‘The Waziri leader?’
‘That’s him.’ O’Kelly reached up and stroked the marmoset, laying its body against his cheek. ‘A Pathan, of course — and you know what that means.’
‘A warrior?’
‘Well, certainly a warrior. They’re all a bloody-minded lot, the Pathans — I don’t need to tell you, you’ve fought them in open battle. You’ll do your fighting a different way from now on, my lad, and jolly good luck to you! But there’s more in the word Pathan than just a knife in the gut, Ogilvie. Tell me —what do you know of Pukhtunwali?’
‘Isn’t it a kind of religion, the Pathan religion?’
O’Kelly shook his head and giggled. ‘It’s not quite that, no. You could possibly say it amounts to that, I suppose. Pukhtunwali...it’s a generic term really, embracing all men who speak Pushtu — and by the way, I gather you have the dialect yourself?’
‘Yes.’
O’Kelly gabbled off a question in the hill dialect, and Ogilvie answered. They conversed in this tongue for a minute or so and then O’Kelly said, ‘Yes, quite good. Who taught you?’
‘The Munshi sahib.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t brief you on Pukhtunwali. Put concisely...well, as I say, it included all Pushtu speakers, and they’re split up into literally dozens of tribes, all strong and some immensely strong, which are divided again into khels, which you could more or less call clans I suppose. That should make you feel more at home, what?’ He giggled again, then moved his head suddenly and looked at the marmoset. He seized it and held it at arm’s length, getting to his feet. ‘Excuse me one moment, I’ll have to attend to Wolseley.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Ogilvie asked, looking about him in startled astonishment.
‘Not the Whitehall one, this one,’ O’Kelly said, indicating the marmoset. ‘I’m a Roberts man myself, that’s why I called this little bugger Wolseley. Sorry — he wants to pee.’ The Political Officer made an ungainly dash for the door, and disappeared, returning a couple of minutes later with Wolseley, who was still scratching. ‘Now we’ll get on, shall we? I was talking of Pukhtunwali. Now, an important element of Pukhtunwali, and the one that concerns us, is badal.’
‘Revenge?’
‘Good for you — yes, revenge. Revenge is obligatory, it’s a commandment to the Pathans. Which, of course, is why the Frontier is always more or less in flames, dear boy. The Pathans take revenge extremely seriously, as I dare say you know.’
‘Yes, I do know, sir.’
O’Kelly flipped a hand. ‘Don’t call me sir, dear boy. It ages me terribly.’
‘I’m sorry...Major.’
The Political Officer looked disconsolate, but said, ‘Well, yes, I s’pose that’s better. Now.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Badal, of course, is behind this current business, or anyway that’s how I assess it. The General, by the way, agrees with my assessment. Mind you, I claim no originality for seeing the revenge motive,’ he added, pouring himself another glass of whisky, ‘that’s sheer routine, really. But the rest of it is rather interesting if you’re a student of Frontier affairs — which I am. However, I’ll try to keep to the main points and be as brief as I can.’ He sat back for a moment, and screwed up the flesh around his eyes, evidently assembling his thoughts. Then he said, ‘I dare say you know the Pathans are a very, very old people. Basically, so far as we can say, they’re Turko-Iranian with a dash of Indian blood — other affinities too, Dinaric for example. Even Herodotus knew them and spoke of their being the most warlike of all the Indian tribes, and went on to say that they lived around the city of Kaspaturos.’ He looked up at Ogilvie. ‘Well, does that convey anything to you?’
Ogilvie shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t, Major. Where’s this — what did you say — Kaspaturos?’
O’Kelly said with the air of a conjurer, ‘Here, dear boy. Right here!’
‘In Peshawar?’ Ogilvie felt bewildered, and showed it.
‘Not exactly in Peshawar. I’ve formed a theory: Peshawar itself was once known as Kaspaturos. Startling? Anyway, that’s what I’ve come to believe. I won’t bore you with all the details of my studies, I’ll just ask you to accept the proposition. If you do that, you may begin to see what I believe to be behind the unrest in Waziristan, and you’ll see that we, the British, are very much hurting the susceptibilities of all the Pathans along the Frontier by sitting right smack in what their forefathers looked upon as paramount among all their cities, the absolutely sovereign city...in a sense, I suppose, very much as the Muslims look on Mecca. Well, not quite, of course, but that’ll give you some idea. D’you follow?’
Ogilvie said, ‘I follow to the extent that I can see they wouldn’t like it, but is there anything new in the idea?’
‘New?’
‘I mean, couldn’t this have been said to be behind all the Frontier wars, for years past, Major?’
‘Oh, no. No, not at all! Didn’t I expressly say, this is my theory. What?’
‘Yes, you did.’ Ogilvie paused, then went on, trying to be tactful, ‘But surely — if you’re the only one who knows this — the Pathans don’t realize they have anything to be upset about?’
‘Ah!’ O’Kelly said, not at all put out but looking vaguely triumphant. ‘I’m not saying I’m the only one who does know this. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not. I’ve heard things in the market place, as you might say. Little things mostly, but things that add up, you know. I believe someone else is propounding this theory about Kaspaturos, and is inflaming the tribes thereby.’ He hesitated, biting at his lips, and giving Ogilvie a series of covert glances; some inner struggle seemed to be going on in his mind, then he came to a decision. ‘I have to be honest, dear boy, I have to be fair to you and give you the facts. These little things that I’ve heard...it’s them that really gave me the first ideas about Kaspaturos. Do you see? Just those vague hints, as it were, set me thinking and since then I’ve done an enormous amount of study. Enormous. So it’s really quite fair to call it my theory.’
Ogilvie concealed a smile with some difficulty, but conceded O’Kelly’s honesty of purpose. Gravely he said, ‘Oh, quite. I can imagine the hard work, Major. But who d’you think is selling the idea to the tribes?’
O’Kelly said, lowering his voice instinctively now he appeared to be reaching the point, ‘I’ve heard talk of a holy man, up in the hills. I believe, somewhere around Gumarshah, near the Waziristan-Kohat border, though I can’t pin-point him closer than that. I believe he shifts around quite a lot. Now I don’t know that he’s our man, but it seems likely that he is, since rumour has it that he’s been having talks with Nashkar Ali Khan. And I believe he’s filling the tribal ears with war talk — talk of Kaspaturos, and the perennial desirability of hoofing out the British - but, this time, with more of a bite in it. I expect you can see that. We’re occupying the ancestral home in a very positive sense.’
‘But we’ve occupied the Frontier — and Peshawar — for years!’
O’Kelly nodded. ‘Yes, true. But Kaspaturos — and the knowledge of its location, don’t you see — is quite, quite different. Possibly you wouldn’t understand without a deeper feeling for the Pathan mind and heart. It’s something you’ll have to take my word for, dear boy. Once a place has been identified as being your long lost Mecca, to use the simile again — well, surely you must see?’ He spread his hands. ‘Anyway, those are the facts as I see them, not without evidence to go upon, as I’ve tried to say. But I’m not saying those facts are complete. There’s another thing I might add, and it’s this: Waziristan holds the seed of whatever is happening and there have been signs that the other tribes, those outside Waziristan, are harbouring jealous thoughts about the Waziris —’
‘Because they’ve got the holy man and the others haven’t?’ Ogilvie gave a short laugh. ‘A little childish, isn’t it?’
‘You can laugh,’ O’Kelly said, his own face solemn, ‘and I agree the childishness — the Pathan is childish in some ways, at any rate
when seen against our own standards of civilized behaviour. But it’s nonetheless serious to them. I don’t know that the jealousies are to do with the ground chosen by the holy man for his soothsaying, but they might be — they might well be. Now, we of course don’t mind the jealousies since they’re clearly divisive, but I don’t believe this state of affairs will last. The very opposite will come about in time. The word about Kaspaturos will spread like a fire, dear boy, like an all-consuming flame, and that holy man will become the unifier. And when that happens — well, God help Peshawar and all its inhabitants!’
Ogilvie nodded; he could see the dangers if O’Kelly was right. Fettleworth would have the devil’s own job to defend the garrison against a concerted assault by all the Frontier tribes, fanaticized by retold dreams of past glories and a past home, presented with an embodiment of that splendid past, a target for attack. Abruptly he asked, ‘So what is it you want me to do, Major?’
‘Go into Waziristan and make contact with the holy man. Find out exactly what is going on, what precisely is threatened, and how far this thing has already gone. Find out also the enemy’s plans in as much detail as possible — it’s really that, of course, that the General requires of you so I have to advise you to make that your first objective. But do not make the mistake of disregarding the other objectives. They’re vitally important for the future. Have you ever killed a man, dear boy?’
Ogilvie was startled by the unexpected question. ‘In the field, yes.’
O’Kelly said, ‘You’ll find a vast difference. Killing a man of whom you’ve made a friend, killing him in cold blood, well, it’s not very pleasant. But it has to be.’
‘Am I expected to do that?’ Ogilvie asked.
‘Yes. Depending on what you find out — depending, that is, on how far events have moved...if this is only at its start, a still-birth can be induced. To induce it you must kill the holy man. How you do this is your own affair, and the only stipulation is, the body must never be found afterwards.’ O’Kelly leaned again across the table and grasped Ogilvie’s arm, a sudden movement that caused Wolseley to utter a shrill cry of near dislodgement. ‘You’ll be doing it for the Raj, dear boy. In the name of Her Majesty.’
It sounded horribly hollow and even insincere and pretentious. Ogilvie wondered how good Queen Victoria, assuming she was not a complete imbecile deaf and blind to what went on in her name, could ever find sleep in her great bed at Windsor Castle.
He was not to enter the fastnesses of Waziristan in the guise of a native. O’Kelly said, and said rightly Ogilvie thought, that such things were of the past, though it seemed there had been some disagreement on that point from General Fettle-worth. Instead, he was to go in as an Englishman, a renegade Englishman selling arms to the warring tribes, a man who cared nothing for the fact that his arms would be used against British soldiers but was interested only in his profit. He would, of necessity, go in under discreet cover. His route would be given to him within the next twenty-four hours, after various arrangements had been made with his battalion and with Division. Whilst in Waziristan, or wherever else his journeyings might take him, he was under no circumstances to attempt communication even if such were possible, with Peshawar. He was simply to come out as soon as his investigations were complete — and the sooner the better, of course — and make his full report to O’Kelly and General Fettleworth. If anything should go wrong, if he should have the grave misfortune to be uncovered, he would get no help from the British Army or the Government in Calcutta. He would be disowned. Naturally, no matter what the pressures put upon him, he was never to reveal his mission. And, equally naturally, he was not to breathe a word to anyone before he left Peshawar.
O’Kelly said, with an embarrassed cough, ‘I apologize for saying this, dear boy, but it has to be said, and you must know very well that any garrison town has its gossippers — besides which, it’s my plain duty to acquaint myself with the full background of an officer who becomes attached to my Department.’ His eyes — Ogilvie had noted this as a habit of his — revolved upwards so that the pupils were lost and only the white showed. ‘I’m referring to a certain lady — no names, I’m a gentleman, damn it! You must not tell her anything, of course, but she will have to be given some explanation for your absence. You will tell her that you are going on a temporary Staff assignment in Murree, attached to your father’s headquarters. This has been agreed with your father, as a matter of fact, and he will see to it that nothing comes unstuck. It will also give the lady an address to which to write should she ask.’
‘And what about replies?’
‘There will be no occasion for replies. You will in fact advise the lady, as no doubt you would do if the Staff job was real, that it would be better if she did not write. On the other hand, you see, if she does still write, the letters will be delivered care of your father and not sent back as undeliverable or anything of that sort. It’s the best we can do, and I think it will be all right. Now, have you any further questions, dear boy?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘If you have any before you leave, get in touch — here, not at Division.’ O’Kelly got to his feet and reached out his hand. ‘Good luck to you. Thank you for your co-operation.’ When Ogilvie shook that outstretched hand he found it surprisingly firm and was also surprised to see in O’Kelly’s eyes a clear, straightforward meeting with his own and even a look of compassion. He didn’t like the implications of the compassion but he felt the Political Officer could after all be trusted for what that might be worth. Leaving O’Kelly’s bungalow, he reported again to his Colonel, and found Lord Dornoch non-committal when he told him, without specification, that he now had his orders. Dornoch clearly disapproved, however, in general terms, though he went no further than to say that he would be delighted to see Ogilvie back in due course and that his command of his company was assured the moment he rejoined the battalion. That evening Ogilvie went round to Mary Archdale’s bungalow and gave her his cover story as instructed. There being no reason for her not to do so, she believed him; but was nevertheless surprised that Fettleworth’s ‘plans’ for Ogilvie had turned out to be an appointment to his own father’s Staff. ‘Not at all what I’d have expected of General Fettleworth, James,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Is it some deep plot, whose exact cleverness escapes me, to attach you to your mother’s apron strings, and forget me?’
He laughed at that. ‘I doubt it — and he wouldn’t have a hope anyway!’
‘Your father, then?’
‘No. He would never do that. I don’t suppose he likes the prospect any more than I do.’ To his own surprise, he found he was being totally convincing, even to the point of convincing himself that he was bound for Murree. He hoped he would be as efficient in his duties once he had crossed into the gaunt hills of Waziristan. ‘It won’t be for long anyway, Mary.’
‘I hope not, love. Oh, I’m going to miss you so terribly, James.’ She paused, her eyes searching his face. ‘You don’t think this has some connection, do you, with your being out of cantonments? That you’re being sent away from me because of that?’
Again the feeling of self-convincement came to him as he answered, ‘I don’t know, Mary dear, but, well, I suppose it might be that. We’re being awfully dangerous, you know. Nothing’s secret.’
She pushed herself at arm’s length away from him on the sofa where they were sitting. ‘Has it never occurred to you,’ she said with spirit, ‘that there’s really nothing to be secret about? I’m no longer another man’s wife!’
He flushed; he hadn’t paid her much of a compliment, to be sure. He said lamely, ‘Well, you know what we’ve discussed, Mary.’
‘Yes, love, your career. Oh, it’s important, of course it is, to me as well as you. But all these damn gossippers, these dreadful bitchy old women — why, even your Lord Dornoch’s as much an old woman really as that Bates woman who saw us together at Annandale months and months ago! Why can’t men ever be realists?’ She added fiercely, ‘We’re both
free to marry, if it comes to the point. We’re not doing anything illicit!’
He smiled at her, and moved towards her. She came into his arms and let herself relax slowly. He said, ‘Aren’t we? Doing anything illicit?’
‘Only if you’re a Bible-thumping prude, love!’
‘Which I’m not. I leave that to Andrew Black.’
‘Whom you won’t be seeing for a while.’
‘Thank God for that, at all events.’
‘You won’t be seeing me either, love.’ She kissed him on the mouth; a long kiss. ‘Well?’ It was full of meaning.
He understood, and he nodded. ‘No more absences from cantonments, though. Not yet, anyway.’ Nothing more was said; they got up and went through to Mary’s bedroom, and she closed the shutters. Already the daylight was fading outside; the bedroom became shadowy but he could still see the gleam of white skin as she undressed. This time there was no drink to make his head reel, to dull the edge of his emotions and his appreciation, as in fact, he now realized, it had done on the last occasion. He took her in his arms and lifted her, and carried her, and set her gently on the bed, with a kind of reverence. She spoke only once, breathlessly, urgently, but with a deep intensity of feeling. She said, ‘Oh love, my love,’ and that was all. It was something he would carry with him in his remembrance and in his heart, distantly into the wild Waziri hills.
Soldier of the Raj Page 5
