‘I’m glad to hear that,’ the young prince said, smiling again. Educated at Eton and Christ Church, Oxford, he was one of the most British of Indian princes and a whole-hearted admirer of the way in which British India was run. He had no wish to see unruly elements succeed in upsetting the status quo. ‘I was talking with Lord Elgin only the other day. I told His Excellency I should be only too pleased to send any of my own troops he might need—but he assured me the Commander-in-Chief had all the men he needed. I imagine you would concur in this view, Sir Iain?’
‘Oh yes, assuredly. Very good of you, though. Very good. We’re most appreciative.’ Sir Iain, always interested in a good-looking young woman, found his attention was straying to Mary Archdale, who was talking to his daughter. Unceremoniously he butted in. ‘I have word from our agencies that your husband is about to cross the Panjkora River, Mrs. Archdale.’
‘Indeed? Your son also, Sir Iain.’
‘Yes.’ The General went no farther in that direction; his wife’s face had a tight, tense look and he knew very well why. James was being a young fool, but he could scarcely blame the boy; Mary Archdale was damned attractive, he thought, and didn’t look her age, which he had discovered was twenty-eight. She had a fine figure, well-breasted, but not too much so, and James—thank God—was a very normal young man...hastily, Sir Iain shifted his gaze and coughed. ‘Yes. I see you’ve met my daughter.’
‘I would have known her anywhere,’ Mary said brightly, seeming quite unaware of the chill from Lady Ogilvie. ‘She’s so like your son—and you.’
‘Really, really. Have you had any luck with the horses, Mrs. Archdale?’
She shook her head, her eyes merry. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t, Sir Iain. But then I haven’t lost much either.’
‘Glad to hear it. I’m sorry to say I have. Confounded brutes!’ Sir Iain tugged at his moustache; it was time the conversation was ended—more was the pity—or he would have to endure a monologue from his wife afterwards. Always in full command of the situation when dealing with men, the General was frequently at a loss with young women when it came to sending them on their way—chiefly because he never wanted to. This time, however, Mary Archdale herself put him at his ease. She said, ‘I know you’ll excuse me, Sir Iain, but I really must go. I have an aunt arriving from Calcutta shortly, and—’
‘Oh, really, really, that’ll be pleasant for you. Goodbye, Mrs. Archdale.’ He stood puffing through his moustache as Mary and young Shandapur took their leave. He watched them go, with regret. ‘Capital young feller,’ he said to his wife. ‘Nice woman, too. Damn pity about this business.’
‘Not in front of Anne, please,’ Lady Ogilvie whispered sharply in his ear.
‘Oh, rubbish, she’s a married woman—’
‘That makes no difference. There’s no reason why she should ever know.’ Imperturbably Lady Ogilvie checked once again through her race card and turned her glasses on the next race. But that night, after Anne had gone off early to bed with a headache, she brought the subject up of her own accord.
She said, ‘Iain, we’ve never had a proper talk about James and that woman thought we had.’
‘Not what I call a proper settling talk. It must be settled once and for all.’
The General rustled irritably in his chair. ‘Leave it, leave it. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘This dog is sleeping only because James is in action and she’s here in Simla. Let them be together again in Peshawar, and it’ll all start again where it left off. It won’t do, Iain.’
‘He’s old enough to see that for himself.’
‘Old enough, yes—but will he? You know what young men are like, Iain. Headstrong, stupid. He must be made to think of the family and his own career. The best thing would be to interest him in someone more suitable.’
Smiling, Sir Iain said, ‘That’s your province, my dear. You can’t expect me to go round digging up suitable females—for another man!’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘Please don’t joke, Iain.’ She sighed, and stared out into the purple darkness that hung over the hills. She looked immensely sad as she sat there in the shadows. ‘It’s his whole career, after all. You should know that—both as a father and as a soldier.’
‘I do know it, Fiona. Of course I know it. But it’s damn hard to interfere. Oh, I agree it wouldn’t do—but it’s a pity. She seems a nice young woman’.
‘What do you mean—a pity? Iain, she’s married!’
‘Yes, yes—that’s bad—I wouldn’t condone anything that could lead to a divorce, naturally, if that’s what you’re driving at, but I’m damn sure it’ll never go as far as that. I repeat, she seems a nice young woman.’
‘I’m quite sure she is. She was perfectly pleasant when I...spoke to her, but—’
‘What exactly did you say?’ Sir Iain asked curiously.
‘It was what I didn’t say, really. But I know I left her in no doubt that I considered it far better the Friendship should be broken off, and that she was the one to do it. As I say, she was perfectly pleasant—quite charming, in fact. But she has a tough streak, Iain, and she’s full of determination. I could see that quite clearly.’
With a sly expression Sir Iain asked, ‘so it was a case of what she didn’t say, too?’
Lady Ogilvie nodded. ‘I suppose it was. That’s why I’m so worried. For another thing, I don’t believe she cares for her husband—’
‘I’m not surprised—’
‘—and that’s a terribly dangerous situation, Iain. It simply isn’t good enough just to—to shrug it off. We can’t possibly have a—a—’
‘Oh, say it!’ her husband snapped. ‘I’ve said it already myself—divorce!’
‘Please don’t speak so loud, Iain! It’s such a horrid word.’
‘I don’t believe there’s the slightest danger of that. James has far too much sense, anyway. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill and running much too far ahead of the facts. Damn it, the boy’s never so much as mentioned the woman’s name to me!’
Again Fiona Ogilvie sighed. ‘Iain, you’re very dense sometimes. Young men never mention these things to their fathers, not until they’ve talked to their mothers, anyway—and mothers always know a long time before they talk about it. I tell you, there is a very real danger of James doing something very, very stupid. It’s up to you to put a stop to it, and you know quite well you can.’
‘How?’
‘Why, firstly by having a very strong talk to him. A lecture, Iain. Tell him exactly what effect all this could have on his life, and point out that he’s not behaving as a gentleman in even seeing a brother officer’s wife while her husband is absent. If that doesn’t work—arrange for him to be posted elsewhere. Or Major Archdale to be sent home. He’d be bound to take his wife. I think I should prefer that. I dislike the idea of James leaving the regiment, and I suppose that is what it would mean if he were to be posted, wouldn’t it?’
Sir Iain was glaring at her stonily, his colour having risen throughout.
‘Fiona, my dear, I’m devoted to you as you know. But I’ve never held any opinion of an officer who allowed his wife to dictate to him how he should run a regiment—let alone a damn Army! I’ll tell you straight, I’m having no interference of that sort!’
Lady Ogilvie nodded submissively enough, but she was smiling inwardly. Iain had always reacted strongly to what he considered interference; but time would work wonders and he would see, it having once been said, that she was perfectly right; and in due course he would himself come up with the same suggestion, trumpeting it loudly from the rooftops as his very own idea. She adroitly turned the conversation on to the Maharajah of Shandapur after that and let her husband have his head on one of his pet subjects, which was the great wisdom of the British administration in allowing the Indian princes to retain in full their time-honoured powers and huge wealth, and in bolstering their position and treating them as equals. They made magnificent buffers, wonderful defences against the other half
of India. A very sound policy, Sir Iain considered—and in any case they were mostly capital fellows, gentlemen in fact. Much more so in truth than some of the officers the army was getting these days...
***
The morning after the arrival on the south bank of the Panjkora River, two companies of the 88th Foot, The Connaught Rangers, were sent across a rope bridge during the night and took up their positions on the north bank to cover the work of the Engineers as the main bridge was extended over the river. The 114th were ordered to stand to on the south bank, to give additional fire should this become necessary. From some distance in rear, on rising ground, Major-General Fettleworth watched from horseback, through field glasses. He watched until the field kitchens had prepared his breakfast and that of the Staff, and then he dismounted. With his senior officers he walked towards the trestle table that had been laid with a starched damask cloth, silver plate, and knives on which much knife powder had been expended. Breakfast was porridge, fried eggs, dry bread and marmalade and steaming hot Camp coffee. With the coffee Fettleworth lit the first cigar of the day, a fat cheroot, and then announced that he would walk down to the lip of the gorge for a personal word with the bridge-building sappers. At once a procession formed up, headed by the Chief of Staff; and the senior officers moved towards the river. The water gave off a most offensive smell which a change of wind brought hurrying across towards the encamped troops.
‘Pah!’ Fettleworth said, wrinkling his nose in ,disgust. ‘Damn good thing we finished breakfast before the wind shifted, what?’ He brought out a handkerchief of coloured silk and held it to his nostrils; the Staff did likewise.
‘Carry on with the work,’ Fettleworth said, sounding muffled through the silk-clenched nose as the Major of Engineers dropped everything and hurried to greet him. ‘I don’t want to cause too much trouble.’
‘Sir!’ The Major saluted and turned about, and marched back to his duties. Amiably, Fettleworth moved to the gorge and surveyed the scene, sending an occasional word of advice by Captain Cornforth-Jarvis of the white gloves. After a while, however, the smell grew much too strong; for a little longer Fettleworth watched carcasses and other debris floating down on the swift current, then he turned away. ‘Too smelly,’ he said. ‘Thank God I’m not a sapper! And I hope the wind changes again before luncheon, gentlemen.’
Thankfully, the Staff retired. Ogilvie, standing by with his company, watched them leave for the rear, one anxious Staff Major sniffing the air ahead and moving his nose from side to side as though carrying out a nasal probe for patches of clean air fit for his General.
Joining Ogilvie, MacKinlay observed, ‘it’s a trifle too thick for the gilded Staff, James. But I dare say we’ll be the same if ever we reach those dizzy heights! There’s not really much point in hanging around where you can’t do any good, I suppose.’
‘The men might appreciate the gesture, mightn’t they?’
‘Some would, others wouldn’t—and give the old boy his due, James, he’s done that, even if he did beat a retreat pretty soon!’
Late the following evening, a little ahead of the Sappers’ estimate, the bridge was in position across the Panjkora River and the column was formed for the crossing after the structure had been tested for strength. A squadron of the Guides moved across first, and then the infantry, followed by the rest of the cavalry, then the guns, the support corps and the pack animals. They all crossed in safety; the bridge had been well and truly built and General Fettleworth was sufficiently impressed with what appeared to be its lasting qualities to name it Fettleworth Bridge, an act of egoism that brought many groans from the ranks. Joining up with the 88th on the other side, the troops bivouacked once again; General Fettleworth disliked being on the move during the hours of darkness, and with some justification in so difficult and treacherous a terrain. Once again a peaceful night was passed, though they could see the distant flickers from the watchful enemy’s camp fires. At dawn the march was resumed, with the pipes and drums of the Royal Strathspeys still in the van of the advance behind the scouts. They had some fifty miles left to cover now. As they pressed on to the accompaniment of their martial music, they saw the wild tribesmen from time to time; it seemed they were being shadowed, and shadowed only, for no attacks developed.
The impression grew and spread that they were once again advancing into a trap.
In the name of Captain Black, Colour-Sergeant Barr was harrying the men. Ogilvie watched the process with misgiving but hesitated to bring it to the particular attention of his company commander. MacKinlay, naturally, was aware of Fettleworth’s personal order some weeks before that he, Ogilvie, was to continue with Barr as his Colour-Sergeant, and, friendly as Rob MacKinlay always was, there was still the possibility that he might see personal feelings emerging in any adverse comment upon Barr’s methods. If MacKinlay had seen nothing wrong himself, this impression would be strengthened. That was inevitable. Nevertheless, it would be a subaltern’s duty to bring to his company commander’s notice any facts that might prove prejudicial to the company’s welfare and fighting efficiency—so long as they were facts. It would be almost impossible to accuse Barr of inefficiency; and discipline wise he always kept just within the letter of Queen’s Regulations. As the slow miles wore away and MacKinlay still appeared to notice nothing amiss with Barr’s raucous, bullying voice, Ogilvie began to wonder if after all he was the one at fault. Possibly Barr’s way of driving weary soldiers on to battle really was the only way; but he doubted it all the same.
In the end he decided to take a risk and sound out the old brigade discreetly and indirectly. He dropped down the column to the rear of his company and pulled in alongside Makepeace just as the order came to halt for a rest. He gestured to the escort. ‘I want a word with the Sergeant. Fall out for the time being.’
‘Sir!’ The lance-corporal and two privates of the escort moved away and Ogilvie sat and yarned with the old man, asking him about the territory and the fighting he had seen in his younger days. Old Makepeace grew reminiscent about his service as a young gunner. Casually, choosing his moment, Ogilvie asked, ‘how did you find the discipline in general terms, Sergeant?’
‘Hard, Sir, very hard. The men have it easy now, compared to them days, Sir. Why, Sir, I’ve seen men flogged for being sloppily dressed on parade, Sir. Going back to before my time, a man could be awarded two thousand lashes for desertion, but they changed that back in ‘48 I think it was. Fifty became the limit then, and that was bad enough. I doubt if any man ever survived the two thousand, Sir.’
‘So do I, Sergeant! Tell me—what were the N.C.O.s like? How would they compare with today’s?’
Makepeace scratched his chin, his fingers rasping over the many days’ growth that was fast becoming a straggly, snow-white beard. ‘Hard to say, Sir. Some were always bastards, so were some of the officers, Sir, begging your pardon. But there’s not been a great change really, Sir, taking it all round. I reckon my lads used to think I was a bit of a bastard myself, Sir, from time to time, though such was never my intention. You see, Sir, you had to be hard if you was to enforce all the petty regulations, the sort of regulations that can break a man’s spirit and make him feel less than a man, if you follow me, Sir. I don’t see a great deal of change today in that respect, Sir. A soft N.C.O. is no use, Sir, indeed he’s worse than useless, though there’s ways and ways, of course.’ He paused, panting. This march was becoming far too much for him. ‘You’re young, Sir, if I may say so. I have seen in your face that you can feel with the men, Sir. That is an admirable thing in an officer, but not one that helps the officer who has it. To win battles, Sir, an officer needs to have a total disregard for anything but the act of winning, in my opinion. I myself—though merely a Sergeant, Sir—was not hard enough to do that, when it came to the point, as you know. That is why I shall be punished.’
‘Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly,’ Ogilvie told him.
‘Ah, Sir, you may say that, but it must be. You know that is true.
’
There was little Ogilvie could say to that, but he was trying to think up a consoling response when suddenly the old sergeant took his arm in a hard grip, an almost fierce grip, and said in a harsh whisper, ‘Sir, I am worried about the outcome of this march. I am greatly worried as to the chances of success.’
‘Why’s that, Sergeant?’
‘I have heard stories about the General, Mr. Ogilvie. I know him to be a brave man, with no thought of his personal safety, and an honourable one, too. But I am told…’
‘Told what?’
Makepeace gave a sigh and scrabbled about with a thin brown finger in the dust of the track. ‘Perhaps I should hold my tongue, Mr. Ogilvie. It is scarcely my concern, though I can still lay a gun with the best of them.’
‘Go on,’ Ogilvie said.
The old gunner drew a deep breath and then, after a long pause, said heavily, ‘Sir, I am told the General does not like the guns, that he will not make use of them in open battle, but only to do such things as destroy the walls of a fort. Tell me, Mr. Ogilvie : Do you know if this is true?’
‘I believe it is,’ Ogilvie said cautiously. ‘The guns weren’t used when we were attacked in the Malakand, certainly.’
‘It is not wisdom, Mr. Ogilvie. It is not good sense. The natives fear the bayonet, I agree, but they also fear the guns. I have a feeling that if the guns were used before fort Gazai, the General would destroy Shuja Khan’s force much more quickly.’
‘But the General is the only one who can order them into action, Sergeant.’
‘Aye, Sir—and he will not, by all accounts. Not to do so is waste of good men and good material. Mr. Ogilvie...I am no strategist and I am no tactician. But I am a Sergeant of Artillery...and I know the natives have few capable gun-layers. If the guns went through—if they reached the vicinity of Fort Gazai in advance of the main column—we would be in a fair way to the total destruction of Shuja Khan!’ The old man’s voice was trembling with some strange and deep emotion, some inner conviction, as it seemed to Ogilvie, that he alone had the key to a victory in arms. His grip tightened on Ogilvie’s wrist and he said in his ear, ‘Sir, I know a way the guns could—’
Lieutenant of the Line Page 17
