CHAPTER TWO
The events of that day had not quite ended with the pathetic remains that dangled from the gallows. Later, James Ogilvie was marched into the Colonel’s office by the adjutant. Black stood hard-faced and sardonic between him and the door as he stood at attention, carrying his helmet, before Major-General Francis Fettleworth who was sitting behind the Colonel’s desk reading, or appearing to read, a batch of papers. The Colonel stood by his side, his face expressionless. Minutes passed before the General looked up and said, ‘now, Mr. Ogilvie, you know, I think, why you’re here?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Hrrmph.’ Fettleworth blew through a yellowed moustache, then bared his teeth like a horse; this was a habit of his, a nervous tic. It revealed bad teeth, blackened and stumpy. He said, ‘if I’d not been going straight to Calcutta from here, young man, you’d have been ordered to Division, naturally. Because you haven’t been, you’re not to take what I have to say less weightily. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good.’ Fettleworth leaned forward, an action which caused his stomach to bulge across the edge of the desk. ‘Now. I don’t believe I need go into much detail. You’ve already heard your Colonel’s remarks on the subject of that wretched patrol—what?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You’d have heard mine before now, if it hadn’t been considered the official reprimand would sink in more effectively after what you’ve just witnessed.’ Fettleworth stared at Ogilvie from blue pop eyes the protuberance of which seemed to accentuate the stupidity of his face. ‘What did you think of the parade, young man?’
‘I think it was abominable, Sir.’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Black snapped from behind.
‘All right, Captain Black,’ Fettleworth said irritably. ‘Mr. Ogilvie, you show a certain courage in saying that to me, though I’m not sure it doesn’t verge on impertinence. However. So you think it was abominable, do you? Why?’
Ogilvie said, ‘The man deserved his punishment, Sir, of course. But to do it ceremonially...was sadism.’
‘Sadism? Rubbish!’ Fettleworth’s face grew scarlet. ‘Sadism my backside. It seems you need to toughen up, Mr. Ogilvie. Damn little wart. The army, the Queen’s service—it isn’t a damn bunfight for old ladies! Sooner you realize that, the better it’ll be for you.’ Fettleworth leaned farther forward and his paunch rose like a flood tide over the Colonel’s blotting pad. ‘Murder’s murder. The men have to be made to realize that, or we’re all liable to be shot in our beds. D’you imagine the lesson would sink home if a murderer was quietly hanged in some civil jail? Hey? What have you to say to that?’
‘Nothing, Sir.’
‘So I should damn well think! Captain Black.’
‘Sir?’
‘Open a window. Place stinks. If Lord Dornoch doesn’t like fresh air, I do.’
‘Sir.’ Black moved obsequiously and did as he had been told. Dornoch was looking furiously angry at the General’s lack of manners. ‘Is that wide enough, Sir?’
‘Yes. Now, Ogilvie. I have a point or two to make.’ Fettleworth sucked in air. ‘The men are uneducated beasts and must be treated as such! Points must be rigorously and ruthlessly impressed upon them. That is the whole point of ceremonial, the whole vital point of today’s parade and of the way that blackguard was executed. The men are not as you and I, young man—they are not gentlemen. Dammit, there’s a world of difference—you know that as well as I do. They don’t think like us, they don’t react like us, I’d go so far as to say they don’t even damn well feel like us! They’re a separate breed, damn ‘em! They’re here to do what they’re told—by me and ultimately by you, in the name of Her Majesty. It’s the only way to run an Empire. Discipline must be maintained by every means available, including hanging when necessary—public hanging. Do you understand me, Mr. Ogilvie?’
Ogilvie understood one thing, and that was, why Fettleworth was known to his rank-and-file as Bloody Francis. He found a red mist before his eyes, a mist in the centre of which Fettleworth’s face bobbed and gyrated like a blue veined scarlet balloon; but he managed to say, ‘yes, Sir.’
‘Good! Then we shall make some progress—make a soldier of you! Now, I have this to say and I don’t want to be interrupted while I’m saying it. That man’s death today, also the unfortunate end of Mr. Adams, is largely attributable to yourself...shut your confounded mouth, Sir! Did I, or did I not, order you to remain silent?’
Ogilvie, who had started to speak, said once again, ‘yes, Sir.’
‘Then do as you’re told, boy. I repeat, those deaths are largely attributable to you, which leads me to the reason why you’re here before me, Mr. Ogilvie. You were responsible for that patrol, were you not? You were supposed to be in charge of the patrol? The patrol was not supposed to be in charge of you! Looting, rape and murder took place—and why?’ A hefty fist crashed down on the desk. ‘Dammit, I’ll tell you why! Because you had lost control and couldn’t put a stop to trouble even before it had started—which it was your duty to do! In effect, Mr. Ogilvie, you abrogated that duty and let the men have their will—with the result we all know too well. The Court Martial transcript shows clearly that you believed Nichol to have been aiming for your Colour-Sergeant rather than for Mr. Adams. You were, as I recall myself, insistent upon that point—as though it could make any material difference! But I read into this, that you are not happy with your Colour-Sergeant. You do not, I think, like his methods with the men. Allow me to impress upon you that it is the officers’ methods and not an N.C.O.’s that should be reflected in the conduct of the private soldiers in a company. I suggest—I hasten to add this—I suggest no slur upon your company commander—this patrol was in your charge directly, not, Captain MacKinlay’s, and you are his senior subaltern. If you don’t like the way your Colour-Sergeant behaves, it is open to you to correct him and lay down the lines within the broader area as set by your adjutant. However, you must not misunderstand me, Mr. Ogilvie. I have not said, and will not say, that I disapprove in any detail of the conduct of Colour-Sergeant Barr. He perhaps realizes, as you so far do not, what material the men are made of. In a word—trash, mostly. He realizes that they must on all occasions be pushed to the limit—and frequently beyond. Nichol behaved as he did because he hadn’t the makings of a good soldier in him—and because his officer had failed to exercise full control. For that omission you must be punished, Mr. Ogilvie.’
Fettleworth paused expectantly, but Ogilvie was becoming used to the ways of generals so made no response and thus gave no openings. Sharply Fettleworth went on, ‘you will not, however, be punished in any ordinary sense. I am told you behaved well in the action against the rebel in Jalalabad a year ago—this has counted in your favour. So your punishment is to be unconventional.’ He smiled, coldly. ‘You and Colour-Sergeant Barr will continue, contrary to what you may well have expected following upon your remarks to the Court, to serve together in the same company. I have agreed this with your Colonel. It may well be that you have much to learn from Barr. You will learn it well, Mr. Ogilvie. If there should be any further trouble, you will answer for it to me and I shall not be lenient again. That is all. You may go.’
Ogilvie saluted and turned about. As he marched from the room he caught the gleam of satisfaction in Black’s cold dark eyes. He had expected that; Black always seemed pleased to see a subaltern in trouble. Ogilvie thrust the adjutant from his mind and later that same day attended an event that had been laid on especially to obliterate from the officers’ minds the spectacle they had been forced to witness in the morning: a game of polo, played against the Connaught Rangers. Ogilvie was not one of the regimental team; but he was an enforced spectator—it was expected that all officers not otherwise employed should support such functions. Ogilvie was not especially interested; and found himself a silent member of a group of his fellow subalterns who were giving the 114th’s team a vociferous backing.
One of them thumped him violentl
y between the shoulder-blades. ‘Give your own side a cheer, can’t you?’
Ogilvie snapped, ‘leave me alone!’
‘Oh, so you want to be left to cry in the corner, do you, till nanny comes along to dry your tears? My dear chap! One would have thought the memory of past successes would have been enough to see you through a botched patrol—what?’ This had been said in a loud voice, and there was a shout of laughter from the others. Ogilvie felt his face flaming; the rest of that game was misery. He hadn’t minded the dig about the patrol as much as the sardonic reference to his actions at Jalalabad the year before—the hero’s welcome he’d been given after that, when the regiments marched back to Peshawar, had aroused mixed emotions in his contemporaries and one of those emotions had been a degree of jealousy. He had been made to suffer in all kinds of small ways for the enormity of a newly joined subaltern having the effrontery to distinguish himself before his fellows. Things had been made no easier by his own introverted nature; he knew he was in danger of becoming unpopular with the other subalterns but found himself quite unable to do anything about it. He couldn’t break through the reserve implanted by his tutorial upbringing, through an inability to mix on equal terms with other men of his own age. He could get on well enough with older men, and this in itself was another cause of resentment from the younger ones : Ogilvie, if he was not careful, would become looked upon as a currier of favour which, in truth, was very far from being the case. He ached with relief when the polo was finished, his own regiment being the losers. When he got back to his room a messenger came from the Colonel. Mr. Ogilvie’s presence was requested as soon as convenient. Fettleworth having by this time departed with much fuss for Calcutta, Ogilvie’s interview, he found, was a private one with his Colonel alone.
***
Dornoch told him to sit down and then asked, ‘how’s the wound, James?’
‘The wound?’ Ogilvie was surprised. He had suffered a flesh wound during the fighting in the village, but hadn’t thought anything more about it after the doctor had dressed it on his return. ‘It’s healed, Colonel. It was nothing.’
Dornoch grunted. ‘Possibly, possibly. It can flare up again, though. Nasty things sometimes—flesh wounds! It’ll do very nicely as an excuse. Major Corton’s willing to back that.’
Ogilvie looked even more surprised. ‘I don’t understand, Colonel. I’m perfectly fit.’
‘That may be—in body, James. Oh, it’s nothing at all to worry about—it’s simply that in my opinion you’ve been through a pretty nasty experience. The patrol alone...and I’m not taking back what I said earlier, nor undermining the General either. You’ve got to live it down—and I know you will. But today’s business, too—and the point the General made about your own indirect responsibility. I don’t want you to take that too much to heart, though you can always learn from the moral. I’ve no doubt you’ve been blaming yourself in any case. Am I right, James?’
Stiff-faced, Ogilvie nodded.
‘I thought as much.’ Dornoch drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Don’t, for God’s sake, dwell on it. The same sort of thing has happened in the past to more experienced officers than yourself. Ultimately, it hasn’t done them any harm. However, to get to the point: I’m sending you up to Simla for a while—and I want a fair excuse, or there’ll be talk of medicals. You know what I mean—the army’s getting keener and keener on the medicos and their wizardry. We don’t want that. The bullet that nicked you is going to be the given reason.’ He smiled. ‘Any questions?’
‘I don’t know, Colonel. I...didn’t expect this. I’m not keen to be away from the regiment. How long shall I be in Simla?’
‘Let’s say six weeks. You’ve earned a rest and some leave’s due. It’ll do you good—give you a chance to take a fresh look at things. Your mother’s there, I gather.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well—you’ll like to see her, of course. And she’ll like to have you for your twenty-first, I know. Your leave’ll cover that.’ Lord Dornoch reached out for his pipe and filled it. ‘Have a word with Silverson at Brigade.’ Major Silverson was the Transport Officer. ‘The nearest railway station to Simla is at Kalka, that’s nearly sixty miles from the town. You’ll have to arrange ahead for your onward transport from the railhead.’ He added, ‘you can push off as soon as Brigade can fix it up for you.’
When he was back in his own quarters Ogilvie told himself what he knew already—that he had a good friend in Lord Dornoch. The Colonel could scarcely have gone further in indicating his disapproval of the way Fettleworth had handled things that day. Ever since Fettleworth had been given the command of their Division, Ogilvie had been aware that he got on with few of his colonels, and Dornoch possibly least of all. Fettleworth had the reputation of a meddler, and worse, a bungling meddler. In a sense he was typical of the senior officers of the day, between whom and the junior officers there was a vast and apparently unbridgeable chasm. Fettleworth’s formative years had been passed under the command of veterans from the pre-Mutiny era—men who had fought at Chillainwallah for instance, where one of the brigadier-generals had been so blind from sheer age that not only had he to be hoisted on to his horse before the battle, but had to have the animal pointed towards the enemy in case he should charge in the wrong direction when action commenced. Fettleworth’s ideas were those of other days with a vengeance, and mentally he was fighting the campaigns of Lucknow and Delhi and Cawnpore, and of the Crimea as well. Tactical exercises under Francis Fettleworth had been farcical; he had assiduously set his infantry to practise deployment for attack, but always in close formation as at Waterloo; and he had . shown his incredible fondness for the good old impregnable British square as well. He was un-resilient in mind and body and also he had a total disregard for the welfare of the troops under his command. He was as different from Lord Dornoch as chalk from cheese, but in point of fact he was little worse than a good many other officers of general’s rank. This opinion of Fettleworth was not confined to his long-suffering Staff or regimental officers. In different words it found its expression in the mouth of Private Burns in B Company’s barrack-room that very night, for Burns, supposedly on some fatigue or other, had been standing spellbound outside the Colonel’s office window when Fettleworth had been haranguing Ogilvie; and was now repeating some of the speech to his comrades.
‘It’s an insult to Scotland to say it,’ he was announcing, ‘but yon great fat-arsed bugger’s as much a sheep’s gut as a haggis is. Oh Lord, I’ve never heard the like of him, rantin’ away there about poor bloody Jocks! Trash, that’s what we are. Uneducated beasts. His very words, gentlemen. We don’t even feel. We’re a different breed, d’ye see. We have to be larruped and flogged along, we can fight only when the skin’s hanging off our bloody backsides.’ Suddenly, he laughed. ‘Does anyone know, has the bastard a daughter? If he has, well, we know a thing or two to do with her, eh?’ There was a shout of laughter from his audience; with that day’s parade in mind still, they were ready for anything that would lighten their spirits. And when the Orderly Sergeant looked in he was assailed with the chorus:
Oh, we’ll be there, yes we’ll be there,
In that little harness room across the square!
When they’re blowing up Defaulters
We’ll be screwing the General’s daughters
In that little harness room across the square...
***
Mary Archdale was brushing her hair in front of her looking-glass when her Indian servant announced that Ogilvie Sahib had called.
She looked pleased. She said, ‘ask Ogilvie Sahib to wait. I shall not be long.’
‘Yes, Memsahib.’
The servant withdrew. Mary Archdale finished brushing her hair, dabbed scent behind her ears and on her wrists, and dressed as attractively as she could. She had seen quite a lot of James Ogilvie in the social round and their friendship had progressed a great deal over the year Ogilvie had been in Peshawar. She found she was frequently thinking o
f him. It was indiscreet of him to call at the bungalow, of course, but she was glad he had done so; and she assumed, with a glint of mischief in her eyes now, that he knew very well that Tom had gone to Calcutta ahead of his Divisional Commander, General Fettleworth. Poor Tom—she always thought of him as poor Tom, though really the adjective was unfitting for that bloodthirsty officer—poor Tom’s life was being made a burden by General Fettleworth. After the Jalalabad affair, in which he had scarcely shone, Tom Archdale had ceased to be Brigade Major of the Mahratta Brigade in Sir Iain Ogilvie’s Division, and Mary had known quite well that this was Sir Iain’s personal doing, since he couldn’t stand Tom Archdale. But Tom had had lines out in other directions and Fettleworth had seen to it that he was given a job on his own staff after Sir Iain had been elevated from the Division to the Northern Army Command. But meanwhile, Sir Iain’s son was waiting upon her and so she made haste to join him in the drawing room.
She went towards him, her arms outstretched, as he got up from a chair. ‘James,’ she said gaily. ‘How nice!’ Then she saw the look on his face. ‘Oh, dear. What is the matter, James?’ She wanted to embrace him; she felt motherly, but an embrace would never do. Besides, in a curious way, she felt dominated by him at times in spite of the fact that she was seven years the elder. Perhaps it was because he was tall, and had a strong and sometimes formidable face; yet there was still that motherly feeling, possibly because of the contrast with Tom, who was nearly thirty years her senior. She knew she didn’t look her age, and that James Ogilvie certainly did not regard her as anything approaching a mother, though now and then he did make use of her, to talk to so that he could get things out of his system. This, she could see, was to be one of those times, so she helped him. She said, ‘I half expected you, James. That business yesterday morning..’
Lieutenant of the Line Page 2
