‘I’m sorry. I have no excuse.’
‘Oh, I’m well aware of that.’ A thin smile appeared, but only momentarily. ‘But you must have an explanation, must you not?’
Ogilvie turned his head a little, looking out of the adjutant’s window across the dust and heat of the parade-ground. Far beyond that dusty expanse and the sweat it brought to drilling bodies rose the foothills of Himalaya with their promise of cool greenness lifting to the everlasting snows on the high peaks far behind. There was a remembrance of Scotland in the very thought of Himalaya; and there were times when James Ogilvie wished for nothing more than a sight of Speyside, and the grandeur of the Cairngorms, and the awesome silences of the Pass of Drumochter so often lost in the mist, with all the memories of clan battles of long ago, and the Tummel water at Pitlochry...after nearly three years of service in India, Ogilvie found much to hate in the sub-continent — the poverty and the callousness, the cheapness in which human life, British as well as native when it came to action, was held, the dirt and squalor contrasting so vividly — and so viciously — with the extraordinary way of life of the ruling princes and their hangers-on...all that, and the terrible oppressive heat, and the everlasting dust and grit that found its way into a man’s clothing and his mouth, his food and his drink...
He came back to the present to hear Black angrily repeating that he wished for an explanation. He gave the adjutant an answer — of a sort. He said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, Andrew. I can give you no explanation.’
‘Other than that you were drunk?’
Ogilvie shook his head. ‘I was not drunk. I was not incapable.’
Once again, the thin sardonic smile. ‘I would trust not — for the woman’s sake.’
Ogilvie started, and flushed. ‘What exactly do you mean by that, Andrew?’
‘What I say.’ Black leaned forward. ‘James, you must do me the courtesy of crediting me with some powers of observation, and with some ability to assess a situation. You do not live in a vacuum, in Peshawar, believe me! Your association with that woman is well enough known —’
‘That’s no business of yours, Andrew, and you know it.’
‘On the contrary, when your conduct vis-à-vis Mrs. Archdale impinges upon your duties and responsibilities to the regiment, it is very much my business — and my deep concern. I have much pride in the 114th Highlanders, James, as you should know. Now — are you going to tell me a direct lie —namely, that you were not in the woman’s bed last night — or are you not? It is up to you.’
Ogilvie snapped, ‘I have nothing more to say.’
‘Very well,’ Black said, shrugging. ‘I have no option but to refer the matter to the Colonel.’ He took a deep, angry breath and sent it hissing out through his nostrils, which had flared like those of a horse. ‘For now, it shall be left to rest. I have other things to say to you. You already know, of course, that you are to take over B Company from Captain MacKinlay before he leaves for Quetta. You will begin at once to acquaint yourself with his duties, and I shall expect you to maintain your company at as high a degree of efficiency as has Captain MacKinlay. You have been long enough with the regiment, James, not to expect to plead inexperience. I shall accept no excuses for any lapses from our standards. Is that quite clear?’
‘Quite clear, thank you, Andrew.’
‘And you will gain nothing by your insolent bearing. Damn puppy!’ Black’s veneer, held together with difficulty, had now cracked wide open. ‘If I’d had my way, you would not have been given a company for many a long year yet! Why, you’re still wet behind the ears, man! And remember this: when you first joined the regiment, butter would not have melted in your mouth. You — you jumped at shadows, you rose from your chair like a jack-in-the-box when an officer senior to you walked into the Mess. You were a child — a child in a subaltern’s uniform! I have watched you make some progress towards manhood — not enough, but some — I think I can say that to some extent I have been responsible for your getting a grip on yourself. There should be a little gratitude in you for that, rather than an overweening insolence and — and such a lack of a sense of responsibility!’
‘I didn’t intend to be insolent,’ Ogilvie said, flushing. ‘If I was, well, I’m sorry. I’m not ungrateful for anybody’s help. It’s just that...well, Andrew, again I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stand by and let you speak as you have done about Mrs. Archdale. That’s all.’
‘I see.’ Black’s eyes glittered; he was still furiously angry. ‘If the woman should lose you your company even before you have assumed command, then perhaps you will think differently. Remember, you have yet to hear what Lord Dornoch has to say about your overnight absence. And let me tell you this, young man: Mrs. Archdale is fast acquiring a reputation, and an unsavoury one at that. Do not flatter yourself that you are the only man...no, no, you will hear me out...and surely to goodness you do not for one moment suppose that any widow who chooses to remain during her widowhood on an Indian military station, is anything but a blasted whore?’
Ogilvie jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. ‘Andrew, you will withdraw that, and at once, d’you hear?’ He stood over the adjutant, his face working.
Black said, ‘I’ll withdraw nothing. Sit down, Captain Ogilvie. Sit down! That is an order.’
‘And I’m disobeying it. Withdraw what you said, and apologize.’
‘I’ll do no such —’
‘Listen, Andrew.’ Ogilvie’s face was set like a rock, hard and determined. Over the years, that face had grown to resemble his father’s; and Sir Iain Ogilvie was every inch the General Officer Commanding. There was something in the face now that scared Black, some inner force that overrode a basically weaker man. Ogilvie himself was not aware of this, but he saw that he was causing the adjutant to have second thoughts. ‘We’re alone in this office,’ he said. ‘If you don’t withdraw, I intend to strike you. A military offence — oh, yes, I know that, Andrew! But I know something else as well, and it’s this: the adjutant who gives a brother officer a personal insult to the point of being struck, does not commend himself to his seniors — and has a black mark against him when his name comes up for promotion. To be struck, Andrew, is to be hurt twice, for by God I’ll hit you hard in your face and you won’t be a pretty sight...and it’s going to be said in higher circles that you failed in the first duty of an adjutant, which is to exercise a tactful discipline, and not to offer unwarrantable insults! Well, Andrew?’
Black licked at his lips and stared at Ogilvie. For almost a minute they held each other’s gaze, and then Black looked away, the first to weaken. Ogilvie felt a tremendous relief; already he had regretted, at least to some extent, his impetuosity. To strike the adjutant would, of course, be the end of his career, whatever the provocation, but evidently he had succeeded in making Black believe he would take even this risk — and, if Black had not capitulated, honour would have demanded that indeed he did take it. But Black said, in a hoarse and strange-sounding voice, ‘Very well. I withdraw.’
‘And apologize?’
‘And apologize.’
Ogilvie relaxed, and found himself shaking all over, a shake he did his best to hide. He said, ‘Thank you, Andrew.’
‘Now get out, you — you —’ Words failed Black. Ogilvie obeyed the order. He went along to B Company’s office, where Rob MacKinlay was battling with what seemed to be a vast amount of paperwork. He looked up when Ogilvie entered, and appeared glad of an excuse to sit back for a while. ‘You have an air of strain, James,’ he said, lifting an eyebrow. ‘Rumour has it you’ve been with the adj. Has that caused the strain — or was it last night?’
‘If you mean,’ James Ogilvie said carefully, ‘have I a hangover, the answer’s yes, a bloody awful one. Anything else?’
‘Hold on to your shirt, old man. I’m not prying.’
‘So it has spread. Well, Black did hint that you can’t keep things secret in Peshawar.’
‘Or anywhere else in British India, James my boy!’ MacKinla
y looked at him hard. ‘Has Andrew been on that tack, then?’
Ogilvie nodded and slid onto an upright battalion chair. ‘He wanted to know where I’d been — oh, not unnaturally, I agree! I didn’t tell him — but he made guesses.’
‘I see. And insinuations, I don’t doubt. I hope you kept your temper, James.’
‘I didn’t.’ Ogilvie told MacKinlay what had happened, and MacKinlay pursed his lips.
‘Couldn’t get off to a worse start as a company commander if you’d tried deliberately, James. My word! You threaten Black — and you win! He’s not going to forgive you for that, you know!’
‘He’s never forgiven me for anything since the day I joined the regiment, Rob, you know that. He said he’s helped me — but honestly, he never has. Except perhaps by opening my eyes to a few things, a few facts of British Indian life. Regimental life, that is.’
MacKinlay warned, ‘Don’t go sour because of a bad adjutant. I’ve told you that before, but from now on it’s going to be even more important. When I go off to the Staff College, James, I don’t want to feel the company’s suffering.’
‘I won’t let that happen, Rob.’
‘No, I know you won’t, not deliberately. But you’ll find that a company commander can be got at through his men, James. Black’s not above mucking up a company’s spirit so he can report adversely on its officers. It’s been done before and it’ll be done again, and Black’s not the only one in the army to use dirty weapons, you know.’
Ogilvie sighed, listening to the drill sounds coming through from the parade, the tramp of heavy boots, the shouts of the N.C.O.s and then the sharp rattle of hooves as Captain Black rode past the window. He asked, ‘Rob, what’s up with Andrew Black? Why’s he gone so sour?’
MacKinlay laughed. ‘Sheer, vindictive jealousy, James. After all, he’s not one of us and he knows it. Oh, he’s a wealthy enough man, but it’s all come from trade. You know that.’
‘Yes, but is that enough to make him what he is?’
‘I think so. I’ve told you before, James. He started off by feeling inferior, right from the day he joined us. Damn it all, we’re a pretty blue-blooded lot in The Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, you know!’ He laughed, with a touch of self-deprecation for what he had said. ‘It doesn’t make us better soldiers, but there it is, it’s a fact. Trade and landed gentry just don’t mix, not even now. It started to work on Andrew’s mind and the rest followed as the night the day — Andrew being the kind of man he is. He’s been hitting back in his own way ever since.’ MacKinlay pushed at a pile of papers. ‘Well, I’ll have to get on with this lot, James, or I’ll never hand over. I don’t want to leave you with a legacy of loose ends.’ He paused, frowning. ‘You’ve pulled something of a boner. That has to be admitted. But don’t spend too much time worrying about Black. That way, he’ll get you rattled. Just keep your eyes open, that’s all.’
‘I’m more worried about the Colonel than Black just at the moment, really.’
‘Because you were absent last night?’ MacKinlay ran a hand across his chin. ‘Well, he’s not going to like it, but you weren’t required for duty. Dornoch’s human enough. You’ll have to watch it in future, though.’ Then he added, ‘Look, James. Are you sure you’re not being just a little unwise? I think you know what I mean.’
‘If I am,’ Ogilvie answered briefly, ‘it’s my own funeral.’
‘Oh, quite. But if I were you, old son, I just wouldn’t let it get as far as a funeral. And now I’ve got work to do. Going to sit down and lend a hand, all in your own interest?’
Ogilvie shook his head. ‘Can’t, Rob. I have to watch Colour-Sar’nt Bruce put a squad of replacements through their paces.’
‘Oh, all right. So long, James.’
Ogilvie left the company office and walked out onto the parade, settling his Wolseley helmet on his head as he came into the open. With his kilt swinging the tartan of the Royal Strathspey around his sunburned knees he marched across the wide space, returning salutes as groups of men were brought to attention on his approach, heading for a corner around the angle of the sergeants’ mess where the casualty replacements, fresh from home, were being bawled at by Colour-Sergeant Bruce, a raw-boned Highland Scot from the Monadhliath Mountains. As he went he found his thoughts going back to Mary Archdale, and from her to Andrew Black. In any regiment, the adjutant was always a man of influence and power beyond his actual rank. In the case of Black, this was perhaps more so than would normally be the fact. That bitter, satanic man seemed even to have some curious ability to make the Colonel see things his way. Of course, he was efficient, and tireless in the performance of his duties; even after a night’s heavy whisky drinking — a weakness of Black’s — he was as smart, as punctilious, on parade as might be any soldiering Plymouth Brother or Strict Baptist, with nothing except his bloodshot eyes and a pallor beneath the tan of his face to give away the previous night’s excesses. Had he not been efficient, he would not have remained so long as adjutant of the 114th, for he was known as a bully and a man prone to give vent to an evil temper. From a consideration of Captain Andrew Black, Ogilvie’s thoughts went by natural process to the conversation Mary had overheard the night before between Black and Lieutenant-General Fettleworth; and he wondered what the Divisional Commander could possibly have in his mind as regards a newly-appointed Captain of infantry.
That was something he would have to wait upon; and in the meantime he would need to face his Colonel.
*
Lord Dornoch had been about to send for Ogilvie when a runner came in from Division, bringing a message that the Colonel of the 114th Highlanders was required to report forthwith to General Fettleworth, along with all other battalion commanders and brigadiers. Dornoch looked up at Black. ‘What does this mean, I wonder?’
Black shrugged.
‘I was speaking to the General last night, Andrew. There was no hint of any conference.’ Dornoch drummed with his fingertips on his desk. ‘What’s in the wind this time? The Waziris? There’s been some talk of possible trouble from that direction.’
‘It could be that, Colonel.’
Dornoch stood up and reached for his helmet. ‘Have my horse brought round, if you please, Andrew. Ogilvie’ll have to wait.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Couldn’t you have dealt with that, Andrew? You’ve said he wasn’t required for duty.’
‘That is true, Colonel, but —’
‘And if he’d asked permission it would have been granted. It’s a somewhat technical offence, you know.’
‘I have told you, Colonel, he was insolent. I think it important he should not be allowed to get above himself. And it is a thoroughly bad example to the men, in a freshly-appointed company commander, Colonel.’
‘The men should have no idea whether or not he had been granted leave for the night. I have a feeling you overstate the crime, Andrew.’
‘Other junior officers will know, Colonel, and in a regiment —’
‘I know all about the regiment, thank you, Andrew,’ Lord Dornoch cut in briskly. ‘I shall deal with this, of course, now you’ve reported it, but not yet.’ He gave a nod of dismissal; Andrew Black’s hand shot to the salute and he about-turned smartly and went out. Dornoch, frowning still, listened to the adjutant’s footsteps clattering down the corridor. A few minutes later he heard the sound of his horse, and he went outside into the brilliant sun, taking over the mount from an orderly. He walked his horse across the parade, and out past the quarter-guard. Once on less hard-trodden ground, he broke into a canter, welcoming the feel of the wind in his face, the wind of his speed, though in all conscience it was a hot and far from refreshing wind. He was vaguely troubled by the sudden summons to Division. On the North-West Frontier, where the Pax Britannica was always a brittle thing, the garrison was almost continually geared for combat and men had much more of an eye to their weapons than had the troops in any other area of the Empire. Here in Peshawar, last garrison on the route to the terrible Khyber Pass and the rugged Afg
han hills, the British Army was perched on the very brink of civilization, was the guardian of the ultimate, garrison of the most extreme point of the great Empire that stretched from the walls and lawns of Windsor Castle to embrace and rule a quarter of the world’s population. The men, the commanders, carried a tremendous responsibility, and the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys had done their share as much as had the English regiments, and had suffered grievous losses over the years in dead and wounded. It was this that troubled Dornoch, who was at heart a clansman, a Highlander from a long line of nobility, men who had been the fathers of their people. Some good, and some bad of course, but most of them well aware of the strong paternal responsibility. Each time a man fell to the native bullets, Dornoch felt it keenly and personally. The 114th were very much a family regiment, and almost totally recruited from around the depot at Invermore, though their officers came to some extent from a wider field — Andrew Black, for instance, though a Scot, had the blood of the Bessemer steel family, also, and had lived his life in Birmingham. Because of this family element Dornoch knew his men with a fair degree of intimacy. Many of them were the sons of men who worked on his own estates on Speyside, or of his own tenant farmers. In the past months of Indian service he had had many difficult letters to write to wives and mothers, and would have as many painful visits to make when at last the 114th Highlanders detrained at Invermore, and marched back once again into barracks at the depot, with himself, God willing, still riding at their head behind the battalion’s pipes and drums. But he was a soldier, and they were soldiers, and their trade was war, and trade they must. It was, perhaps, simply that after two-and-a-half largely action-filled years in India, after half a lifetime of service in other spheres, and earlier periods here on the Frontier as well, Dornoch no longer needed to look in the glass to recognize in himself the signs of age...
Soldier of the Raj Page 2
