Soldier of the Raj
Philip McCutchan
© Philip McCutchan 1971
Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1971 by Hodder and Stoughton as Sadhu on the Mountain Peak by Duncan MacNeil.
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Extract from Drums Along the Khyber by Philip McCutchan
CHAPTER ONE
‘James, love....’ It was no more than a murmur from sleep as the woman stirred a little by his side, but it was enough to bring Ogilvie awake. His head throbbed as though a whole legion of native devils was contained in it, and hammering to get out. Distantly from a cantonment parade-ground, a cruel bugle brought the British soldiers to awareness of yet another day of the ferocious Indian sun. The notes bored stridently through Ogilvie’s sick headache. He opened his eyes to see the early morning sunlight beaming through the slats of the shutters across the window of the bedroom; and shut out the sight again as a wave of hideous pain rose from behind his eyeballs.
He groaned. Thank God, promotion didn’t come every day. If last night was what happened when one’s captaincy came through on the wire from Northern Army Command at Murree, then heaven help the man who attained the rank of major whilst on service in the Raj! Yet India did help to sweat out the drink; the morning’s heat would improve matters but if he had taken so much whisky back at the Royal Strathspeys’ depot at Invermore in Scotland, James Ogilvie decided now, he would be on the flat of his back for the rest of the day, and that would presumably mean a Court Martial.
Besides, last night had not been merely his own private celebration. It had happened to be a guest night in the Mess — and one of the guests had been no less a personage than Lieutenant-General Francis Fettleworth, the Divisional Commander. Ogilvie broke out in a fresh wave of sweat as he wondered how much of his condition Bloody Francis had noticed. But then, from what he had himself seen of Bloody Francis, he had formed the impression that the Divisional Commander had also been letting his hair down to a pretty considerable extent. Ogilvie’s memory was of a large, bloated face, very red in the cheeks — a wonderful background for the white moustache whose drooping hairs totally concealed the mouth — and of bleary eyes cheek-red in the whites.
Memory, after such a night, was unreliable; and there were blank spots of complete oblivion, periods during which James Ogilvie knew he could have been guilty of the wildest abandon and impropriety. He had had only one such night previously, and that had been nearly three years ago in London, shortly after leaving the Royal Military College at Sandhurst on being newly gazetted to the 114th Highlanders as a subaltern; and, from that one experience, he knew that last night’s inebriate must always await enlightenment from other lips before he could truly count his sins. One placed oneself wholly in another person’s power; had Ogilvie been unkindly told now that last night he had attacked the guard commander with a claymore, or taken Lady Dornoch, his Colonel’s wife, in his arms, he could not have argued the truth of the assertion.
Disliking such placement of himself in another’s hands, Captain James Ogilvie, who had not yet physically adorned his shoulders with his extra stars, resolved, as many a man had done before, never, never to drink so much again...
As consciousness came back more strongly, memory stirred a little more vigorously. There were two things, two special things, that Ogilvie now recalled from last night. One was of himself, with Mary Archdale, hidden from view behind a potted palm in the darkness of the verandah outside the Mess, when two men had emerged and conversed, one of them leaning fatly against the railing, the other standing straight and gaunt and obsequiously attentive, listening to the pipes of the battalion marking ‘lights out’.
One of those men, the semi-reclining one, had been Bloody Francis. The other, Captain Andrew Black, adjutant of the 114th, also having drink taken. Fettleworth had given a hiccough and had said, ‘A wonderful sound — your pipes. Stirring. Warlike. And nostalgic, Captain Black — immensely nostalgic. Hrrrmph.’ He had then blown his nose, hard. Behind the potted palm, Ogilvie recalled, he had stifled a laugh with some difficulty; for, when last they had been in big-scale action under Fettleworth, a year or so ago on the terrible track to Fort Gazai, the Divisional Commander had, so rumour reported, expressed very different sentiments about the Scots’ beloved pipes, and about the Scots as well come to that.
From this point on, memory faded; yet something continued to nag. Something unpleasant; Fettleworth and Black had gone on to discuss him, James Ogilvie. Fettleworth had said something about his early promotion to Captain’s rank, and Black hadn’t sounded happy. Ogilvie tried to remember more, but couldn’t; his chief emotion, as he came back to the hangover-ridden morning after, was a disturbing realization of the next of those few things he could recall in patches. As if to make sure of the facts beyond all doubt, he reached out a hand and touched Mary Archdale’s naked body. She was still asleep, sleeping like a child with a small smile of happiness on her face, and he was in her bed. He had no recollection of getting there, presumably in the early hours, but he did remember with a great deal of pleasure watching Mary undress, slowly, and then coming to him with her lips parted and trembling and her arms held wide as if to enmesh him into her very body. And it had been a wonderful, wonderful night; he was grateful that the cloudy mists had lifted for long enough to let him enjoy and remember, so clearly, in so much detail, with so much deep feeling, what they had given each other, lovingly and without any holding back. It was something that for his whole period of service in India they had both longed for, but it had never happened until last night. While Mary Archdale’s elderly husband Tom had been alive, such a thing would have been unthinkable, would have meant the end of his career in the army had it come to light; and even during the year subsequent to Major Arch-dale’s death in action, on the march to Fort Gazai, any such close liaison had seemed to Ogilvie improper. One could not bed a widow still in her whole year of official mourning! The twentieth century might not be far from clutching the nineteenth by the coat-tails, but Queen Victoria, old as she might be, was still sitting like a round fat rock on the throne of England, and her edict and her morals ran world-wide throughout her Empire. One did not flout her standards — not too brazenly at all events. One was an officer and a gentleman, and Tom Archdale, Staff Major, had been a brother officer and gentleman. It had taken a night’s heavy drinking to bring down the barriers and cut through the inhibitions of his upbringing, and James Ogilvie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; but his principal regret, he found, was for all the other nights there could have been if he hadn’t been so straitlaced; Mary, he felt sure, would have lowered her standards willingly. The delay had been all on his side after Archdale’s death.
He sat up in bed. He had a terrible shake in his hands, he noticed. Gingerly he put a foot on the floor and stood, and went over to the wash-stand where he drank some water from a covered carafe and felt the dryness of his mouth depart, though the taste that lingered was still foul and harsh. Then he went back to the disordered bed and woke Mary. He woke her urgently; the day was coming alive, the cantonments would be stirring and he had to make his wa
y back to his quarters in his full Mess uniform. Not an unusual sight, perhaps, for a subaltern — but for a newly promoted captain?
Mary woke, smiling up at him, her eyes clear and fresh, her breasts, her flat stomach, her thighs, all inviting him to stay. ‘Well, love,’ she said, resting her cheek on the soft flesh of her upper arm. Was it up to expectations?’
He nodded, and went down on his knees beside the bed. He felt tears prick behind his eyelids; she seemed so defenceless, would be so alone when he had gone. ‘Mary,’ was all he could say. ‘Mary, darling.’
‘It’s all right, love,’ she said with a touch of wonder. ‘I enjoyed it too, oh, so much.’
‘I’d do anything for you, Mary.’
‘And me for you, love.’ She rolled over a little way; he looked down on her buttocks. He couldn’t leave her; but of course he had to, and quickly. ‘Will you come tonight, James?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve no duties. Yes, of course I’ll come.’
‘I’m glad, love.’ She looked up at him, frowning. ‘How much do you remember of last night, James?’
‘Little enough,’ he said with an attempt at a laugh. ‘Only what matters, Mary.’
‘I wonder.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think other things mattered too, James. Did you hear, or rather do you remember, the conversation between Fettleworth and your Captain Andrew Black?’
‘No,’ he said. The nagging worry returned, worse than ever. ‘Tell me.’
She said, ‘You never did look upon Andrew Black as a friend, did you!’
‘Hardly. I’m not much worried about Black now, though.’
It was sheer bravado and she laughed at it. ‘Oh, James, you may be a Captain, a very new and very, very dear Captain — but Andrew is still the adjutant and you’d do well to remember that. If he no longer outranks you, he can still be a pestilential nuisance! Company commanders have to toe the line with adjutants, haven’t they?’
‘Yes, of course. Well, Mary? What was said?’
‘Briefly,’ she said, ‘Fettleworth was sounding Black about you, and Black was being his usual self. Black, it seemed, didn’t approve the recommendation for your advanced promotion. He even suggested favouritism — that you owed it to the fact your father happened to be the Northern Army Commander. To give Fettleworth his due, James, he reacted badly to that and Andrew got a flea in his ear. But here’s the point, love: Fettleworth has plans for you — unspecified plans to broaden your experience. And, in his own words, for you to acquire much knowledge for yourself and for the High Command as well. The last thing I heard him say was that he would be discussing this with Lord Dornoch shortly.’
‘I see.’ Ogilvie held his hands to his throbbing head. ‘What the devil has he in mind, I wonder!’
‘I don’t know, love.’
‘Well, I’m not shirking any duty...but I don’t much want to leave Peshawar just now.’
She understood what he meant; she kissed him, and said with her lips brushing his ear with a delightfully sensual feel, ‘Nobody mentioned you leaving Peshawar, love, so don’t cross any bridges just yet.’
‘No, of course.’ He got to his feet and started dressing. Mary lay and watched him, watched his tall, slim, straight young body, tanned and muscular and hard with the so often rigorous life of the North-West Frontier. Her feelings about him were mixed. She loved him, and more than physically; but marriage, she believed, would not work. In the army young officers did not marry on the whole — and she was eight years older than he, which was quite a lot on the wrong side. Besides, she knew what the Ogilvie parents thought about her — not that it mattered all that much, but it wouldn’t help James, and she wanted, badly, to be a help to James. So better let things drift and find their own course...it was often the only sensible thing to do.
Dressing with more haste than precision, and unshaven, James Ogilvie took his leave, creeping out into the bright morning like a criminal, flitting like a gilded guilty shadow for cover, putting the discretion of distance between himself and Mary’s bungalow before he could be seen. In leaving one widow’s bed, he yet must not scandalize that other Widow reigning in solemn state half-way across the world.
CHAPTER TWO
James Ogilvie’s return to cantonments in the comparative cool of early morning did not go unremarked, as he had known it would not. The men were about, and already a group of defaulters was marching and wheeling, with full packs and rifles, under the bullying voice of a drill-sergeant. Captain Ogilvie was given a smart eyes right, and a swinging salute from Sergeant MacBean, which, self-consciously enough, he returned. There was a glimmer of amusement in MacBean’s face; the men would understand, and sympathize, with the fellow feeling of the rank-and-file for those about to land in trouble. Trouble rose in the form of Captain Andrew Black, watching from a window. Ogilvie was allowed to go peacefully to his quarters, where his servant was waiting. He washed, shaved and dressed in more appropriate uniform, and then went along to Mess for breakfast. Breakfast was a silent meal; in the 114th Highlanders, it was not expected that breakfasting officers should even wish one another a good morning. The Times of India, moat-like before the majority of the stolidly munching jaws, proclaimed this as an occasion of privileged solitude. Andrew Black, lifting his dark face for a moment from a plate of porridge, gave Ogilvie one sweeping look and that was all. Trouble would come in Black’s own good time, and it did.
Breakfast over, Ogilvie was bidden to the adjutant’s office. On the way he met Mr. Cunningham, Regimental Sergeant-Major, a large man whose chest had earned him the nickname of Bosom. The R.S.M.’s salute was as punctilious as ever, his friendliness as obvious, but there was a very slightly disappointed look in his eye.
‘Good morning, Mr. Cunningham.’
‘Good morning, Captain Ogilvie, sir. And my heartiest congratulations, sir.’
‘Thank you, Sar’nt-Major...but you’ve already congratulated me.’
‘No, sir! Begging your pardon. I’m now congratulating you upon being able to walk and talk. Sir! Rumour has it you enjoyed yourself last night. You’ll not take it amiss from a man of my age, who has your welfare much at heart, if I say that the men talk amongst themselves, sir. It grieves me to hear it. If I were you, sir, I’d watch it in the future. Mind, I understand the occasion, sir, and I’m not a man to dislike drink, not at all. But India’s India, Captain Ogilvie, and that needs to be borne in mind. Sir!’
Another quivering salute and Cunningham marched briskly away, a cane held at precisely the right angle beneath his left arm. Ogilvie felt a stab of anger, but not for long. The R.S.M. had perhaps overstepped the mark, but there had been a glimmer of humour in his eye, and he meant well. He was a good friend to a young officer, always had been. But his words hadn’t exactly calmed the fears in James Ogilvie’s mind as he neared Black’s office.
*
The night before, during the conversation with his Divisional Commander, Black had been fairly forthcoming when Bloody Francis had said, ‘That young Ogilvie — feller that’s just got his captaincy. Good going, that — very early promotion. Course, it was largely on my recommendation,’ he had added with a touch of mendacity, for the recommendation, which Fettleworth had merely endorsed and forwarded, had been Lord Dornoch’s. ‘How’s he really shaping?’
Black had hesitated at first, but Fettleworth had gone on, ‘You may answer honestly, my dear feller...this is off the record. I know it’s a question that should be addressed to his Colonel — but, well, man to man, what?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Black had answered, and then said, in that harsh voice that Ogilvie knew so well, and had so often suffered from, ‘Fair enough, sir. No worse than any other young officer.’ Young officers were never popular with Black.
‘And no better?’
‘In my opinion — no, sir.’ He had then, in reply to a further question, indicated that he himself had not approved the recommendation.
‘May one ask why, Captain Black?’
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br /> ‘I did not consider him ready for the responsibility of a company, sir. He is young — to some extent he is immature. His early days at a crammer’s instead of the rough-and-tumble of a boarding school — it has left its mark. I do not say he is not conscientious. He is. He does his best. And he conducts himself well in action.’
‘So I was told, after that damn march on Fort Gazai.’
‘In my opinion, sir, a subaltern’s future is formed in his early years — while he is still a subaltern. That is where the groundwork lies, where he learns his trade as a soldier, where he learns his profession as an officer, his potentialities as a leader of men. There is more in leadership than a mere ability to face the guns. If you cut short the early years, the apprenticeship as it were, you cut short the training — and you cut short the man in the years to come.’
‘Quite — oh, quite. All this was naturally taken into due account. I must say I agree to some extent with what you say. Sound commonsense, very sound. But there is absolutely no reason why a company commander, just as much as a subaltern, should not continue to acquire new and broadening experiences — no reason at all. Why, we all continue to learn — even I! Yes, even I,’ Bloody Francis had repeated as if he had suddenly stumbled upon a great truth. ‘And I have plans for that young man, Captain Black...’
And now, this morning, the young man in question must needs be dealt with by his adjutant.
*
‘A poor start, James,’ Black said. ‘A poor start, for a company commander. I was not aware that you had permission to sleep out of barracks.’
‘I hadn’t.’
‘Precisely. And kindly remove that mutinous look from your face, James. You may have a Captain’s rank, but I am still the adjutant.’ Black was sitting with his elbows on the arms of his chair and was tapping his extended finger-tips together while he surveyed Ogilvie over the tops of them. If his long face had not held its customary bitter, satanic look, Ogilvie thought, he would have looked like a parson interviewing a sinning parishioner. ‘I am waiting for your explanation, James.’
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