Soldier of the Raj

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘Nor have the men, sir. They’re in good heart, all of them.’

  ‘Thanks to you, Sar’nt-Major.’

  ‘I have good Colour-Sergeants, sir, the best.’

  ‘I know that too, Sar’nt-Major. Keep ‘em that way!’ There was a smile in his eyes, tired eyes now, as he went on, ‘And keep a tight rein on the Pipe-Major’s natural enthusiasms!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The pipes, man, the pipes! I’ve already told him one premature squeal means he’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered the moment we reach Peshawar on return. But seriously, Cunningham, I want you to see to it that there’s absolutely no relaxation after we reach the arms dump. The charade has to be kept up right the way through until further orders from me.’

  ‘Aye, sir. I’ll be seeing to that, sir.’ Instinct began to lift Cunningham’s right hand to his helmetless forehead as he prepared to turn away; recollection of the charade kept it in place at his side. No clues must be given to the watchers on the peaks. It went against all training and all tradition of the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys to do so, but the Regimental Sergeant-Major managed somehow to make even his horse shamble, rather than walk, towards the rear.

  *

  Again the following morning, and yet again in the early evening, the escorted ride of freedom took place. Healey and Ogilvie rode down almost to the gates of Maizar on that evening ride, enjoying a slight breeze that blew from out of the north, bringing a welcome touch of cool. They halted only some two hundred yards from the gate in the town wall. There was a curious hush about Maizar, the townspeople seeming subdued or expectant. Through the gateway’s arch, Ogilvie watched them curiously, forming the strong impression that they were waiting for something to happen. Crowds of them were sitting in the narrow roadway that led to the gate, sitting in silence and, except for the occasional scamperings of children, very still.

  Healey said, ‘I see you notice it too.’

  ‘Yes. Something in the air, very definitely. It’s almost as though they’ve moved ahead of us in time...as if they know something we don’t.’

  ‘They do, old boy. It’s a kind of telepathy. Many of the primitive peoples have it. I suppose we all had it once, but we’ve become too sophisticated now, too much so to have any trust in our feelings and instincts. I told you yesterday - Nashkar himself has the feeling that the sign is about to show itself.’

  ‘And you, Healey?’

  ‘I told you, I too.’

  Ogilvie grinned. ‘Primitive — aren’t you?’

  ‘Possibly. I prefer to think of it as my affinity with these people.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Healey said indifferently. He turned his horse. ‘We’d better be getting back to the palace. That’s where the fount of all news is! Come on, Ogilvie.’

  He moved back along the track, and Ogilvie followed. The sun was low now, a red orb in the western hills, spreading one of those magnificent sunsets of which Healey had spoken, throwing great splashes of rainbow-colours over the land. Climbing, Ogilvie looked back. The old town of Maizar was bathed in a curious purple light, shadowed with deep black between the close-set buildings, while the domes and minarets of its mosques, standing above the purple, were cascaded with a glowing orange. It was a remarkable and strange sight, and impressive — almost as though the odd juxtaposition of colours in the one place, and from the one sun, in itself might have constituted the long-awaited sign.

  ‘Come on,’ Healey said. ‘We’ll race again. I’ve a strong feeling this’ll be the last of the heats!’

  ‘Did you see those colours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ogilvie said, ‘You know, one way and another, I’m absorbing that premonitory feeling of yours, Healey. I’m not sure the moment hasn’t come already.’

  Healey raised his eyebrows. ‘The sign? I doubt that, old man. If that were so, Maizar would be making the welkin ring! The townspeople would have sensed it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean the sign itself, Healey. I meant — well, it’s time to act. Time for me to act. O’Kelly said the sign hadn’t to be allowed to materialize and that I would have to deal with the holy man.’

  ‘So you’ve told me. Well?’

  Ogilvie said, ‘I think the time has come for that sadhu to die, and I’ve got the chance to see to it now. If I ride out for the peak — I believe I can find the pass all right — I may be able to stop the whole thing happening. And I’ve a feeling it would be better to do that now, rather than wait for the arms caravan and its escort to turn up.’

  ‘You have a point,’ Healey said slowly. ‘Yes, you have a point...but I wasn’t expecting action this night, I must admit! It’s a trifle sudden.’ He paused, bringing his horse down to a walk. ‘How would you propose to go about it, old boy?’

  ‘It’s darkening fast. I’ve noted that our escort’s already getting restive, Healey — they’ll be chivvying us back to the palace in a moment. Well, darkness is the best cover I’m likely to get. If I can get into the hills before the moon’s up, I’m half-way home. Are you going to come with me, Healey?’

  ‘I told you, I still have a job to do. No, I’ll not come. I’m not sure you wouldn’t do better to come back to the palace and then, when the time’s right, make your getaway and try to join up with the arms party. It’s not a good thing to make last-minute changes in plans, old boy, not always.’

  ‘Surely it’s a principle of war? One must be flexible.’

  ‘Pliable’s another word for it, remember.’

  There was a sudden harshness in Healey’s voice; all at once Ogilvie had the idea Healey’s mind was not in fact wholly made up as to whether he wished to remain behind, and that he was resentful of being forced into an unexpectedly swift decision, a sudden decision that would be irrevocable. Ogilvie said, ‘But changed circumstances call for changed plans to meet them. You’ve convinced me that the sign’s imminent —’

  ‘I could be wrong.’

  ‘Of course you could, but I’ve come to see that some kind of a build-up of feeling is going on, and I don’t think we can risk being too late off the mark, Healey. I’m sure that the vital thing, now, is to deal with the sadhu before the sign comes. The rest can wait. It must be a case of first things first. You see that, don’t you?’

  He waited anxiously for the answer. Healey’s co-operation was as vital as the inhibition of the sign itself. But then Healey, whether or not he agreed with the change in plan, would scarcely hinder him by refusing his help.

  Ogilvie said as much.

  ‘No, no, I’ll not hinder, old boy. You’ll go your own way, I suppose, and I won’t say it may not turn out right. I’ll give you cover.’

  ‘Thank you, Healey. I appreciate that.’

  Healey laughed. ‘Don’t sound so damn British, so stiffly polite. This isn’t the R.M.C. and I’m not a Gentleman Cadet who’s just promised to lay off your best girl. We’re both going to be in danger of our lives this night, you mark my words! Not that I haven’t been ever since I set foot in Waziristan, or you either. But tonight things are going to sharpen up to a very fine point. But wheesht now, as I believe you say in Scotland, for our escort are doing as you prophesied, old boy, and coming in for a little urging, a touch of the spur.’ He turned in his saddle as the Pathans rode up close, and there was a conversation in Pushtu. Healey agreed to ride ahead faster, and the wild men went on, pushing past to lead the way now, leaving one behind to act as rearguard. When they were all out of earshot Healey said, ‘Now listen, if your mind’s made up to go and kill that poor old holy heathen on the heights...is it, by the way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then so be it. So is mine — and I’m staying. No — no argument on that point, if you don’t mind. Just listen.’ Healey’s voice was very quiet now. ‘About a mile ahead, there’s a defile leading off to the right of the track, north-westerly. If we don’t go too fast — just fast enough to keep the escort happy — it’ll be nicely dark by the time we reach that defile
. When we do, you nip into it, fast. If you keep going right ahead, it’ll lead you smack into the pass you were brought along from that hole. When you reach the pass, turn westwards and there you are. You certainly can’t miss the sadhu, he’s like the signpost on the Great North Road saying Scotland and The North...but you know that, of course. However, don’t underestimate the dangers. Nashkar’s going to know very well where you’re heading, and he’ll do everything he can to cut you off along that route. That’s obvious. As—’

  ‘Not really. He doesn’t know who I am, and he trusts me. You’ve said yourself — and it’s been plain enough — he has no suspicions left now. He may think I’ll just head for the border and away, to save my own skin — just in case.’

  ‘When you’re being, as you say, trusted?’ Healey shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t do that, old man, not when you’re on a good wicket. No, he’ll assume the worst — that you’re a British agent after all and heading for the sadhu. Naturally, I’ll be doing all I can to cause delay and confusion and give you a start. You can count on that.’

  ‘Thanks, Healey. And you’ll cover my actual getaway when we reach the defile?’

  ‘Certainly I will, old boy. But you must cover me as well. You throw me to the ground when I give the word, and you dash off, after which I’ll do what I can to mislead the immediate pursuit. Don’t expect miracles, Ogilvie, old boy. I did warn you it was dangerous! There’s a strong chance you won’t get a hundred yards.’

  ‘That was always a chance I had to take — there’s no difference now. But can’t we stick to the idea of a horse-race? That way — if we belt off now — we’ll be moving fast with the escort well behind us—’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right. We can have a nice little pile-up. But d’you really feel your horsemanship is up to a night race in this kind of country, Ogilvie?’

  ‘No. But again, it’s a chance I have to take.’ Ogilvie tried not to look too closely at their surroundings. To the left rose high rock, seeming to reach to the very sky, sheer and smooth and black in the swiftly-gathering darkness. On his right the ground fell away quite steeply, dropping towards another rise into hilly country scarred by defiles such as the one he would take, and valleys, with the rearing crests stretching away into Afghanistan. The track itself, the one they were on, was smooth but dotted with small rocks that had fallen from the heights above, and smashed, to endanger the horses’ feet with their treachery. It would, in fact, be the very devil of a ride. He said, ‘I’m ready when you are, Healey.’

  ‘Then we won’t delay.’ Healey shouted ahead to the escort, and they halted. A moment later Ogilvie could just see them coming back. They stopped in front of Healey.

  ‘A race,’ Healey said in Pushtu. ‘Wilshaw Sahib wishes to test his skill against mine at night.’

  ‘As the Earless One desires.’

  ‘Then ride behind us, that the way may be clear.’

  They obeyed what was in effect a command, peremptorily uttered — all along it had been clear that the escort was there not to guard Healey, but to assist him in guarding the supposed Wilshaw Sahib. Already now Healey was counting for the off. They raced along the track, deliberately keeping neck and neck so far as possible. Stones and small rock fragments flew from beneath the horses’ hooves, occasionally striking sparks from the track. Ogilvie’s hair and tattered clothing streamed out along the wind made by their passing. It was a thoroughly madcap ride and they were soon well ahead of the escort — who were excellent horsemen without a doubt, indeed far better than either Healey or himself, but more prudent men, horsemen too good to risk breaking their horses’ legs or their own necks in a pointless endeavour to keep, as they appeared to believe, unnecessarily close. Ogilvie grinned to himself; within the next few minutes those Pathans were going to be right up against a very pointed point indeed!

  He heard Healey’s voice: ‘Coming up to it now...three openings at the foot of the slope. Take the centre one. Can you see where I mean?’

  ‘No, it’s too dark.’

  ‘Then turn off when I yell, but knock me down first. Use the darkness as cover and sniff around when you hit the foot of the slope. Stand by now!’

  A few moments after this Healey spoke again. ‘Don’t think too badly of me, old boy,’ he said enigmatically, and then he gave his yell. It was beautifully done, a yell of sheer surprise and alarm and sudden pain. In the split second that the yell came, Ogilvie leaned sideways and struck out hard at Healey with his bunched fist, taking him heavily on the right shoulder, then he pulled his horse off the track sharply and belted down the slope. Before leaving the track he was aware of Healey smashing sideways into the rock face on his left, and of flailing hooves, and then, as he reached the foot of the slope, with his horse’s hooves sliding and slithering in the rolling debris and the animal itself practically on its rump, he heard the yells and cries that told him Healey had unseated the escort.

  He could only hope Healey hadn’t had his skull smashed in the process.

  *

  He found the defile — or he hoped it was the right one — more quickly than he had feared might be the case. He rode down it fast, scattering more general rock debris, feeling safer as he penetrated into the lee of the high, enclosing sides. Before he had reached the defile wild shots had come down in his general direction, although he was certain he could not be seen from the track. He had heard the pursuit behind him, no more than two horsemen he fancied, which must mean the rest of the escort had been satisfactorily injured; but that pursuit had not come at all close, proceeding, he judged from the sounds, up the wrong channel. He had lain low for a little while, and then, when he had heard the horses moving away, he had gone ahead. He had ridden as fast thereafter as he could manage in what was virtually total darkness, darkness in which he could make out nothing whatsoever more than half a dozen feet distant, except as vague blurs. All he could see distinctly were the high peaks, stark against the sky that was a degree lighter than the confines of the lower slopes of the hills. He had no idea whether or not he had indeed taken the right defile, though he believed he had followed Healey’s somewhat imprecise instructions faithfully. Time alone would tell him the answer; he had no route indications to follow, no guidelines, no landmarks. If he picked up the main pass leading to the sadhu’s peak, then it would be a case of so far so good; if not, not! He fancied that, given a little kindly light from a moon that seemed reluctant to rise, he would be able to identify the pass from his previous journeyings along it though even of this he could by no means be certain.

  Soon after this, that reluctant moon did appear, stealing up over the mountains’ high rim to spread a silvery radiance over the terrible desolation. Now he could pick up his surroundings with the greatest ease. They stood out like a ship at sea on moonlit waters, stark and black and menacing against the silver. Ogilvie rode on, feeling his heart pumping hard at every small night sound, at the very slither of lizards among rocks, at the occasional sudden cries of the night birds, at the swish of wings as shadows flitted across his tricky path. He went on, finding no pass crossing that track, which just led ahead and upwards, slowly climbing to the skies..

  Some hours, as it seemed, later, the moon, a full one, and riding high now, well clear of the mountain peaks, began to present a slightly different appearance. It was difficult at first to define this difference, but something about it intrigued Ogilvie as he made his way along as fast as he could manage. It was a difference of colour and of brilliance. It was as if something had cast a veil over the light, dimming it down progressively with more and more veils, so that it was becoming a reddish brown. Ogilvie thought fancifully of the man in the moon, and of green cheese...of the excellent cheese made at Stilton, kept too long so that it turned brown. It was very curious. Gradually the moon was becoming fainter and fainter, a red-brown ball sailing back through space on some heavenly errand, deserting its mother Earth.

  When, later than it might have done, the truth came to him, Ogilvie felt a cold sweat b
reak out on his body. Never before in his life had he witnessed an eclipse of the moon, but he had expected it to be similar to a solar eclipse — an extending wedge of dark spreading across. But this must be a lunar eclipse...and what better sign to a superstitious people than a deepening darkness spreading over that friendly light to snatch it from the sight of men?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  From his lonely mountain peak the aged sadhu had seen the fading and discoloration of the cold, disdainful orb riding across the night sky, and he had begun to shake throughout his whole skinny frame as he waited for the hand of Mahomet to obscure further the moon’s surface. For this must be the hand of the Prophet; on other occasions during his long life the sadhu had witnessed similar happenings, similar defacements of the moon, and even of the sun — sometimes in the sun’s case these defacements had been partial, sometimes they had been total, but always, his memory told him, sun or moon, they had been followed by some act of Mahomet for good or ill, something that could be ascribed, by any devout believer, only to the intervention of the Prophet.

  This time, therefore, it was perfectly clear. Mahomet had spoken, Mahomet had revealed his mind to his servant, the long awaited sign had been manifested at last. The duty of Mahomet’s servant was as plain as the sign itself, the shadow that was slowly diminishing the silvery radiance of the moon. The significance must now be communicated to Mahomet’s war leader upon earth that the tribes might rise as one, and march, and storm down upon the British citadels, upon the mighty garrison at Peshawar, to win back the ancient city of Kaspaturos for its own people, and in so doing avenge the wrongs and insults and depredations of a thousand years.

  Creakily, swaying like an old tree in the mountain breeze, the sadhu climbed miraculously and with much difficulty to his feet and lifted his outstretched arms towards the moon, and then with further difficulty got down again and prostrated himself before Mahomet, murmuring many prayers. After this he rose again and, standing statue-like with arms once more outstretched, he sent a long-drawn keening cry echoing out across the mountains. Below him, the waiting runner heard it, the runner who had also been staring at the hand of the Prophet and feeling strange movements in his bowels as he did so, movements of anticipation of excitement and glory to come. Gathering himself for the descent into the pass and the long road to Maizar, he remained for a moment staring in wonder and adoration at the age-old holy man, whose cry had now stopped but who was still, with arms uplifted, gazing into the diminishing face of the moon.