Soldier of the Raj

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It cuts both ways. I know I’m now at a certain amount of risk, and I’d never have taken the risk of telling you I wasn’t coming back if it hadn’t been for the fact my company’s paid me a good deal of money to introduce Mr. Wilshaw here. Now, I want to minimize that risk. How do I do it? Here’s how, Gojun Khan: I cross your frontier safe and sound, with no impediments, or Mr. Wilshaw sells you no arms. You’ll have observed for yourself he carries no stock of his own. He just takes orders this first trip. No safe conduct for me — no arms for the khels . Your scouts’ll report back when I’ve crossed out, and they’ll take back my own personal message to Mr. Wilshaw. When he gets that, and not unless and until, he’ll fulfil his contracts. And not only that. I said this whole thing cuts both ways. If I don’t get out, the word’ll spread — you know how it is. After that, no arms salesmen will enter Waziristan again. Wouldn’t be worth the risk, would it?’

  Gojun Khan bowed his head. ‘We think alike, seller of arms. You will leave our land in peace and safety. This I promise.’

  ‘And for that I thank you, Gojun Khan, and as one man of spirit to another, I accept your assurance.’ Jones hesitated. ‘And my assistant, Mr. Wilshaw?’

  Gojun Khan said, ‘Your assistant must prove himself.’

  ‘But in the meantime you will give him your help, and your trust, Gojun Khan?’

  ‘This I will do, until such time as he gives cause to the khels to withdraw this trust.’ He looked keenly at Ogilvie, who was surprised to find a trace of friendliness in the native’s eyes. ‘Go in trust, assistant seller of arms, who is now a seller of arms in his own right.’ Then he laughed. ‘Go also in blindness, Englishman, for as blind men are the British happiest!’

  When they had left Gojun Khan, and were once more in the privacy of the hut allotted to them, Ogilvie asked why Jones had not given him the tip to start the argument he had said would be necessary. Jones said, ‘Why, Mr. Wilshaw, because I saw it wasn’t necessary after all. Old Gojun trusts you and likes you.’

  ‘I hardly said a word to him.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he liked. Anyway, take my word for it, you’re in good, Mr. Wilshaw.’ He looked reflectively at Ogilvie. ‘Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know the answer, but you’re the sort of young chap people do like. Why, even I’ve come to like you, in spite of your classy attitudes. I’ll miss your company, going back. Now, coming from me, that means a lot.’

  The speech, obviously a sincere one, embarrassed Ogilvie. To cover his embarrassment he asked Jones how confident he was that any interference with his progress to safety beyond the Waziri border would lead to a total withdrawal of sales labour. Jones guffawed at that. ‘Load of tripe,’ he said. ‘We have a kind of rough-and-ready code of honour in the profession, mind, but we all have to live. Before long, somebody’d be back...some other company’d cough up enough sponduliks to make it seem worth the risk involved. Competition’s competition, results are results, and the sack’s the sack. Get me, Mr. Wilshaw?’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘I suppose I do, yes. But for your part, do you believe Gojun Khan means what he says about safe passage out?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jones answered. ‘Course I do! These Pathans, they do keep their word once they’ve given it in friendship. It’d be beneath their warrior instincts to rat.’

  And we British? Ogilvie thought — but didn’t say it. That night he slept only fitfully, tossing and turning on a pile of skins on the earth floor of the hut, the stink of the village thick and heavy in his nostrils, Gojun Khan obtruding into such nightmarish dreams as he had. Many people at home, and in Peshawar as well, would say that a Pathan was only a native, an enemy to be used as best one could when the opportunity arose, a heathen whose mission in life should be to bow the knee to Calcutta and Whitehall and the race of sahibs above. Others, like his own father and his Colonel, would respect Gojun Khan as a warrior but still consider him basically as material sacrificeable to the Raj. Ogilvie could not consider him in quite this impersonal manner. Gojun Khan was a man as well as a fighter, a man who had apparently given him his trust and his liking, and to kick him in the teeth was reprehensible and un-gentlemanly. Strange indeed, the split mind of the British, who could so easily, so calmly and so damned insolently select those to whom their military officers should also behave as gentlemen! On the verge of another spell of sleep, Ogilvie sighed disconsolately. He was no longer an officer, he was a spy, and by the very nature of their existence spies were reprehensible, and he had better just make up his mind to be as reprehensibly successful as the best of them...

  Next morning he and Mr. Jones set off, leaving Janda Khel with the bullock-cart, now only a quarter loaded, and the horse tied on behind. Gojun Khan himself came to see them off, and gave them an escort for a little way. Thereafter they negotiated the mountain passes on their own, seeing now and again those silent, watchful figures on the high crags, lean brooders on the silence who gave them a wave of recognition as they passed along the track below.

  ‘We’ll be reported ahead,’ Jones said. ‘Roses all the way, now! You should have a nice, easy run...up to a point.’

  ‘How d’you mean, up to a point?’

  ‘Well, Mr. Wilshaw, I still don’t know what your job is, of course, but like I said before, or words to that effect, it’s not to sell ladies’ underwear. One thing I do know is, or if I don’t exactly know it only a fool wouldn’t be able to guess it, and that is, you’re no more Mr. Ernest Wilshaw than I’m Mr. Ewart Gladstone. So the point in question, is the point you throw off your cloak of disguise, or when it’s thrown off you, eh, Mr. Wilshaw?’

  They jolted and rumbled onward, deeper into Waziristan, into tribal and very hostile country, as the sun crept up the sky and sent down the full blazing heat of the day, heat that parched the land almost into very fire. Later, dust-covered and hot and weary, they pulled into the next village, Mr. Jones’s last port of call. Here they were well received; word had been sent ahead by Gojun Khan, via the bush telegraph, fantastic communications system of a fantastic land. As soon as his deal had been successfully completed, Mr. Jones handed over the horse and the tent and took his leave of Ogilvie, shaking him warmly by the hand, and then climbed up into his empty bullock-cart.

  ‘The best of luck to you, Mr. Wilshaw,’ he said, easing his belted bags of rupees into a comfortable position.

  ‘Aren’t you worried about all that money?’ Ogilvie asked.

  ‘No, Mr. Wilshaw, not one little bit. You can always trust the Pathans once they’ve given their word, if I may repeat myself, at any rate, when it’s in their best interests. Good-bye, Mr. Wilshaw, once again.’

  ‘Good-bye, and thank you.’

  Mr. Jones jerked the stately bullocks into movement, and slowly and ponderously set off, back along the track towards the border, his mission ended. He turned once, and waved, and Ogilvie waved back. The rays of the setting sun struck fire upon Mr. Jones’s retreat, turned the dust raised by his wheels and the animals’ hooves, to a golden haze, painting a many-coloured picture across the evening sky. Ogilvie watched the cart out of sight around a bend in the track, then turned away, back to the village and the task that lay ahead, on his own now, alone and lonely, with a horse for company, in the Waziri wilderness.

  *

  Six days and three villages later James Ogilvie, now coming deeply into the southern mountains, had begun to suffer from a stifling feeling of uselessness and frustration. His discreet probes, very discreet probes, into the confidences of the various khel leaders had produced nothing but one blank wall after another. He was not so far even in a position to make a useful report, when eventually he returned to Peshawar, upon the state of readiness of the tribes for war. He had in fact seen no such preparations at all; and the only real evidence he would be able to offer was the avidity of the maliks for arms and as much ammunition as he could promise to supply — they seemed, those maliks, to have access to vast amounts of money, and it would be interesting to kno
w where the money was coming from — but then, no doubt, the Pathans were always anxious to acquire arms and possibly nothing specific could be read into their current desires.

  These were, perhaps, early days; and yet on the other hand time was running out, and delay would be found firmly on the side of the Pathans. The British could not be more ready than they already were, aside from a top level request for heavy reinforcements to be provided by Whitehall in the fastest possible troopships and then hastily trained in the ways of Frontier fighting so that ignorance should not render them too quickly into mere cannon-fodder; while the Pathans, in spite of Ogilvie’s having seen no overt signs, were very likely advancing their readiness every day.

  In the meantime, Division awaited his report. In a sense, the Empire of the East hung upon him now. This was not too great an exaggeration, for Lieutenant-General Fettleworth was the immediate executive link with the start of action, and Bloody Francis, though impetuous in battle — and often enough hankering for battle too — was the kind of officer who liked to have the fullest possible reports before he committed himself to actual movement. The reason for this was easy enough to find: Fettleworth needed to present a cogent case to his superiors. Divisional Commanders were no longer, in the nineties, quite the free agents they once had been.

  As if physical speed would of itself help to solve his problems Ogilvie urged his horse, as tired as he, faster along the rock-strewn, dusty pass.

  *

  The leader of the local khel in the next village, a small man named Ram Surangar, was of a very different type from Gojun Khan or indeed from the other leaders with whom Ogilvie, in his guise of Mr. Wilshaw, had done business. For one thing, instead of using the impersonal style of ‘seller of arms’, he addressed Ogilvie as Wilshaw Sahib; and he was light-skinned, as were so many of the Pathan people. Admitted, Ram Surangar was a greasy little object, full of cunning, and with a fawning manner, and the little eyes were as shifty as quicksand. Nevertheless, Ogilvie believed he was genuinely anxious to please, and he was undoubtedly greedy for weapons. The time had come for probing to go a little deeper and Ram Surangar was the most pliable material that had so far offered itself.

  ‘My company,’ Ogilvie said expansively when, as was customary, he was discussing business in the privacy of the malik’s dwelling, ‘is a large one, and important. Its business interests are widespread, Ram Surangar.’

  ‘Yes, Wilshaw Sahib.’

  ‘Yet there is always room for further development. Many favours await those who bring about this development.’

  ‘Yes, Wilshaw Sahib?’ The small eyes took on an avid look.

  ‘I refer, of course, to myself. I have not been long in my company’s employ, as you know. I wish to grow large with the company. However, as I realize very well, I can grow only at the pace at which my customers give me orders. If those orders are large, my commission is large too.’ He paused. ‘It would be possible for me to allow certain of my customers a share in this commission.’

  ‘By way of smaller prices, Wilshaw Sahib?’

  ‘Perhaps not so.’ Ogilvie eased his uncomfortable position on the floor; he longed for nothing so much as to sit once again in a chair, rather than on a floor or the back of a horse. ‘Ram Surangar, I do not seek to pry into the ways and means by which you raise the payment for arms. It is not my concern, but yours alone.’ He returned Ram Surangar’s bow of assent to this proposition. ‘Nevertheless, I believe it may be that certain precise sums of money are sent to you for expenditure upon these arms...or it may be that you raise a levy from your villagers. I do not know. But I have no doubt that a little extra money coming your way by means of a commission quite separate from the price, would not necessarily have to be made known to your financial sources, your sources of revenue. Do you understand me, Ram Surangar?’

  ‘Perfectly, Wilshaw Sahib.’

  ‘Excellent! Then I feel sure we can reach some agreement, Ram Surangar. Now I shall proceed a little farther.’ Ogilvie leaned forward, aware of the caution and greed mixed in the old native’s face. ‘The arms which I supply to you, Ram Surangar, will not of themselves be enough to admit of my sharing my commission with any third party. I need very much bigger orders than any khel could give me. And along the frontiers of the British Raj I have heard the whisper of a name, the name of a man who might well be able to place very large orders indeed.’

  ‘This name, Wilshaw Sahib?’

  ‘Nashkar Ali Khan.’

  Ram Surangar sat very still, but the sudden flicker of his eyes, which Ogilvie was watching carefully, gave him away. That flicker revealed his fear, his sudden desire, perhaps, to dissociate himself from any discussions of Nashkar Ali Khan, the man O’Kelly in far Peshawar had said was the overall leader of the about-to-be-embattled Waziris. Still watching that crafty, wizened old face closely, Ogilvie saw the small signs of an inner conflict, the wonderment as to how much his visitor knew, how much he could say without revealing more, how far he could simulate innocence; how far he would need to go in order to advance the matter of a little personal pocket-lining.

  Plainly, he needed more help; more persuasion.

  Ogilvie said carefully, ‘Ram Surangar, the question of arms supply depends to a large extent upon mutual co-operation, as I have tried to indicate.’

  ‘This I understand, Wilshaw Sahib.’

  ‘I am glad to hear this, Ram Surangar, for it would be in the best interests of neither of us if I should be forced to pass by your village on my next trip into Waziristan.’ He shrugged, and sat back, fanning his face with a sheaf of leaflets that gave the specifications of various small-arms. He hoped he was giving the impression of a likely loss of interest in Ram Surangar as a customer; but quickly found that Ram Surangar was equal to the occasion.

  The old man said, ‘Wilshaw Sahib, I too am sorry if this should happen. Something, however, tells me insistently that it will not.’

  Ogilvie considered the point, meeting Ram Surangar’s apparently guileless smile. Reaching certain conclusions, he asked, ‘And this something, Ram Surangar?’

  There was an indifferent shrug. ‘There are other sellers of weapons, Wilshaw Sahib. Some from your country, some from America, some from other lands across the mountains.’

  ‘Yes, this is true —’

  ‘And if word were to spread that it were better for us to deal with these other suppliers, Wilshaw Sahib, your commissions would fall like the ebbing tide that I am told washes the land-world clean with astonishing regularity.’

  Ogilvie grinned. ‘True, Ram Surangar. But there’s a tide in the affairs of men as well! Do you not see, Ram Surangar, that this is an opportunity that will not occur again? Do these other sellers of arms offer you a share in their commission?’

  Ram Surangar didn’t answer, but there was something in the shrug of the old man’s skinny shoulders that told Ogilvie he had scored a point. Ram Surangar was filled with bluff like an egg with nourishment. For more long minutes the bargaining, or the jockeying for the commanding position, continued; and then, with obvious reluctance, Ram Surangar asked, ‘What do you wish to know about the man you call Nashkar Ali Khan?’

  ‘His whereabouts, Ram Surangar.’

  ‘This is all?’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘This is, I think, more information than I possess.’

  ‘Ram Surangar, I would think more about this. I can bring much help, and I would be grateful for my commissions. As I have promised, I would show this gratitude.’

  ‘It is a promise?’

  ‘Of course. You have my word.’ Ogilvie said this with some difficulty, and found himself unable to look Ram Surangar in the face as he did so. Subterfuge was far from second nature as yet. He added, as if in some atonement for a promise to be shattered, ‘I can offer a token sum by way of an advance, Ram Surangar.’

  The eyes glittered. ‘The amount, Wilshaw Sahib?’

  ‘A thousand rupees.’

  A little bargaining extended th
is sum to fifteen hundred rupees. Ogilvie reached into an inside pocket for some cash. He counted out a sum roughly equivalent in Bank of England five-pound notes. ‘The place where I can find Nashkar Ali Khan?’ he asked, holding on to the money.

  ‘The town of Maizar. I can say no more than this.’

  ‘It is enough. Thank you, Ram Surangar.’ Ogilvie handed over the notes. ‘I am confident that you and your men will respect the safety of my possessions,’ he added, in reference to the obvious fact that he was carrying very much more than fifteen hundred rupees on his person. ‘I know that Nashkar Ali Khan would take his revenge were I to be molested.’

  Ram Surangar bowed his head gently. ‘There is such a thing as melmastia, our law of hospitality. You will go in peace, Wilshaw Sahib, and for tonight you shall rest in my village. In the morning, my scouts will put you upon the road for Maizar. Do you,’ he asked solicitously, ‘wish for companionship meanwhile? As an honoured guest, Wilshaw Sahib, you shall be accorded your choice of a woman.’

  ‘No, thank you, Ram Surangar. Please forgive me if I seem discourteous. I do not mean to be. The fact is, I...have my own woman outside your borders.’

  ‘But,’ Ram Surangar pointed out with unanswerable logic, ‘your woman is not here, Wilshaw Sahib.’

  ‘That is true,’ Ogilvie said in some embarrassment, ‘but she expects me to be faithful. For my part, I wish to be so. It is the British way, Ram Surangar.’

  Ram Surangar spread his hands. ‘This, of course, I have heard, but am still lost in wonder. Do you drink only from the one well, do you refuse drink from a well upon a journey, rather than offend the one that is a thousand miles behind? I feel only sorrow for the British people, for they have ideas that are most strange and curious...’

  That night, on his uncomfortable bed of skins, a replica of the others he had slept on during the past week, Ogilvie reflected that it was quite refreshing to see his countrymen through purely native eyes with no possibility of restoring an accustomed perspective by talking to a fellow Briton. He was perfectly willing to admit to himself that he would have welcomed a woman to share that dreadful bed of skins and would not, in the process, have felt it to be an act of unfaithfulness to Mary Archdale. Looked at logically, it was totally absurd to deny a strong appetite its satisfaction, especially in the situation in which he was currently placed. In such a situation there was really little value in faithfulness, the rupture of which would be a purely physical and in no sense a mental act. His feelings for Mary wouldn’t change because he bedded a woman here in Waziristan. Yet in a sense he would have regarded it as an act of callousness when he thought how recent had been that first union between himself and Mary, a union towards which every part of him had been urging him since they had first met. For the rest, the objections were purely social and conventional. It wasn’t done, one would lose caste if one slept with a native girl. It was all very silly, he thought sleepily, and come to that, not everybody kept to the rules. He’d have wagered any sum that Major Tom Archdale had done his Indian wenching since marriage...and then remembered that Mary had told him her husband had no time or even ability for sex. This brought him to a fresh awareness of all Mary must have gone through during her years of wedlock with that ageing Major, and how prodigal of the passing months they had been in not consummating their passion long, long before they had. Eventually sleep came to him, bringing him tantalizing dreams of Mary, of their bodies lying so close together, of the play of hands, of that wonderful rush of deep feeling and of her equally deep and vigorous response. He heard her cry: ‘Oh love, my love,’ and it seemed to carry from out of the military splendour of Peshawar, across the great dividing hills and through the passes, over the un-kempt heads of watchful, waiting Pathans with long rifles and unpolished bayonets, to seek out its target with its heartfelt message that he was to come back safely to British India and his own kind of woman.