Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  Black shrugged with an elaborate and unconvincing lack of concern. “Oh, nothing, Colonel—nothing at all.” He hesitated. “Only I was wondering why he should make this request...at this particular moment, I mean. That is all.”

  Dornoch said, “Sir Iain’s a very experienced frontier fighter. What’s more, he’s said to like action. He’d have been appointed even if he hadn’t asked. All the same—and this is why I wanted to speak to you, Andrew I’d agree with your unspoken thoughts, I think.”

  “The son?” Hay put in.

  There was a curious sound, and a smirk, from the adjutant. “Exactly!” he murmured.

  Dornoch raised his eyebrows. “Andrew, don’t let there be the smallest misunderstanding. I am simply suggesting that Sir Iain might very well want to see how his son acquits himself in action. That would be a perfectly natural thing, and many fathers would feel the same.”

  “I doubt that, Colonel,” Black said, frowning. “I think most fathers would see to it they commanded a Division as far away as possible from the son. With the best will in the world, the presence of a high-ranking father can be...confining, shall I say, to the Colonel who commands the said son.”

  “And to the adjutant?”

  Black flushed. “And to the adjutant, since you make the point yourself, Colonel—yes.”

  Dornoch seemed about to snap, but changed his mind. “It’s not the happiest of situations,” he admitted, speaking slowly, “but I’m in no position to give orders to the Staff, so we’ll have to make the best of it. Sir Iain will not be expecting, or condoning, any favours to his son. And that’s all, gentlemen—I simply wanted you both to know the position. This is not to make any differences.” Then he looked directly at Black, and added, “In any direction. Clear, Andrew?”

  Black nodded, but his face had gone tight. There had been the clearest message in Dornoch’s voice, the clearest possible warning, and Black didn’t like it. Dornoch said nothing further, but Black noted an air of faint unease. The Colonel wasn’t the man to be scared of generals in the very least, but he was extremely proud of his regiment and highly jealous of its reputation and he would be most strongly averse to any outside influences affecting it.

  *

  When the 114th and the 88th had been formed up on the jetty and reported to their respective Colonels, the word was given for them to march off and once again Pipe-Major Ross was given his head. With the Royal Strathspeys in the lead, the British reinforcements marched along through the dust behind the pipes and drums, the wild war-notes echoing off the port buildings to announce to all concerned the arrival of more soldiers of the Empress of India. They marched the short distance into the bare, lofty station, were halted alongside the trains and then dismissed by sections to pile aboard. Within an hour all men, animals and equipment of both regiments had been entrained, and the long journey north began. They would go by way of Baroda, Jaipur, Delhi, Lahore and Rawalpindi—a journey of some 1500 miles through an intensification of the heat, and sometimes of the smells, to which Bombay had introduced them. And as the miles wore away behind them, they made frequent stops for men and horses and mules to be watered at small wayside halts, where the bhisties brought their full skins that were quickly and thirstily emptied. Occasionally along the route, as the trains chuffed slowly through the parched country, they saw the gaping remains of animals with the carrion birds hovering, circling overhead as the steaming monsters on the track disturbed their meals. From the carriages behind James Ogilvie there came the voices of the men, roaring out the music-hall songs, army version, accompanied now and again by mouth-organs. The volume of sound diminished as the heat and discomfort of that tedious journey sapped men’s energy and when at the halts Ogilvie made his rounds he found the troops mostly trying to find sleep, stretched out in all manner of curious positions on the seats and even on the floors of the carriages. As they came farther north into the foothills of the Himalayas they rolled over high, rickety bridges spanning immense drops into gorges that were currently empty of all but a trickle of water, but which in their season would be rushing torrents. Here in the north the air grew cooler; flagging spirits revived, and at night the men felt a chill in their khaki tunics.

  At last, three days out from Bombay, the troop-trains pulled in to Peshawar to be greeted in person by their newly appointed Divisional Commander wearing full-dress uniform. James Ogilvie, marching ahead of his half-company out of the station, watched the portly but straight-backed figure of his father, who was chatting to Lord Dornoch. Ogilvie had not welcomed the news of the appointment; and now, with misgiving, he saw his father’s gaze sweep over and past him with no hint of recognition.

  Behind the pipes and drums the 114th Highlanders marched to quarters in cantonments, kilts a-swing above knees still white from lack of foreign service. The depleted garrison and its ladies, wives and women—for officers, N.C.O.’s and men—turned out to watch them march in and give them a cheer. They were formed up in a hollow square on the parade-ground to be addressed by Lieutenant-General Sir Iain Ogilvie—short, plump, red in the face, the redness accentuated by the contrast of the dazzling white plumes that cascaded down his cocked hat. He addressed them from horseback in a stentorian voice that carried over every inch of the parade and seemed to his son to blast in every window in the barrack buildings behind.

  “I’m damn glad to have you in my command,” Sir Iain said. “Damn glad! My own regiment especially, I confess. You’re needed, let me tell you—and you’ve not arrived a moment too soon. In fact I may as well start by telling you this: you move out in two days’ time—two days—that’s to say, the 114th does. I intend holding back the 88th as a fresh relief column until they’re needed indispensably—here on the North-West Frontier one doesn’t throw in all the reserves straight away. It always pays—always pays—not to let the niggers know your whole strength.” He paused. This time there was no wild cheering, no jingoistic singing. The men were tired, overawed by their first acquaintance with India—and overawed by the first sight of their Divisional Commander, who looked as if he would burst a blood-vessel if any man should so much as cough on parade. So they kept their feelings to themselves and stared woodenly at the officer on horseback. Sir Iain went on, “I gather you know the general situation, men. It has not changed a jot—except that as time passes it becomes more difficult to eject the rebel from Jalalabad, in spite of the fact the area outside the walls is badly encumbered—which makes defence a problem. He continues to reduce our strength—that’s the point! At this moment, we have troops almost ringing the town, but the rebel still has that vital route open to the west, a route through which he’s being supplied and reinforced. It is this route that the 114th, as fresh replacements and fit men, which most of the Division are not, will be under orders to close by taking one of the hills that command its entry. This will be difficult, but it will be done, and when it is done, the whole force will be moved along a contracting circle. I intend to grip the town and fortress—like that!” Sir Iain Ogilvie had lifted his right hand high in the air, fingers fanned. Now he closed his fist with a snap that seemed very nearly audible to his audience. “Imagine a man’s neck caught like that,” he observed. “That is how I want Ahmed Khan. And you are here to see to it.” He added, “I myself will be riding with you through the Khyber to join my Staff and the Division outside Jalalabad. Do not underestimate the Khyber Pass, those of you who have not served here before. The Khyber is hell upon earth. Although strictly the area is within our sphere of influence it has been considered feasible to march a regiment through at this particular time only because the forts of Ali Masjid and Landi Khotal are in friendly hands—hands friendly, that is, to the legitimate ruler, the Amir in Kabul, not necessarily to the British as such, though certainly I would not expect the forts to act against us on this occasion since we march as the Amir’s allies. Bear in mind, all of you, that you’ll come under potentially strong fire positions along every foot of the way outside the range of those forts—fire p
ositions that may well have been infiltrated by Ahmed Khan’s rebel levies. Every man will need to be constantly alert to spot snipers before they can fire on the column—damned alert! The most rigorous punishment will be awarded any man who fails to show alertness, damned if it won’t!”

  There was a good deal more of this; and the men, James Ogilvie thought as the parade was at last marched off and dismissed, seemed suitably impressed with his father, which was as it should be, though before he was out of earshot he had overheard a certain amount of gloomy tooth-sucking about a hidebound old bastard. He was settling into his quarters in the cantonments later, after having supervised the taking over of barrack-room accommodation by his own men, when he was interrupted by a messenger knocking at his door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The man entered and stood at attention. “Sir! The Colonel’s compliments and he’d like to see you in his office at once.” He added on a solemn, warning note, “The General’s no’ away yet, sir, and I think he’s with the Colonel.”

  “Thank you,” Ogilvie said. From the man’s tone and bearing he deduced that the barrack-room had not yet learned of the relationship. If this was so, then the bush-telegraph must have slipped up somewhere, though generals were so remote normally from the rank and file that many private soldiers never did come to know the names of their most senior commanders. As he automatically straightened his uniform, James Ogilvie felt the old familiar sensation of an imminent carpeting. He was about to be lectured by his father; almost all his memories were of lectures, and criticisms, of standing to attention like a soldier on a charge. What was to come would scarcely be anything in the nature of a family reunion—indeed, he wouldn’t have expected it to be in the circumstances, but still...There would be much gruffness and throat-clearing, a touch of awkwardness possibly, steely looks from steady blue eyes. His father was in basis a good man, he knew, and he had often been aware of the affection that lay concealed behind the façade; he was, after all, the only son. Two sisters, married to soldiers though they were, didn’t quite count. But perhaps there was in fact more hope than affection, and it was the knowledge of that burning hope that lay in his father that gave the son many of his self-doubts. He walked along smartly behind the messenger to the Colonel’s newly-taken-over office, hesitated outside the door, pulled his tunic straight again, checked with his hand the angle of his pith helmet, and knocked.

  He went in and halted. He saluted, eyes looking rigidly towards Lord Dornoch. “You sent for me, Colonel?”

  “Yes, James.” Dornoch, seated behind a desk, spoke abruptly. “Your father—”

  “All right, Dornoch, thank you,” Sir Iain said. He had been standing by a window, looking out across the parade-ground towards the flagstaff and the distant bluish hills. Now he swung round. He cleared his throat; the steely gaze flashed across the room towards his son. There was absolutely no awkwardness; seeing his son for the first time in the uniform of the regiment failed, at any rate visibly, to affect him. He said, “I’m glad to see you, boy. You look fit. The army’s done you good—damn sight more good than that damn tutor your mother found—hey?”

  “Yes, father—”

  “No, boy, no.” The voice, cutting in at once, was curt, hard, dominating—an order had been given. “Your Colonel has already referred to me as such. I don’t deny my damn paternity, but once is enough! We’re here on active service, and this is the army—the regiment. I am your Divisional Commander. There is no other relationship, Ogilvie.” The use of the surname was a shock and was meant to be. “That is why I asked your Colonel to send for you—to make this crystal clear beyond a doubt, you understand me, Ogilvie?”

  “Yes, sir,” James Ogilvie answered.

  Sir Iain seemed to relax a little. He nodded, blew through his moustache, and said, “Good, that’s better. Now a few words of advice—same as I’d give any young officer in my command. Do your duty, obey your orders, respect your betters, show no fear in action even when you feel it. We all feel it. You will feel fear when you march into the Khyber Pass in two days’ time. You’ll feel scared to blasted death! Respect the feeling, allow it to instil a sensible caution in you, but never give in to it. And don’t be squeamish about killing the enemy. Remember they’re only niggers, and you’re British, a soldier of the Queen-Empress. You’re the cream of the world’s armies, the very best.” He paused, his gaze not wavering for a moment. “You’re young. You’ve not seen blood spilt yet. You will. You won’t like your first sight of death. You’ll grow accustomed to it. You’ll miss a friend or a man of your own company when he’s killed, but after a time you’ll find that the fact of death per se, the sight of it, will mean nothing whatsoever to you. The first time I saw death was in battle, too. China—the taking of Peking under General Gordon. It was horrible and I was sick on the spot. That didn’t stop me killing others. The first time I killed a man, I twisted my sword about in a Chinees’s guts. I used my handkerchief to wipe the blade and kept it for weeks afterwards as a trophy.” His son stared at him; he had never been told so much about his father before. “I repeat, I wasn’t so damn sick I couldn’t kill others. Remember that. You are here to do well for your country and your regiment, Ogilvie. Remember that too.” Sir Iain, coming to the end of his somewhat disjointed morale-lifter, shifted his gaze to the Colonel. “If you don’t want this young man any more, Dornoch, I’m finished with him.”

  Dornoch said, “Yes, sir,” and nodded at Ogilvie, smiling kindly. “Very well, James, that’s all”

  “Yes, Colonel. Thank you.” Ogilvie slammed his hand to the salute. “If I may ask one question, sir?”

  He had addressed, not the Colonel, but his father. Sir Iain said abruptly, “Well?”

  “May I ask, sir...how is my mother?”

  There was, for a moment, a softer look in the hard blue eyes, as though the question was pleasing. The Divisional Commander vanished for that moment and the father took his place. “Your mother’s well, boy. She’s presently in Simla.” He added, “She sends her love.”

  That was all. Ogilvie saluted again, said, “Thank you, sir,” and turned about with precision and a heel-slam. He wondered if his mother’s simple message would ever have reached him if he hadn’t made an enquiry.

  When he had gone Sir Iain cleared his throat again and took a pinch of snuff from a small gold box, transferring the dust to the back of his hand, whence he drew it into flaring nostrils with a tremendous inrush of air. Dornoch almost laughed; the sight reminded him of a horse snorting in reverse. He asked, “Is this a new habit, sir?”

  “Damn it, no, been taking snuff for some years now. You should keep up to date, Dornoch.”

  “We’ve not met for some years,” Dornoch reminded him.

  Sir Iain made an irritable movement, as though he felt his quirks should be heralded ahead of him. “Don’t like some of our traditions,” he stated. “Never did—not that one.”

  “The snuff? That’s not a—”

  “No, no, damn the snuff! I didn’t mean that at all.” The general sneezed. “This christian name business. I was always against it, but even when I commanded the battalion, the damn tradition was too strong and too old to be changed by a bird of passage. Always though it gave a young feller the wrong ideas, to be calling older men, senior men, Charlie or Harry or Eustace. Not right at all, but there you are. Now I’m going to bring my arse to an anchor, as my naval brother says.” He sat down, heavily. “Very formal way of addressing one’s seniors in his service, y’know, it’s all aye, aye, sir and fiddlemetits. Good thing, I say. Now about my son. You may be right—what you said earlier. He seems to be shaping reasonably. Too damn young for his years still, though. Colours up like a virgin.”

  “He’s young, I agree, but we’ll overcome that.”

  “His mother’s fault, of course. Mothers aren’t the best things for young men.” He added, “He’ll not be too brash in action, I hope. Men’s lives are at stake—men in his company.”

  “We’ll
be finding that out, but I’ve every confidence in him, sir. And the men like him—that’s half the battle.”

  “Is it? Popularity’s never a good end in itself, Dornoch.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest it was.” The Colonel spoke patiently. “But he’s the kind of young officer they’ll trust and follow, when he’s had the right experience.”

  “Why d’you say that—hey?” The blue eyes fixed their gaze on Lord Dornoch.

  “It’s a little hard to be precise, it’s a feeling I have. You’ll agree that any man who commands a battalion acquires an ability to sum men up. If I may say so without offence, sir, it may be that I can see him from a greater distance than you, as his father, can ever see him.”

  “Well? Go on!”

  Dornoch said, “He has integrity, sir. That comes through, to the men as well as myself. Integrity and a clear honest decency go farther than anything else—once the experience is there also.”

  “H’m…” The General pulled briefly at his moustache, and a frown creased the flesh between his eyes into a deep groove. “Well—no favours, mind. No holding back because he’s my son—no soft jobs. But I know I don’t need to tell you that, Dornoch,” he added as he saw the way the Colonel was lifting his eyebrows. “That adjutant of yours—what’s his name again?”

  “Black—Andrew Black.”

  “Black, Black. Can be a good name, but on the other hand...Any family to speak of?”

  Dornoch knew well what was meant by that. “They’re not landed, sir.”

  “Not in Burke’s?”

  “No.”

  “Good God. Trade?”

  “I believe there’s trade in the background.”

  The General rustled irritably. “Damn it, man, what sort of trade?”

  “I understand the grandfather, the paternal grandfather, was a steelmaster, Sir Iain.”

  “Good God!” Sir Iain was startled, and showed it. Brewing, say, would have been moderately respectable if not exactly desirable. Steel was neither. But it meant money. Money, however, was not important; of itself, it had never made a Royal Strathspey. Birth had, and very efficiently. After all, the men respected a gentleman; they didn’t like serving under an officer who was basically of their own sort and if a man came from the common people then he remained common however much money he had. The general made a sour noise in his throat “A feller of that background could be impressed...see a way into society, don’t you know. Could be a snob—try to curry favour. That sort of thing.”