Val watched her thin figure in yellow satin push through the convivial groups towards the end of the tent, where her mother was playing gracious hostess. He remained disconcerted as he saw Mrs Beecham beckon to Felix Wheeler, who collected her daughter’s cloak before leading her into the night. What had prompted the girl to act so uncharacteristically? They had sparred from his earliest days with the regiment, and she had always given as good as she got, appearing to enjoy their verbal sword-crossing. He had never known her other than bouncy and full of confidence, yet she had just resorted to tears. It was completely unlike her. Surely she had not … no, she could not possibly have believed that nonsense about duels. He had merely elaborated his accusation of reading too many romantic novels. It had been no more than a piece of deliberate sarcasm to counter the dangerous conclusion she had formed from Sir Rigby’s knowledge of the Ashleighs.
Sudden insight suggested it had been a mistake. Whereas Vivienne could meet him on equal terms, she could not accept ridicule at a time when she had been sharing genuine concern for his loneliness. He told himself he had averted disaster in the most final manner. Although she had always before come back for more, he guessed she had withdrawn her friendship. He could not have allowed her to follow her suspicions to the correct conclusion. All would then be lost. She would now discontinue her probing into his past and her personal pursuit which had underlying tones of Julia’s. He had finally rid himself of someone who had been a thorn in his side throughout his days with the regiment. Why, then, did he feel curiously heavy-hearted and more than usually restless?
Once the guests left, officers were free to do as they wished. Some settled to dedicated drinking, others sat at tables to win or lose on the fall of cards. Still in depressed mood, Val slipped out into the frosty night shortly after official socializing ended. He walked slowly, gazing at the stars once more as he reversed his earlier vow to become Martin Havelock. He would always be Val Ashleigh in everything he did, and Vivienne had just now revived an ego trapped inside a man who longed to release it.
‘A moment, Havelock,’ called a voice behind him.
Val halted while Thorn Marley came up with brisk steps. When they were face to face in the pale light of night, the other man spoke in a vigorous undertone without preamble.
‘You brought my wife in from the hills and told everyone a cock-and-bull story concerning a fall caused by a snake.’
‘I told the surgeon. No one else,’ Val said, taking exception to the man’s manner. ‘Mrs Marley needed attention, so it seemed the best way out of the situation.’
‘What situation?’ Marley challenged. ‘You clearly have no notion of how gentlemen behave. I will soon teach you, I promise, unless you concentrate on soldiering and stop chasing other men’s wives.’
Val was furious. He had saved the man’s reputation by inventing that story. ‘I was not chasing your wife. I came across her by accident when she was in distress. As a gentleman, I did the only thing I could for her. I thought you would be grateful, in the circumstances.’
‘I don’t care for your tone,’ the other said almost through his teeth as two officers strolled past. ‘I’ve watched you whenever females are present. There’s nothing you enjoy more than having every one of them clustered around you in admiring fashion. You monopolized Vivienne Beecham this evening. Don’t think your penchant has gone unnoticed. There is a move afoot to curb you of it.’
‘My penchant!’ cried Val. ‘That’s quite ridiculous. I have little time for young women. I prefer to spend my days playing team games. Look, what is this all about?’
Marley grew ugly. ‘Don’t take that attitude with me! I’m your superior.’
‘Only in military matters,’ Val flung back, astonished by what was happening. ‘This appears to be extremely personal. And as it is, I’m free to tell you I had no wish to become involved in your marital quarrel, but your wife was unwilling to return to camp until I invented the tale of the snake and assured her it would be generally believed. I assume it was.’
‘The tale concerning friends who were to have ridden with her was not. No friends had made such an arrangement.’
‘Of course they hadn’t,’ said Val explosively. ‘That was as much a lie as the snake. You and I know how she really came by that cut on her cheek.’
Marley moved nearer in threatening manner. ‘She took a toss during an assignation in the hills with you. Chatsworth and Pickering saw her ride off alone in great haste some while after you had left camp, also alone. Don’t deny it.’
Feeling that the evening was taking on an air of lunacy, Val said, ‘You’ve had too much to drink.’
As he turned away Marley seized his arm with iron fingers. ‘You’ll stay and listen to me until I say you can go, or you can be placed under arrest for insubordination and dishonourable conduct. Which do you prefer?’
Val was silenced by the sheer madness of the situation. Either this man was the victim of delusions, or Mrs Marley had told a number of lies this afternoon. Had she fallen during an assignation with someone else, who had not cared to ride in with her, or was she a victim of marital violence? Either way, he had walked into a hazard of others’ making. Val knew he had a right to defend himself in the circumstances, but if he was being accused of some kind of liaison with this man’s wife, it was the devil of a situation. Marley could ruin his career with ease. He dared not let his apprehension show, nevertheless.
‘I’ll stay and listen to what you say on condition that you release me,’ Val said eventually. ‘I did what I thought best for your wife this afternoon and will not be held here by force because of my foresight.’ He smoothed his sleeve after the man’s hand dropped to his side. ‘I was led to believe facts I might have misconstrued, but my only intention was to help Mrs Marley. There is not, nor ever has been, any desire on my part to be alone with her. If she did go to the hills for an assignation it would have been with someone else.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Marley hotly.
‘It’s what you suggested.’ Val replied, knowing he must somehow end this ludicrous confrontation. ‘Or perhaps Chatsworth and Pickering put the notion into your head,’ he added, spying a subaltern named Atwood heading towards them. ‘I wouldn’t put it past that pair.’ With those words he moved swiftly aside to accost his saviour. ‘Ah, Giles, I wanted a word with you about the polo match on Thursday.’
The gambit took Thorn Marley unawares, and Val walked on unhindered with the amiable Atwood who was also a keen sportsman. Keeping the dark-haired subaltern in conversation at the mouth of his tent until Marley stumbled past towards the large one he shared with the woman he may or may not have struck this afternoon, Val then bade Atwood goodnight and went to bed. He could not sleep. For several hours he lay on the narrow camp bed telling himself he had made a complete mess of his life by being a stubborn fool. If he had accepted his grandfather’s ultimatum he could be with the West Wilts in China fighting the Boxers. He could have all that was now his, with the added distinction of being an Ashleigh in a regiment founded by his own ancestors. He could be free to speak of his family and of Knightshill. He could greet men like Sir Rigby Scott openly and talk of their earlier meetings. He would not have to pile lie upon lie, would not be subjected to the contempt of the Pickerings and the Marleys of the world, and would not be tormented by the likes of Vivienne Beecham. He would never have fallen victim to Julia Grieves who had robbed him of self-respect and his right to his identity.
In the early hours he rolled from his bed and pushed back the flaps of his tent to stare at the night. Fires had burned low to become no more than crimson glows dotted throughout the sleeping camp. Brands flamed around the perimeter illuminating the figures of piquets, wrapped in their heavy cloaks. No fear of being overrun by Boers here, but Val relived the tension of nights when creeping figures could have come from behind rocks, when he could have awoken with a rifle butt at his throat, when the sound of shots and screaming men could have broken the dark sile
nce. He relived that dusk when they had stormed the farm to be met with a hail of bullets. Fear had possessed him during that dash across an open yard in a desperate bid to escape slaughter, yet he had not hesitated.
For that action he had been decorated for courage and gained the privilege of soldiers’ obedience to his orders. They respected and liked him, yet he was treated with scorn by his equals because they did not consider him worthy enough to join them. What more must he do to meet their standards? The Ashleigh name should gain him entry to even the most élite military circles, but discovery of it now would bring the end of his career and any further hopes of military service. With a great sigh, Val yearned to be back with those men who had not given a damn about his background, men who accepted others on evidence of their deeds, not their bloodline. Men who had been his friends; men prepared to risk their lives for him. He had given them up to be where he had every right to be, and he now saw how unequal the exchange was.
He had entered a world where approval depended upon ancestry, former school, influential acquaintances and wealth. Val Ashleigh met all those criteria, but Martin Havelock was an upstart with the ‘smell of the barrack-room’ about him, and therefore not to be trusted. Although he had grown up in this same world, it had never before struck him in this manner. All the people he had met had been of the correct ilk, yet he had judged them by personality and their liking for the things he liked. Rapport had been far more important than status. He had not cared about their relatives or wealth, only whether or not they shared his passion for rugby, cricket and horses, and were easy companions. They had not received his contempt, if not. He had never been treated to theirs.
As Val gazed at the tents housing men who had embraced him without reservations with their comradeship, the sense of loneliness grew so strong he found his cheeks growing wet. For the first time in his life he considered the prospect of sudden death at the hands of the enemy a welcome event. Sir Gilliard would never offer forgiveness. Martin Havelock was generally mistrusted and disliked, more and more he had to curb his tongue whilst living a lie, and he had made a new enemy tonight. What a mess his stubborn pride had led him into!
A horse whinnied in the lines then fell silent, and Val’s Ashleigh spirit gradually revived. This was the life he loved. He was good at it. Max Beecham had known about the masquerade and still promoted him, so that man must believe him capable of holding his own amongst those ready to condemn. His colonel had come to his aid this evening. Martin Havelock owed him total loyalty by living up to the high opinion proved by his recommendation for a commission. Max Beecham was the captain of a team. Val knew from experience how important it was to have the support of each member.
He turned away from the spread of tents and returned to his bed. The business of Cecily Marley would blow over in a week or so. Vivienne would recover from her imagined hurt; if she did not it would not matter. The 57th would be riding out for patrol duty again shortly. Audley Pickering still offered a challenge Val swore to meet at the first opportunity. As for Sir Gilliard … well, there was always the chance of heroism even he could not ignore once the regiment was back in the fray. And if Martin Havelock should fall, so long as his death was honourable the old man might feel a pang of regret.
14
THE SKY GREW purple with storm clouds. The rumble of thunder was reminiscent of distant artillery opening a great battle. Lightning began to sizzle across the darkness overhead and hit the dry earth where solitary trees dotted an immense plain. Early September and the rains looked set to start. If they continued for long the drifts would become impassable and tracks would turn to mire. Life in tented camps deteriorated as sodden canvas added chill discomfort to that of damp bedding and clothes, and cooking on field ranges was hampered by the downpour.
Val rode with a contingent of Lancers which was joining the rest of the 57th after six weeks on duty near several blockhouses. They were to have chased Boers trying to break through the cordon, but reports from the guards of the bastions always arrived well after the enemy had gone. It had been demoralizing duty involving long fruitless pursuits of horsemen who were not even dots on the horizon. Each report had to be followed up, however, and anger grew against an enemy unwilling to concede defeat or even play by the rules.
For Val it had been a particularly difficult time. As much frustrated as the rest, he was unfortunate to have as his Mess fellows Audley Pickering and Thorn Marley. Only the addition of a senior subaltern named Greer, and the pleasant young polo player, Miles Atwood, made life bearable. Toby was one of the sergeants in the contingent, which merely emphasized how much Val missed his easy friendship. The troopers were a mixed bunch of old hands and replacements who had arrived after the sieges were lifted. They grumbled and swore, but gave no trouble. Everyone in the detachment was glad to be rejoining the main body of the regiment in a small town housing divisional headquarters, which promised some diversion from the endless veld. Even the approaching storm could not dampen their spirits.
Captain Marley rode at the front with his second-in-command, Stanton Greer, and Pickering. Val brought up the rear with Miles Atwood. They chatted about polo, the approaching cricket season, and the prospect of swimming in the river when they reached their destination. Sport was all they had in common. The Atwoods were mostly female and resided in a small country vicarage with their widowed father. Giles regretted entering the army — his heart was not in his profession. It was, in fact, in Kimberley with a girl barely out of the schoolroom, and all he could think of was the best way of getting back to her before she cast her flirtatious eye elsewhere. He had realized Val grew bored by talk of romance, so kept silent on the subject. This meant his mind was elsewhere a great deal of the time, and Val’s words fell on deaf ears.
The storm broke fifteen minutes later. Rain descended in oblique walls of water that blinded them as they rode into it. Marley gave the order to halt and don cloaks. These gave little comfort, for their uniforms were already very wet. As they rode on into the downpour, their horses unhappy and hampered by the beating rain, Val thought they should have stopped until it abated, and said so to Atwood.
‘He doesn’t believe in sparing anyone,’ the other said miserably. ‘Always raves on about what they endured in India and how robust his men were despite the heat, dust, monsoons and fevers. I truly believe he’s a masochist, only happy when he and his men are suffering.’
‘I’ll agree with that,’ said Val, tilting his face away from the stinging rain as he recalled the cut on Cecily Marley’s cheek. ‘He believes punishment strengthens character.’
They struggled on for almost an hour travelling only a short distance which, had they halted, they could have covered swiftly to make up time once the rain stopped. When it did, as dramatically as it had begun, they were all sodden and weary, the horses chilled and miserable. The storm rolled on in purple splendour shot with vivid lightning, leaving a clear late-afternoon sky enhanced by fluffy pink streaks created by the dying sun. The order to halt and take off cloaks was greeted with surly relief by men who felt they should not have been made to tire their horses, and themselves, unnecessarily. But there was no rest to be had. As Val was rolling his saturated cloak, a shout went up from one of the troopers. There, about five hundred yards off, was a large group of Boer horsemen riding away from a farm.
A few moments of suspended thought, then everything happened at once. The distant riders took stock of the cavalry detachment, saw that it outnumbered them, and resorted to flight. Thorn Marley’s experience told in the swiftness of his action. Leaping into the saddle he gave swift orders. Lieutenant Greer and Miles Atwood were to take their own men, and Pickering’s, to give chase with him. The rest were to go with Val and Pickering to burn the farm and destroy the livestock, before continuing on to join up with the regiment. As he raced off in the best chase that had come their way for months, Marley threw a fat envelope at Audley Pickering.
‘Sealed orders for Colonel Beecham. Give them to him as soon as
you arrive.’
Three quarters of their number galloped off on the heels of a man who had tired them so much they stood less chance of outrunning those fresh and dry from shelter in the farm. Val watched them with resentment as he mounted and prepared to follow his hated enemy, who had a year’s seniority over him and was therefore in command. Marley had overlooked Pickering because he was useless, and himself because of that business with Cecily. No honour and glory must be allowed an upstart who paid attention to other men’s wives. That would be the rule whenever Marley could enforce it.
The farm was similar to others they had destroyed. Val was always unhappy about putting a torch to the homes and land of the people who had worked hard to establish themselves in this difficult country. The first one he had burned to the ground had been vacated by the owners and housed a number of Boers who had been attacking them, but flagrant destruction of someone’s home and valued possessions because it might occasionally succour the enemy was quite different. In this case he had seen them ride away from it, so he supposed it was justified. Pickering had no qualms. He regarded homesteaders as peasants of no consequence, but he had never lived in a barrack-room with troopers and learned that even the simplest folk deserved full consideration.
They approached with caution. There was no way of knowing whether or not the entire group had left after the storm. All appeared innocent enough as they rode into the yard with carbines at the ready, scattering poultry and a few wild-looking cats. Recalling that time when a door above the barn suddenly opened to allow a hail of bullets to rake them, Val’s neck prickled with apprehension. All remained quiet, however. He dismounted with the others and crossed to the barn, revolver in hand. Nothing more sinister than a store of fodder, barrels of beets, and basic tools hanging on nails. Two veld ponies stood dozing in rough stalls. Someone must be here. A fusillade of shots sent him running from the barn with quickened heartbeat. There was no enemy. Troopers were gleefully using the poultry and cats for target practice, whilst mounted men rode among cattle with their lances. The yard was covered with blood and feathers, the air was rent by the plaintive lowing of animals being speared in an orgy of revenge.
A Distant Hero Page 36