Black smiled again. “You’re a bloody liar, Mr. Ogilvie,” he said, “and so is the R.S.M. And you and I—and the R.S.M.—know that, do we not? I’ll say no more about this for now. But you’ll remember in future that I expect my orders to be obeyed to the letter. Now get out of my sight.”
Two more days and the Malabar, past St. Vincent and Trafalgar now, sliding through a glassy sea, steamed slowly round Tarifa and Carnero Point and entered Gibraltar Bay. Soon after this she was brought alongside the coaling wharf and the all-pervading filth of coaling ship began and went on throughout the rest of that day and some of the night—hours of slogging in which the soldiers took part as well as the ship’s company and in which the 114th Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, and the Connaught Rangers, lost their shine and turned temporarily into blackened chimney-sweeps. The officers were given leave and Ogilvie went ashore with MacKinlay, his company commander. The afternoon had turned hot and sticky with a Levanter—the wind that came out of the east to bring high humidity to hang like a misty pall over the garrison. MacKinlay and Ogilvie hired a gharry at the Land Port and were driven past Casemates into Waterport Street. There were soldiers everywhere, and sailors from the British Mediterranean Fleet whose ships lay at anchor in the bay or secured alongside the jetties in the inner harbour. The Rock was Britain’s key to all the East, the guardian of the Mediterranean sea routes, and was garrisoned accordingly. The visitors made a point of seeing all they could; it would be years before they passed this way again. Many decades earlier, during the great siege, the 114th had served on the Rock. This place was part of the regiment’s history, a living, tangible link with its past. Ogilvie revelled in the very names, names that also were a part of history, commemorative of men and regiments that had served the British fortress-outpost: Cornwall Parade, Chatham Counterguard, Forbes’s Battery, Hesse’s Demi-Bastion, Green’s Lodge—Red Sands, where the military columns had formed up for a great attack on the Spanish lines during the siege to write a page into British military history. The 114th had taken a leading part in that attack. Ogilvie and MacKinlay climbed the rock itself as high as they could go, looked out over the deep blue waters of the bay towards the barren, light-brown Andalusian hills, across the Strait to the hills of Africa. Ships passed below them as they looked down from Europa Point at the southern tip of the Rock, naval vessels, merchantmen bound to or coming from the great waterway of the canal at Suez. They made their way north again, through the town, past some of the barrack buildings, back again to Casemates and the Land Port, the old gateway into the neutral ground and to the Spanish frontier at La Linea. They walked back to the Water Port and found a boat going out to the coaling jetty. Aboard ship the air was filled with coal dust and there was a continual clatter and roar as the slings were tipped down the chutes to slide into the Malabar’s bunkers. The ship was battened right down as if for heavy weather; it was close and airless below decks. Even the officers’ cabin alleyways began to smell like the troopdecks. It was a relief when the ship got under way in the early hours of next morning, and, passing out into the open sea to turn eastward around Europa, was able to open up ports and weather doors and let good clean air blow through. The moment they had come off the jetty the washing-down operation had begun and by the lime Ogilvie went on deck before breakfast, the Malabar’s topsides were as clean as a new pin. As he looked out over the guardrail beneath a clear blue sky he saw dark shapes approaching from the eastward, dark shapes with heavy white bow waves pushing ahead of them, and soon a squadron of heavy ironclads, cruisers he believed they were, swept in line ahead down the troopship’s port side. It was a splendid sight as the ships moved past: the guns trained strictly to the fore-and-aft line in their turrets, White Ensigns streaming out along the breeze from the main peaks as the squadron steamed for Gibraltar. Ogilvie heard later that this was the Fourteenth Cruiser Squadron, hurrying home to Portsmouth after three years’ service on the China station and the Hong Kong base.
Some days later, the Malabar entered Port Said roads to await the pilot and entry to the canal. Here no shore leave was given and very soon the troopship moved out of the roads into the narrow confines of the waterway, passing between the great banks of sand with the occasional green cultivated patches standing out like oases. By now the heat had intensified and to make matters worse a light wind meant that the great bell-mouthed ventilators began to suck down sand, so that they had to be turned away from what air there was. The men stayed mostly on deck, watching the banks of Egypt slide past. Every now and again the Malabar tied up to bollards on those banks to allow north-bound shipping to pass. It was a slow passage but at last they passed into the Bitter Lakes and down to Port Tewfik, and eighteen hours after entry they moved past the pilot station and out of the canal into Suez roads to begin the searingly hot passage of the Gulf of Suez and the Red Sea. A fierce sun beat down on the ship and the warm sea heated her from below like a kettle on a stove. Later they endured the worst of all Red Sea conditions—a following wind, which negated the effect of the head-wind made by the ship’s own speed, so that the air remained as it were stationary, so that they were in a virtual suspension of heated air, and no draughts blew through to cool down the cabins and public rooms, alleyways and troopdecks overcrowded with two battalions embarked.
Tempers became frayed, men grew lethargic. Many reported sick; there were several cases of fainting along the troopdecks, and the ship’s own boiler-room staff was much reduced from the same cause. It was no joke, to be tending furnaces right down below decks in such conditions. Major Corton, the 114th’s Medical Officer, and his Rangers counterpart, had their hands full now. Black found plenty of things to keep the 114th busy, to occupy hands and minds, but largely this acted as an irritant since he overdid it; and then frayed tempers grew violent. There were more outbreaks of fighting on the troopdecks and at the next Defaulters before Aden, a corporal was reduced to the ranks and six men were placed in the ship’s cells. This was a sharp example and it had its due effect. Tempers, still potentially violent, were held in check, the N.C.O.’s became even more vigilant than before under another tongue-lashing from Cunningham and, this time, from Lord Dornoch as well. In this state of suppressed violence the ship at long last secured to buoys in Aden for another long coaling operation—a longer one this time, for the bunkers were a good deal emptier after the long haul from Gibraltar than they had been when only a few days out from England. By this time the sickness had increased to high proportions—there had been a severe outbreak of stomach trouble in the Red Sea—and the subalterns were detailed to assist the coaling operation in place of such of the senior N.C.O.’s as were sick. So Ogilvie had no opportunity of going ashore; instead he worked almost around the clock supervising the loading of the coal from barges that came alongside in an apparently endless stream. The Malabar’s winches lifted each basket as it was filled by the men sweating it out on the mounds of coal, and the baskets were tipped out on the canvas-lined decks and shovelled down to the bunkers by more sweating, cursing, semi-naked maniacs who had once been the dashing Royal Strathspeys. Now and again Captain Black would appear, cool and comparatively clean, to stand and stare at the demoniac scene, shouting out a criticism, loudly drawing Ogilvie’s attention to the fact, or rather the non-fact as it happened, that they were slacking. After this had happened three or four times Ogilvie made a mild and polite protest on behalf of his men.
He said, “They’re doing the best they can. It’s heavy work.”
“Really? What do you know about heavy work, Mr. Ogilvie?”
Ogilvie, his patience at breaking point, grinned through a mask of coal dust. “As much as you, I dare say. Sir.”
Black stiffened. His face quivered. “Are you answering me back, sir?”
“No, sir.” Already Ogilvie was regretting his sudden forthrightness, but he stuck to his point all the same. “I’m only pointing out the facts. If I press them any harder, we’ll get more sickness. They’ve had just about enough.”
&nbs
p; “Malingerers, scrimshankers, mother’s boys! As for you, sir, you’re nothing but an insolent young puppy that needs to be whipped. You’ll have to toughen up, Mr. Ogilvie—yourself as well as your men. This isn’t a kindergarten and the Malabar isn’t the first ship that’s coaled in Aden after a bad passage of the Red Sea. It won’t be the last, but this may well be the last time you come this particular way if you don’t tighten up your ideas! Watch your step, Mr. Ogilvie, watch your step.”
The adjutant swung away sharply, his usually pale face red as a beetroot and his lips pressed tightly together. When he had moved out of hearing Ogilvie felt a nudge in his back and turned round to see a grimy figure grinning at him. This was an elderly private of his own company, a long service man with no ambition for promotion, named Jock Burns. “Weel done, Jimmy lad,” Burns surprisingly said. “The boys’ll like fine to know ye stood up to that perishin’, fornicatin’ bastard and his great big yap. Jesus! But I’d like fine to see the bugger humpin’ some of these baskets and gettin’ a wee bit dirt under his lady-like finger-nails...”
There was loud laughter from other men nearby and under the covering of coal dust Ogilvie’s face flushed a deep red. Thoroughly embarrassed, he had no idea how to react. He turned the matter off with a rather strangled grunt and began doing some shouting of his own. He’d been oddly pleased, in a sense, by what the man had said, but knew he was now on highly dangerous ground. If Black should ever catch a whisper that he’d been spoken about in such terms, and that an officer had failed to deal with the situation, he was finished. Besides, it could be tricky from another angle. If the men should be allowed to feel he might be on their side against the adjutant, it could lead to all sorts of difficulties—possibly even in action. It didn’t do an officer any good to become known, for instance, as a Popularity Jack.
The path of the subaltern was devious and was beset with difficulties, with difficult personal decisions and assessments. Sometimes, but not always, it was better to let things ride. But this time Ogilvie felt he had missed an opportunity of letting the men know he was not only willing to speak up for them on occasions, but that he was also firm and, above all, loyal.
“As indeed you did, my lad,” MacKinlay said later when all was cleaned up and they were pushing down the Gulf of Aden, eastwards for the Arabian Sea. Ogilvie’s company commander had happened to overhear Private Burns’s remarks since he’d been standing directly overhead behind a lifeboat. “That was bloody foolish, James. We all know Black’s a bastard, but we don’t let the men say so! Black won’t get to know—you needn’t lose a wink of sleep over that. But you really must remember the kind of material you’re dealing with. Oh, the men are all right—they’re decent enough at heart, and they’ll fight well when they have to. But they must always, always be in your control. You can never let up on that. If you do, you’ll lose their respect and it’ll show. After that—well, you’ll not be much more use than my Aunt Fanny’s left tit, to put it concisely. Let ’em get away with remarks like that, talk about any officer to another officer as Burns did, and there’ll be no end to it, and no end to the embarrassments they’ll cause you. Then you’ll be well on the way to a most singular lack of promotion prospects.”
“I’m sorry,” Ogilvie said dejectedly. “What can I do about it now?”
“For God’s sake,” MacKinlay answered, “nothing! What’s done is done. Just remember it, that’s all, and never, ever, let it happen again. But don’t,” he added with a disarming grin, “go and worry about it all the way to Bombay! You’ll learn...dammit, man, you’ve got plenty of time! You’re young yet.”
Very, very young, MacKinlay thought as Ogilvie went off to watch the stars hanging thick and low over Arabia. Very young—and that was just his trouble. Been kept too young too long, somewhere along the line...in spite of Sandhurst. Perhaps the tutor business had had a lot to do with that. He had to grow up. He hadn’t yet the capacity for weighing things up fast and coming to a firm conclusion. An officer simply had to have that, above all other things. The British private soldier—not to mention the British adjutant—was a very wily bird indeed and it never had taken him an instant of time to sum up his officers...
That night the 114th’s company commanders were summoned to speak with Lord Dornoch in a cleared corner of the boat deck and next morning the whole regiment was assembled to be addressed personally by its Colonel. He said in his clear, carrying voice, “Men, I have news for you, news that reached me in a dispatch from India while we were in Aden. I’m sorry to have to tell you that events are not proceeding too happily in Jalalabad. Although the town is under siege by our forces, the rebel, Ahmed Khan, has consolidated his position and has in fact managed to keep a supply line open to the west. His Highness the Amir is worried and so is our Commander-in-Chief. Serious casualties have been suffered by our besieging Division. A cavalry brigade has been cut to pieces, so has the 23rd Madras Light Infantry. They have lost most of their British officers.” He paused. “I am informed that we shall be moving into action through the Khyber Pass very soon after we enter cantonments at Peshawar...”
Lord Dornoch’s voice was lost in the wild, tumultuous cheering that went up from the massed men, a cheer that echoed exultantly across the Arabian Sea. Coaling, sickness, troopdeck fighting were all forgotten now. The Colonel raised a hand for silence, smiled as the cheering went on and on, then Captain Black shouted for them to stop and the Colonel proceeded, “It’s going to be up to the Royal Strathspeys to teach the rebel a lesson he’ll never forget, and to avenge the deaths of our brothers in arms. I need hardly say, we shall give a showing in accordance with our traditions...”
This time nothing could stop the demonstration. The R.S.M. didn’t even try; with his pace-stick wedged beneath his arm, he was grinning all over his face. Cheer after cheer went up. It was the same from the ranks of the Connaught Rangers, who were being addressed by their own colonel in the after part of the ship, and this time Pipe-Major Ross was beaten to it by the Irish regiment. The skid of the bagpipes was heard from aft, playing some wild air from out of the mists of Ireland’s past, and then this was drowned by a deep-throated roar as, it seemed, every man aboard the trooper burst spontaneously into song that must surely have carried across the water to Arabia itself:
“For we’re Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
We’ve been, my lads,
We’ve seen, my lads,
We’re part of England’s glory, lads,
For we’re Soldiers of the Queen!”
Three
There was still a keenness to be in action but much of the spontaneity and high spirits had worn away by the time the Malabar had picked up the Bombay pilot and had streamed past Colaba Point into the Gateway of India to berth at Prince’s Dock. The heat and the smells of the East reached out to meet and surround the troops as they lined the decks, the majority of them indulging their first sight of the mysterious, teeming subcontinent. There was an intense curiosity, a real desire to get to know the country in which they would spend perhaps the next five years or maybe longer. There was also an awareness even in the greenest recruit that none of them would pick up the homeward pilot untouched by India, an awareness that here they would leave their youth, that they would return to Scotland purged by fire and sword and an unusual experience of life; and an awareness, too, that in fact not all of them were destined to go back. India took her toll by way of terrible sickness as well as by battle flame. Cholera, dysentery, bubonic plague were the enemies to be faced as much as were the warring tribes waiting for the 114th beyond Peshawar.
Men gazed down as the troopship neared the berth, saw some of the results of the presidency’s humid, enervating climate: the low-caste dock workers lying inert in the shade of the great sheds and warehouses that accommodated one quarter of all the seaborne commerce of the sub-continent. The smells increased as the vessel secured alongside beneath a metallic sky; suddenly-fastidious noses wrinkled and there was some raucous comment and a ripple of l
aughter that was at once silenced by the N.C.O.’s as the gangways were sent aboard from the dockside. No time was being lost; already the trains were waiting in the station near the dock, waiting to draw the fresh troops along the track north for Peshawar and the reinforcement of the Division outside Jalalabad. And as soon as those gangways had been secured and the arrival formalities completed by the self-important clerks who swarmed aboard like flies, the disembarkation started by sections.
While this was going on a despatch was delivered to Lord Dornoch in his stateroom, together with a private letter from a friend at Army headquarters in Murree. After reading these he sent for Black and his second-in-command, Major Hay. Then he lit a cigar and stared thoughtfully out through the port at the dusty dock and at the regiment beginning to form up alongside the warehouse, the clean khaki-drill tunics already showing sweat-stains. When the two officers arrived he swung round and said abruptly, “I’ve just had word, gentlemen, as to our high command.” He hesitated, and when he went on he seemed to be studying Black’s reaction in particular. “Sir Iain Ogilvie is being posted from Ootacamund to Murree on promotion to Lieutenant-General. He’s to have the Division which we’ll be joining.”
“What’s happened to Sir Henry Fane, Colonel?” Hay asked.
“It seems he’s gone sick. You’ll remember sickness was one of the difficulties of the campaign...and generals aren’t exempt.”
Black, Dornoch had noticed, was looking put out. The adjutant asked, “This is young Ogilvie’s father, Colonel?”
Dornoch compressed his lips a little, and nodded.
“I see.” Black cleared his throat. “Was this appointment made—d’you happen to know, Colonel—at his own request?”
Dornoch moved across the stateroom to catch some of the movement of air from a punkah. He said flatly, “Unofficially, I’m told it was. Why d’you ask, Andrew?”
Drums Along the Khyber Page 4