Pickering, on the other hand, was simplicity itself. From an impeccable background and related to minor royalty, he was an undoubted gentleman. That was about all one could say. He was an asset to an officer’s mess, but a possible burden to the regiment as a whole. He had neither distinguished nor disgraced himself throughout his service. He was clearly disliked by the rank and file, which championed Havelock, but that often happened with officers of very high social rank. They aroused violent resentment in those less fortunate. He had hardly distinguished himself in this affair, however. Whether or not Havelock had kicked the revolver to the woman before running away to the barn, leaving her to do to Pickering what he had threatened to do inside the house, the blue blood himself had made little effort to save that sealed envelope from falling into her hands. He had tamely stripped, handed her the uniform and allowed her to march him along the track to shoot him. He was to be charged on that count as soon as the doctor declared him fit enough to stand trial, so it should not influence the verdict on Havelock. But it must, because the young subaltern was being indirectly blamed for losing those orders. What a hell of a mess!
While members of the court argued and cursed, Val remained in his small prison overlooking the cool, running river. He was still empty of feeling, despite facing a death sentence. Everything he had lived for was over. Thank God he was Martin Havelock to the world. The Ashleigh name was safe and his family’s distress would not be added to by alerting others to this appalling affair. Nothing would lessen Grandfather’s sorrow, however. He would carry the secret shame to his grave with a curse on the only Ashleigh to dishonour thirteen generations of noble warriors; the only one to die before a firing squad rather than the enemy.
Miles Atwood appeared to be suffering more than he as they waited all day in vain, and faced another night of suspense. Food was brought by a robust subaltern, who relieved Atwood so that he could have dinner in the Mess and relax until he must return at ten p.m. George Marsh had been friendly enough to Val, but he was voluble in his opinions now. While Val sat ignoring the food, Marsh damned Pickering heartily.
‘Only a pipsqueak of his calibre could have allowed a woman to get the better of him in that fashion. I mean, she wouldn’t have shot him before he stripped off his uniform because it would be of no use to her man with a hole, and blood all over it. When he took off his tunic why didn’t he fling it at her and grab the revolver? Why didn’t he try any number of ruses to reverse the situation? You would have. So would I, but he appears to have done everything he was told without putting up a fight. Good God, what a laughing stock he’s made of the regiment! The Boers’ll have even less respect for us after this. Come on, old chap, eat up! They’ll never convict you. It’s plain as a pikestaff Pickering’s lying. They’ll not accept his word against yours. Mind you, he’s related to some very influential people at Horse Guards. That shouldn’t influence the verdict when a man’s life is on the line, but you never know. Careers have been ruined before now because some old general takes umbrage over his nephew’s treatment.’
Val got to his feet and crossed to stare from the window at a river turned pink by the reflection of the sun below the horizon. Marsh apologized. ‘Sorry, didn’t think what I was saying. The board comprises some wise old birds. They’ll see that justice is done no matter who Pickering’s relations are.’ He crossed to Val. ‘Nearly forgot. There was a letter addressed to you in the Mess. I cleared it with Colonel Beecham before I brought it here. It’s marked urgent.’ When Val made no attempt to take the envelope, the other said awkwardly, ‘I do think you should read it. It might be important, old chap. Last words, and all that.’
A few seconds later Val heard the sound of an envelope being slit, then Marsh read aloud the contents. ‘I could never withdraw my friendship, you must know that. You need it more than ever now. I made enquiries about the family mentioned by Sir Rigby. They are extremely well known by repute amongst military men. The youngest is not at Oxford, but in South Africa with the family of a schoolfriend. No one is sure of his exact whereabouts, but I am. I know you could not have done what you’re accused of — know it more than ever now. Please keep your courage up. It will soon be over and you’ll be free. My prayers are all for you. There’s no signature, Martin,’ Marsh finished quietly, as he placed the single page on the windowsill.
Val continued to stare at the river having heard nothing but the echo of Sir Gilliard’s demand to live Vorne Ashleigh’s curtailed life for him; to walk in the steps of a hero.
Prisoner and escort were called to hear the verdict just before noon the following day. Val stood facing the men who had listened to Audley Pickering claim that Martin Havelock had refused an order to burn the house. Then, when the occupants appeared, had violently disarmed him and kicked the weapon towards the woman to whom he crossed for a short private conversation. He had then run off leaving his superior officer unarmed at the mercy of a Boer woman known to be helping the enemy. The president of the court lost no time in speaking. His deep voice echoed in the vaulted room.
‘Second-Lieutenant Martin Havelock, you have been found guilty on the first charge, in that you refused an order to burn the farm given by Captain Marley and repeated by Lieutenant Pickering on arrival at the place. You have been found guilty on the second charge, in that you used violence towards Lieutenant Pickering by knocking his revolver to the ground, thus disarming him.’ He paused momentarily to clear his throat. ‘On the third charge of disgraceful conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman you have also been found guilty, in that you ran off leaving a fellow officer, whom you had deprived of his means of self-defence, to face a hostile woman known to be working with our enemies. He was consequently shot and very seriously wounded.’
The grey-haired colonel cleared his throat once more. ‘The fourth charge of causing, by negligence, the loss into the hands of the enemy secret documents addressed to the colonel of your regiment is not proven, awaiting the trial of Lieutenant Pickering on whose person the documents were being carried at the time.’ He stared at Val with a piercing gaze. ‘The combined sentence for those crimes of which you have been found guilty is death by firing squad.’
The most blessed words he could hear! The struggle, the shame, the burden of living up to a hero, would be over. Dawn would bring an end to Martin Havelock, and Val Ashleigh would silently die with him. The family could say that he had met with a shooting accident and he would trouble them no more. He was about to turn away when the official voice continued.
‘The death sentence has been commuted on the recommendation of a small majority. You are instead to be cashiered.’
The numbness of the past days melted in an instant, bringing pain so acute Val almost cried out. The room began to spin and Miles Atwood stepped forward to grip his arm in steadying fashion. Val jerked free, turned, and walked from the room with the help of iron willpower. In the wagon taking him back to his prison he began to shake, but his companion sat silent and unmoving on the facing bench. Val almost stumbled as he climbed down and entered the stone house which grew unbearably hot at the height of the day. His heart hammered so thunderously it created agony in his chest. He had to fight for breath in the stifling atmosphere. Acute nausea swept through him so that he staggered to the spartan closet before retching convulsively for some minutes. For a while he believed merciful oblivion would overtake him, but he remained conscious throughout the physical punishment. Had he not deliberately built a physique that would withstand the utmost effort and pain?
Miles brought him a cup of tepid water but it merely revived his sickness. He could not stop shaking as if in freezing temperatures, yet perspiration dripped from every pore. Reaching for the bar across the small window, Val gripped it until his knuckles grew white. Tears ran unchecked down his cheeks as his whole body shook with sobs. He had hoped to die. What he faced was a living death. He had been tried and sentenced. It was too late to take the honourable way out … and he knew what the 57th Lancers did to those who betr
ayed them. For the first time in his life he doubted his own courage as he thought of what would happen the following morning.
*
Because of the desire for secrecy over the affair, Colonel Beecham ordered his regiment to parade on the veld two miles north of the town at sunrise. The 57th Lancers was an élite regiment proud of its record of battle honours. It did not tolerate those who dishonoured them and the distinctive grey uniform which had earned them the nickname The Ghost Lancers. An ancient tradition was kept alive by its officers, who saw no reason why it should not be played out at this time of war. Whatever his private feelings on the injustice of the trial, Max Beecham had openly championed the man who now sullied the reputation of the regiment, and had no option but to agree to equally openly condemn him.
For once, his wife and daughter could not move him. For the whole evening they both pleaded with him to dispense with the customary ceremony on the grounds of an existing state of war. Mrs Beecham privately entreated her husband to search his conscience before submitting the young man to an outmoded punishment far exceeding his crimes if, indeed, he had really committed any. To her cry of, ‘Isn’t it time that barbaric practice ended?’ he replied that he would be glad if she would be good enough to stop interfering in regimental matters beyond the range of her understanding. He also reminded her that, but for his own evidence of the man’s character and courage when facing danger, they might well have upheld the death sentence.
Vivienne would not be silenced, however. She wept, she begged, she even went very dramatically on to her knees to implore her father to continue his championship of someone he had always liked and encouraged.
‘You know he did none of those things Audley claimed. It’s completely out of character,’ she urged emotionally. ‘Everyone was aware that they hated each other and that it would come to a head sooner or later, but this is so unfair. I’m no fool, Father. I’ve lived with the regiment all my life and it’s blatantly obvious they’re afraid of upsetting Audley’s influential relatives. Don’t shake your head; you know it’s true. They’re making a supposed nobody from the ranks a scapegoat because they daren’t officially rule that a gentleman’s word cannot be believed against that of a commissioned trooper.’
Max Beecham grew very angry because she was almost certainly right. ‘Get off your knees, child. You are extremely immodest, and impertinent. This is no stage melodrama but a very serious regimental matter. Pickering was shot. If he had died, Havelock would have paid the full penalty.’
‘Do you truly believe he kicked the revolver to the woman so that she would kill Audley?’ was her impassioned response. ‘He was determined to break that pathetic nincompoop personally. He would never have done a cowardly thing like that.’
‘That’s enough! I know you have always befriended young Havelock, but he has contravened the Army Act. If those sealed orders had outlined battle plans, a number of British lives would have been at risk.’
‘But they didn’t!’ she cried. ‘They concerned new regulations on replacing worn uniforms. How could any man be shot for losing that?’
‘He is not going to be shot! That charge is suspended.’
‘Then why is he being so harshly treated on the others? All you can say to me is if such and such had happened. None of it did. It’s so unfair.’
Max Beecham called upon his wife. ‘For heaven’s sake get her off her knees. I will not be subjected to this ridiculous behaviour. This is an entirely military matter. It is quite unforgivable to expect me to discuss it with you in my drawing-room. I’ll say no more on the subject.’ Mrs Beecham was a determined woman. ‘I have to say that I do not understand it myself, my dear. Vivienne and I have followed the regiment across Africa and served it to the best of our ability. We both worked to help the wounded during the siege of Kimberley,’ she pointed out in firm tones. ‘If that was not a military matter I cannot think what else one would call it. As your wife and daughter we have made an effort to get to know the men you command, and we have both written personal letters to relatives of each one killed during this war. We have tried to ease the tension and loneliness of the officers by entertaining them and taking an interest in their families. They all know I would do anything I could to assist them with any personal problem they felt they could not bring to you.’
She moved forward to help Vivienne to her feet, then stood with an arm around her daughter’s waist. ‘We are part of this regiment, Max. We have tended its wounds and mourned its dead. Now we are deeply upset by something we find difficult to understand. Where else are we to discuss it with you? Do you wish us to parade outside your office to request the Adjutant for an interview?’
Caught in a trap of his own making the colonel tried to bring an end to this difficult marital confrontation. ‘I’m fully aware of the parts you both play in the regiment. If I have not expressed my gratitude often enough I am deeply sorry … but this affair is not merely a regimental matter. A court martial is a trial conducted on behalf of the Crown by the army which defends it. I did not serve on the court, neither did I bear witness to anything more than the characters of the two involved. Which I did with scrupulous fairness, I must add.’
‘I am certain you did, Max. You have always been a just man.’
‘Then why am I being accosted for something completely out of my hands?’ he demanded, growing even more irate.
‘We are simply asking you to exercise your scrupulous fairness over something that is entirely in your hands. This harrowing ritual was instigated more than a century ago and should be abolished.’ She glanced pointedly at Vivienne before adding, ‘It has taken place once over the twenty-five years I have known you, and I shall never forget it. The poor man collapsed, which added to his humiliation before the entire town and garrison.’
‘He had seduced a fellow officer’s wife,’ Colonel Beecham said with force. ‘One of the worst crimes in the book. He was a blackguard!’
‘But Mr Havelock is not. In your heart you must know he has been victimized in favour of someone with too much influence. The war gives you a reason for saving him from further punishment.’
‘It’s because of the war that the business will take place out on the veld. There’s no question of the townspeople witnessing it, as they normally would. He’s fortunate.’ Vivienne lunged forward to grip his arms, saying tearfully, ‘I know him better than anyone. You might just as well shoot him as put him through this. Haven’t you any idea what it will do to him?’
‘What it is meant to do to men who blacken the reputation of the regiment,’ he snapped, freeing himself.
‘You wouldn’t dare do it to Audley because he has the power to say things that could put an end to your hopes of promotion.’
‘That’s enough! Go to your room,’ he ordered.
The girl was in too great a state of distress to listen or obey. ‘If you knew his real identity you wouldn’t dare do it to Havelock, either. This whole affair would have been hushed up if you knew who he is.’
Beecham grew very wary. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Only that he is by no means a nobody, an upstart trooper keen to make his mark. He has as much right as Audley to be an officer of any regiment he chose. That’s been the basis of their enmity. Because Havelock had to remain silent, Audley treated him abominably. Every officer in the Mess knows that, but they did nothing in case it reached the ears of those who make or break careers.’ She wiped the tears from her cheeks with an angry gesture. ‘This will reach ears they little suspect and I hope they all suffer because of it.’
By now deeply suspicious, father challenged daughter. ‘Has Havelock confided to you something of which I am unaware?’
‘No, he wouldn’t. I discovered it for myself.’
‘And?’
Vivienne shook her head. ‘I promised to keep the secret.’
‘Even from me?’
‘Yes, Father. I gave him my word.’
Max Beecham breathed again. ‘I see. Very commenda
ble.’
When his daughter took his hands, he was stricken by the anguish in her eyes as she begged, ‘Please, please don’t do this to him.’
Knowing it was too late to reverse his order, he said something unworthy of the just man he truly was. ‘He should have considered that before throwing away his career at that farm. He only has himself to blame.’
*
The closed wagon arrived fifteen minutes before dawn. Miles Atwood, dressed in full ceremonial uniform, looked white faced and haggard as he held the door open for a fellow officer about to be publicly humiliated. Val got to his feet, staring at the dim shape of a vehicle that looked like a tumbrel of the French Revolution, except that he would not be beheaded at the end of the vilification. He must live with it for the rest of his days. Confined in tight-fitting tunic and breeches in two tones of grey he forced himself to climb in and sit on the rough bench. He felt icily cold and his facial muscles appeared to have seized up. A sensation of choking forced him to swallow convulsively every minute or so. The tall, square-topped helmet seemed unbearably weighty; the gold strap too tight around his chin. The sword Vere had presented to him hung at his side. Its blade had never penetrated flesh. It now never would.
The wagon lurched and rattled over the rough track leading to a plain where the 57th Lancers would have already formed up. Atwood stared wordlessly at the floor as the morning gradually grew lighter outside. They came to a halt and his head jerked up. ‘We’re here,’ he said unnecessarily. He climbed out first and stood waiting for his companion to join him.
It was a chill, clear morning allowing a view for many miles; the kind of morning Val knew so well. He had ridden out on patrols with the sun creating an apricot sky on the eastern horizon; he had lain with his troopers waiting for an enemy attack out of the dawn; he had cantered with high spirits through a waking camp during his days as Sergeant Havelock; he had tumbled from his bed to indulge in horseplay with Toby in the tent they had shared; he had stood quietly and been humbled by the splendour of this land at war on mornings like this. All these things had been the very air he breathed, the life-giving force of a man born to be what he was. Take them away and he would die.
A Distant Hero Page 38