked,

  “What you want?”

  He spoke unexpectedly in English and Drogo thought that this must be Gerald’s manservant.

  “Is your Master at home?” he enquired. “I am his cousin, Drogo Forde.”

  The man looked at him.

  Then he said,

  “I, Maniu – Master away. He say you come long time ago.”

  “I am sorry I am late,” Drogo said with a smile, “but now I am here, and perhaps you could tell me where I can put my horse.”

  The man opened the door wider.

  “You come in please. I take horse.”

  Drogo needed no further invitation.

  He took what possessions he had off the saddle and, as the elderly manservant took hold of the horse’s bridle, he said,

  “He is thirsty, hungry and very lame. Please make him as comfortable as you can.”

  “I do,” Maniu said. “You go in. Please shut door.”

  Drogo did as he was told.

  He found, as he had seen from the outside, that the house was small and squeezed for no apparent reason between two larger ones.