He said, ‘Highness, you have said you do not trust me enough, even so, to allow me to leave Waziristan, but without my doing so, there can be no supply of arms.’
‘Another way must be found,’ Nashkar said. ‘In your country you have a saying, have you not, that to Napoleon there is no such word as cannot?’
‘I am not Napoleon,’ Ogilvie said, smiling. ‘I am one of the shopkeepers that Napoleon charged the British with being!’
The Pathan smiled in return. ‘Nevertheless, Wilshaw Sahib, a way will be found. Have you not an agent, someone in the town of Abbottabad who can make the arrangements...if a discreetly worded message reaches him from you?’
‘The whole conduct of my affairs lies in my hands alone, Highness. You will appreciate a need for great secrecy.’
‘Naturally! But you cannot operate entirely on your own, Wilshaw Sahib. There must be people whom you can trust. It is in the nature of things that this must be so.’ Once again he laid a hand on Ogilvie’s arm, drawing him across towards the battlements on the north side of the palace. ‘Think well, Wilshaw Sahib. Your arms must reach me before the sadhu speaks. The Earless One, whom as you know I trust, tells me that I need extra weapons before I am ready. This attack must not fail, and it will not fail. The sadhu will speak the moment, I will bring out the strength. In unison, we shall sweep the Frontier clean. It is written. The chance will not come again.’
They had reached the north battlements now. ‘Look down, Wilshaw Sahib,’ Nashkar said, and Ogilvie looked. He gasped. He looked out over seemingly boundless ranges of hills and mountains, melting into a vast distance under a noon-high sun; and then own the sheer side of the rock pinnacle on which the palace sat, into a valley a very long way below. It was the most tremendous drop, right down that sheer hard side, that he had ever imagined. He was linked to the floor of the valley in a straight line of wall and mountain with not so much as a tree or bush to break it. Nashkar Ali Khan said, ‘You are an honoured guest of my house, Wilshaw Sahib, and will be treated as such. There will be many delights. But as in any other house there are rules, and guests are expected to obey them. If they do not, then they cease to be guests.’ He lifted an arm and extended it over the battlements. ‘Arms from Abbottabad in the north, Wilshaw Sahib, or I shall order you to be thrown down from this spot. You understand?’
White-faced, Ogilvie nodded. He stepped back from the embrasure, involuntarily. His head swam; he had a feeling, for the first time in his life, that he had no head for heights — such heights, anyway. He said, ‘I understand, Highness, but I cannot see the means whereby I can obey.’
The Pathan shrugged and said, ‘It is for you to think of the way, and then for me to approve. But we have not much longer, Englishman!’
‘How long?’
‘As I have said so many times, this depends upon the sadhu. At any moment the sign may come. So, Wilshaw Sahib the arms, and quickly!’ Nashkar Ali Khan, in a sudden movement of impatience, swung round on Healey. ‘What think you, Earless One?’
For the first time Captain Healey spoke. ‘Wilshaw Sahib has talked to me of a woman, who assists him in his work. He does not want to involve this woman...but perhaps he can be persuaded it is for the best.’
Ogilvie stared; he gave a gasp of astonishment, of alarm and indignation. This reaction seemed, he fancied, to please Healey; and instinct kept his own mouth shut until something clarified. But he wondered how the devil this Political Officer from far-off Ootacamund could possibly have heard anything about Mary Archdale, who was the only woman he could be presumed to refer to.
It was instinct again that provided him with the right reaction. He became very British. ‘I can’t involve a lady,’ he said stiffly. All the while his mind was working fast. In point of fact Healey had given him a first-class opening and had given it under the best possible conditions of authenticity; it all had the appearance of being dragged from Ogilvie, something he had not thought of for himself. And it was just possible that Mary might interpret a message, and pass it on to Lord Dornoch, who would contact Division, who would consult O’Kelly...it could work if he was damned clever in the way the message was worded! It would go against his orders from O’Kelly, of course, the order that he was on no account to communicate; but O’Kelly was not here, and he was. Expediency must dictate, initiative must take a firm grip. Campaigns had been lost before now because of an officer’s blind obedience to orders. If Division, as result of a message, could organize a decoy arms caravan, with a strong force covering it and nicely hidden...but in God’s name what could they do? A force big enough to achieve Nashkar’s rout on his own territory would need to be so big it would be reported to this peak-perched palace before ever it moved out of cantonments!
Ogilvie’s heart sank again, but, for what it was worth, he followed the given lead. ‘It is true I have a friend of whom I have spoken to the Earless One, perhaps too lightly. She means much to me, and I to her.’ He decided to amend this a little; and to help the process he gave a slight, knowing smile. ‘More, perhaps, I to her, though I would not care that she should know this. I — find her useful to me.’
‘In your selling of arms?’
‘Yes.’
‘Explain fully, Wilshaw Sahib.’
As if with reluctance still, he did. ‘She is the widow of a British officer, formerly of the Peshawar garrison, killed in action some while ago — before I myself came to India. She...blames the British Army for her husband’s death. She was devoted to him. Despite this devotion, there are things that, having been a married woman, she misses.’
‘These things you supply, as you supply arms?’
‘That’s right,’ Ogilvie said steadily, giving another realistic smutty smirk. ‘In return she — well, she tells me things. She is still much in touch with the military, and military affairs are talked about a good deal. She keeps me informed of the movements of patrols — things like that. Also where the soldiers are likely to be operating, so that I can avoid those areas for my trade missions, and go to them when it is safe again.’
‘She knows where your arms are hidden, this woman?’
He hesitated, but not for long. ‘No. I have never told her that. It isn’t that I don’t trust her. But the less a person knows, the less they can reveal under pressure if anything goes wrong. This I believe you will understand, Highness.’
‘Assuredly, and you are wise! Continue, Wilshaw Sahib. How, then, can she assist you now?’
Ogilvie said, ‘She can take a message — personally, to Abbottabad. You are right that I have associates, not many but a few — men who are mere subordinates, who will not act except on a personal message. This is a rule of all arms companies who trade in areas of the world such as this — you must understand that there are many people against us, and many ruses are used to trip us. Thus, all orders except those from the representatives such as myself are disregarded.’
‘And the woman? They will trust her?’
‘Yes. One man will, a man whom she has met.’
Nashkar looked at him hard, penetratingly. Ogilvie, tense from the concentrated thought and lightning-like verbal processes and decisions that this conversation had forced upon him virtually unawares, looked back and met his eye squarely. He was aware of approval emanating from Healey. The Pathan leader asked suddenly, ‘This man. His name?’
‘He is called Cunningham.’
‘Cunning-um.’
‘That’s right.’ It was unlikely, but possible, that the name of Dornoch was known to Nashkar Ali Khan; it could be taken as reasonably certain that that of the Regimental Sergeant-Major would not be. And old Bosom Cunningham was a good friend and as dependable as a rock. If a message could be got to him, it would reach the Colonel at the double, or at least as fast as the heavily-built R.S.M. could move.
‘You can trust this woman not to give your message to anybody but Cunning-um?’
Ogilvie gave an easy, assured laugh. He felt the tide running his way quite strongly and he was f
illed with a surge of optimism. ‘Absolutely! You do not imagine any woman on a military station is likely to admit friendship with a man who provides arms for the tribes? I have even to be careful not to see this lady in Peshawar, or to be seen there myself. She comes to me in Abbottabad...or sometimes we meet in the hills that lie between.’
Nashkar nodded, then turned away. He stalked along below the embrasures, deep in thought, moving up and down with his arms folded in front of his body. At last he stopped, and once again faced Ogilvie. ‘Very well, Wilshaw Sahib,’ he said. ‘You shall prepare a message, which I shall read. If I approve it, I shall have it delivered to this woman — and then we shall see. You will be your own hostage, Wilshaw Sahib.’
‘And in the meantime, Highness?’
Nashkar laughed. ‘In the meantime you are still my honoured guest and you have the freedom of my palace. This state of affairs will continue for so long as I am given no cause to change it. Do you understand, Wilshaw Sahib?’
‘I understand,’ Ogilvie answered gravely.
‘Good! Then we shall meet again later, when you have decided upon your message. The Earless One will take you to your apartment now, Wilshaw Sahib, where you will be provided with pen and ink and paper.’
*
It was a splendid apartment, on the side of the palace looking northward, over the long drop into the valley beneath the battlements. Ogilvie and Healey approached it by way of a thickly-carpeted corridor whose ends were guarded by Pathans carrying rifles with fixed bayonets. This gave Ogilvie a strong awareness of a prison, but this feeling was to some extent suspended when he entered the apartment itself. This was high and spacious, and there was a luxurious bed — a real four-poster with rich hangings, that looked as if it had come from England. Another article of furniture with nostalgic overtones of home was the wash-stand, its marble surface bearing a gold-decorated china basin and jug and soap-dish; and a glass water-bottle with a tumbler over its neck. There were three tall, narrow windows, little more than light-giving slits, with that long drop below them and the distant view across the high mountains rolling over Waziristan.
Healey gave a sudden chuckle and said, ‘Just look at the ceiling, old boy. That’ll give you erotic dreams, all right!’
Ogilvie looked up. The ceiling was covered with a rich painting, a scene that was reminiscent of some debauch of ancient Rome. Dark-skinned men, naked but for their turbans, chased peached-skinned nymphs, and caught them, and performed upon their willing bodies strangenesses that had never entered Ogilvie’s well-brought-up imagination. The painting was beautifully executed, and the colours were sharp, the immense detail well defined and startling. There was a sense of action, of real movement in it; it was a depiction of a sensualist’s cavorting fantasy but it possessed life.
‘Pretty extreme, isn’t it?’ Ogilvie said.
Healey grinned. ‘Not very British! But healthy.’
‘Healthy?’
‘Of course.’ Healey swept a hand upward. ‘Damn it, these people were realists, they had no bloody silly inhibitions. It all came out, instead of turning inwards on them. We in Britain have forgotten how to live, all our natural feelings have been battered down by our ghastly Victorian morality. All the things we’d like to do, we daren’t do. Sometimes we don’t even know we want to do them, not consciously, and that’s bad in itself, because what’s there in us,’ he said, pressing the palms of his hands to his chest and staring at Ogilvie, ‘has to show itself in one form or another, and quite often it goes bad on us and turns us into extremely nasty people. Absolutely free sexual expression is as good for one as a purge. Better — because it’s natural.’
Ogilvie followed his glance upward again. ‘Or unnatural!’ Healey shook his head impatiently. ‘There’s nothing unnatural in any of that, old boy. It’s only the teachings of the moralists that makes us believe that.’
Ogilvie was visited by a sudden thought of Andrew Black. Black, to his knowledge, was awkward with women, though on occasions his hot look, a lascivious look when he fancied himself unobserved, had given away his desires. Very likely he was a frustrated man, one of Healey’s victims of morality, and equally likely he might show a different side to his character if only he could break through the layers of all that had been drummed into him by stupid, well-meaning parents, sadistic schoolmasters and hidebound nannies. It could indeed explain a great deal.
‘There are other things to be explained too,’ Ogilvie said aloud.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Oh — just thoughts.’ Ogilvie flushed. ‘But there is something I’d like explained, Healey. How the devil did you come to hear about Mrs. Archdale?’
Healey laughed. ‘Why assume it was Mrs. Archdale?’
‘There’s no one else. It was her, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how?’
‘My dear old chap, you bear a name that’s pretty well known in India — oh yes, all the way to Ootacamund, as if you didn’t know!’
‘But —’
‘There isn’t any but, old boy. There’s only the two G.O.C.’s in the field, and one’s your father. He’s in the limelight and so, to an extent, are you, because of him.’ He threw up his hands and grinned. ‘That’s all there is in it. Long tongues. You know India. Vast, yes, but there aren’t really so many of us British. We take a ridiculous interest in one another’s affairs —’
‘A damned impertinent interest —’
‘Oh, I don’t know! It’s quite a useful interest at times — isn’t it?’
‘You mean now?’ Ogilvie hesitated. ‘If it comes off.’
‘It will. But my own interest in the Ogilvie clan has had another use just lately. It’s proved to me, right from the start — after you said who you were, that is — that you’re on the level. You see, I’ve met your father, or anyway I’ve served under him at a distance — and you’re really very like him, old boy. Looks and manner both. And believe me, that’s a compliment.’
‘Thank you. Talking of trust, though, Healey...how is it that Nashkar trusts you as much as he obviously does?’
‘It’s my job to be convincing.’
‘Yes, but —’
Healey held up a hand. ‘Again I say, no buts. I meant what I said. If he didn’t trust me, I’d consider I’d fallen down on my job. I’ve put a devil of a lot of work into it, you know. My background is authentic, my command of the lingo is perfect — my credentials are in order.’ He fingered his ear-holes. ‘Then there’s these, and my nose, of course. I came through the fire, Ogilvie, and was not found wanting. The Pathans set a lot of store by that.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, don’t apologize! It’s natural you should want to know, since you owe Nashkar’s trust in you largely to my own word. If I’m bowled out, old boy, so are you — but I don’t need to remind you! The fact is,’ he added, ‘Nashkar likes me. We see eye to eye on a good many things. If a Pathan likes you, you’re in. It has something to do with the second law of Pukhtunwali, you know. Melmastia.’
‘Hospitality?’ Ogilvie remembered being instructed in this by poor dead Jones.
‘Exactly. On occasions, it even supersedes badal. It’s so strong that even your worst enemy must be given it sometimes — even to the extent of giving him refuge against anyone who’s after his life. A sort of sanctuary — like the church in the old times. Not that I mean to draw an exact parallel with my own case, of course. It’s just that melmastia has — well, in a sense disposed Nashkar to look kindly upon someone he already likes if you follow. It’s not very well put, perhaps.’
‘It’ll do! Aren’t you afraid the sadhu will smell you out, though, and tip Nashkar the wink?’
‘That old charlatan?’ Healey laughed. ‘He talks about a sign, but damn it, old boy, he doesn’t know a sign from a fried egg!’
‘When does he signify the off, then?’
Healey shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. He dreams something up. Say a thunderstorm — or something. Not
a thunderstorm actually, since the rains are well over. Perhaps a...a strange light over the mountains! I wonder he didn’t take my man-made earth tremor as being the voice of Mahomet, really.’
‘So we have to watch the weather now?’
‘We have to watch every bloody thing,’ Healey said, ‘but first, we’d better get down to that message. Or you had. It would be wiser, I think, if I left you to it, though we’d better agree on the general lines — on what we want to produce as an end result, that is.’
Ogilvie asked a little blankly, ‘What do we want to produce?’
Healey said, ‘An attack, of course.’
‘D’you mean a rescue?’
‘No, I don’t mean a rescue, old boy, I mean what I say — an attack. An attack in strength before it’s too late. I feel it in my bones that things are now on a knife-edge. If he doesn’t signify soon, our holy man’s going to be dead of starvation anyway. In my view, it’s vital your lot in Peshawar attack before the sign comes — before Nashkar’s absolutely wholly ready himself, and so we, instead of him, can use the element of surprise. Also, don’t forget you need an arms shipment inside Waziristan double quick, if you’re to survive yourself. All right? Just ponder along those lines. By the way,’ he added, moving for the door. ‘Nashkar said you would have the freedom of his palace. He meant just that and no more. It’ll include the grounds, but not Maizar or anywhere else, so don’t try to get out. There’s no freedom outside! So long, old boy. I’ll be back anon.’
Soldier of the Raj Page 19
