Drums Along the Khyber

by Philip McCutchan

  “Sir Iain?”

  “Ogilvie.”

  “Oh—yes. Yes, of course.” Mary frowned attractively.

  “You danced with his son at the ball at the palace,” the woman said with a curious inflexion in her voice.

  Mary recognized the inflexion at once and was infuriated by it. “Oh, I’ve no doubt I was seen by some busy-body,” she said tartly. “If you can so much as blow your nose in bed without all Peshawar knowing about it by breakfast time, you’re a lot cleverer than me, Mrs. Ffoulkes. His name is James and he’s a very nice boy—and if what you say is true, then I’m very sorry.”

  “Well, I just thought I’d tell you.”

  “Thank you,” Mary said, and, lifting her skirt from the ground with a gloved hand, moved away. She was sorry about young Ogilvie; she was wise enough in the ways of the frontier to know what ‘missing’ meant and wise enough, too, to know what could follow. He had been a nice young man—terribly callow, of course, and terribly repressed, the gauchest young man, in fact, she had ever met. But he had also been honest and sincere, with no guile in him at all, and very good-looking, and had an impetuosity that had appealed to her. She smiled inwardly, then felt a touch of sadness and regret. He had made it so obvious that night that he’d wanted to toss her into bed, she had felt his urgency, she remembered, like a physical force reaching out to her. It would have been an act of the sheerest kindness and it would have been so easy really to have given him what he wanted. But she had also had an odd feeling that when it came to the point he would have been scared stiff.

  In any case, it was too late for regrets now.

  She gave a small shrug and went on with her buying till the servant and the Bengal Light Horseman were loaded to capacity, and then she went back to quarters and found, as the day went on, that she couldn’t quite get James Ogilvie out of her mind, though until now she had scarcely thought about him at all since he had marched away through the Khyber Pass.

  *

  Later that day more news reached Peshawar from the siege lines outside Jalalabad and by nightfall the whole garrison was laughing itself sick. Brigade Major Archdale’s specially-built field lavatory, it was reported, had become a casualty of war. Not only had it been damaged accidentally by its owner, but it had subsequently been totally destroyed by a rebel artillery concentration. The Medical Officer had made urgent representations to the acting Brigadier-General, Lord Dornoch, that for the sake of the Brigade Major’s health and efficiency—for without his apparatus Major Archdale was as bound as an egg—a new commode should be constructed and sent through the pass with the 88th Foot, the Connaught Rangers, when they marched to reinforce the Division.

  *

  Blood pounded through Ogilvie’s head still. He wondered just how many kinds of a fool he had been. He was lying now, face down, on that luxurious divan bed and he was alone. The girl had gone at last when she had seen that he was adamant in his refusal of her. She had been young and slim and her body was as mobile as a kitten’s; she had been none of Feroz Khan’s Peshawar hags. Her eyes, pools of darkness in a peach-soft light-brown face, had given him looks of genuine desire. She had come to him gently, and at first modestly, and had simply taken his hand, leading him towards the bed. She had pressed her body against his and then she had unbuttoned his khaki drill tunic and slid soft hands inside to roam over his chest.

  He remembered other things, among them her nakedness when she had lowered her veil and then shrugged off her flimsy clothing. It had been then that he had got up suddenly, and moved away across the room, leaving her standing by the divan. She had pleaded with him but he wouldn’t give in, even though he believed she would suffer at the hands of Ahmed Khan for her failure to seduce the British officer. He had refused to give in partly because his whole upbringing had conditioned him against casual sex relationships and had rendered it almost impossible for him to break through the barriers even when they were down upon the other side. But also partly because he had felt that he must not be guilty of trading with the enemy, must never allow himself to be suborned by Ahmed Khan, who would be wanting something in return for favours given and received.

  But—now that the danger was past and temptation overcome—he, like Mary Archdale, was facing his regrets and finding them much more painful than she. Someone, he recalled, had once said that a man’s greatest regrets were always for what he has not done—not for what he has done. Ogilvie was pondering the truth of that when the door of his apartment was opened up once again and Ahmed Khan himself entered, alone. Smiling, he walked slowly across towards Ogilvie, who sat up. Ahmed Khan said, “I have apologies to offer, Ogilvie sahib. I am told you sent the girl away, and—”

  “You mustn’t blame her,” Ogilvie said quickly. “It was no fault of hers.”

  “Have no fear, I understand very well and the girl will not be punished. My apologies were not on her behalf, but on my own. I insulted you, by the implied suggestion that you would take my favours. I see now that you will not. You are a loyal young man, Ogilvie sahib. For this, I respect you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ahmed Khan gave a slight dip of his head and moved over to one of the windows. He stood there looking out for a moment, then Ogilvie saw him give a hand-signal, probably to one of the two sentries. He turned away and said to Ogilvie, “I have other distractions which will perhaps be more to your liking. You shall hear.”

  A minute later Ogilvie heard. He heard, and heard with keen nostalgia, the familiar sound of wind being puffed into bagpipes and the tramp of marching men. He got up in surprise and looked out of a window. Some thirty men, Afridis, were marching up and down. As he watched the music swelled: they were playing Will Ye No Come Back Again. They played well and they marched smartly. Ogilvie felt tears pricking suddenly at his eyes. Once, his mother had taken him to St. James’s Palace in London to watch the guard-changing ceremony. The Scots Guards, the Old Guard, were being relieved by the Coldstream. The slow march of the Scots off parade had been impressive and had engendered a fiercely patriotic fervour in the schoolboy. This outlandish march in the shadow of the Kafiristan hills was poignantly reminiscent, even to some extent in its setting, of that day when the music of the Scots Guards had beaten off the old walls of the enclosed courtyard of St. James’s.

  Ogilvie caught Ahmed Khan’s sardonic eye. “Where did you get the pipes?” he asked.

  “They were taken in battle by an uncle of my cousin on his mother’s side, during the mutiny in India. They are old now but they are lovingly maintained as a trophy of war, and they play well, would you not agree, Ogilvie sahib?”

  “Admirably. I congratulate you on the ability of your pipers, too.”

  Ahmed Khan bowed graciously. “The music they are playing,” he said after a while. “If I may be mawkish for a moment, I suggest it is germaine to your own thoughts and wishes?”

  “In what way?”

  “You would wish to come back again—or rather, go back again, to your own land—the land that gave that music birth?”

  Impatiently Ogilvie said, “Of course.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Ahmed Khan looked gravely into his eyes, a brown hairy-backed hand trifling with a chain of gold hanging from his neck. “For myself, Ogilvie sahib, I see no reason why you should not do so.”

  “I thought prisoners were always killed, Ahmed Khan?”

  “Yes?” The rebel seemed surprised; he lifted his eyebrows. “Then you are a brave man, Ogilvie sahib, for you have given no hint that you thought this.” He added, “It is true, of course—I do not deny this—but there can always be exceptions. You have a saying in your country that the exception proves the rule. Perhaps, Ogilvie sahib, you can prove the truth of the saying.”

  “Oh?” Ogilvie looked him in the eyes. The pipes were still playing. “I’ve no intention of helping you, if that’s what you’re offering—safety in return for help.”

  “I see.” Ahmed Khan shrugged, raised his hands, let them fall again to his sides. “This i
s, of course, what I am offering. Allow me to say that life can be made very uncomfortable for those who refuse to do as I wish. As a soldier, you will understand this?”

  “I suppose so—in Afghanistan.”

  “Not only in Afghanistan. The British are not too squeamish at times, Ogilvie sahib. But I shall let the point pass. You do not change your mind?”

  “No, never.”

  Ahmed Khan laughed. “I can always put that to the test, Ogilvie sahib—and I prophesy that it would be I who would win!” Suddenly he clasped his hands in front of his body and moved away, pacing the floor. After a while he swung round on Ogilvie again and said, “But I have no liking for uncivilized measures. Indeed I regret that it was necessary for one of your men to be shot so soon after your arrival here. Contrary to what I understand is said about me in British India, I am a civilized man, Ogilvie sahib. Had I not been, I would scarcely have bothered to learn the English tongue. It would be of little enough use to me were it not for the fact that I appreciate English literature, and English music also.” He laughed again. “I dare say I am better read than you, Ogilvie sahib. British officers are not a reading class—it is considered women’s entertainment, is it not? How foolish they are! What a lot they miss! I have read all the works of John Bunyan, Geoffrey Chaucer, Sir Walter Scott to name but a few. Shakespeare, of course, and Marlowe and Alexander Pope. And your great Charles Dickens, from whom I have learned an immense amount about the English character. You should not allow your novelists to reveal so many useful secrets! I would like to say that I have much admiration for many facets of the English character. As a race you are brave and mostly chivalrous, and to a large extent honest—except when it comes to dealing with the natives as you scornfully call us. You are an industrious nation and a conscientious one, and you do not lightly break treaties with powers as strong as yourselves. You also guard the little ones that do not much matter, and this gives you a reputation for fair play. All this is good so far as it goes. But oh, my dear young man, you are so stupid a nation, so very, very stupid, and at the same time the length of your arm of conquest is equalled only by the length of your prodding nose. Let us sit down, Ogilvie sahib, and discuss your stupidity without heat. I shall be obliged if you will pour me a glass of whisky—which is another British custom I have grown to like!”

  He sat cross-legged on a large cushion and gestured Ogilvie to the armchair. Feeling a little foolish, Ogilvie said stiffly, “I’d rather not.”

  “You are also a demonstrably polite nation, Ogilvie sahib. What you really wish to say is, ‘I damn well don’t want to drink with a filthy native who is fighting my country’, but this you will not say. Thus you are also a hypocritical nation.” Ahmed Khan’s dark eyes mocked him. “Come, sit down and we shall talk, and you shall drink. Do not behave like a spoilt little boy, Ogilvie sahib! Already you have magnificently fought one temptation. Do not martyr yourself by fighting them all, for they are really quite harmless.”

  Ogilvie scowled, then with a gesture of irresolution, sat. He was bewildered by this man. He poured the whisky, passing a tumbler to Ahmed Khan, who asked abruptly, “How much do you know of the quarrel between the Amir in Kabul and myself?”

  “Only that it’s hardly a quarrel. You’ve rebelled against him and seized this fort.”

  “That is all? You do not know the reason why?”

  Ogilvie shook his head. “No.”

  “You do not concern yourself with reasons? They do not matter? Reasons are for the politicians, not the military? The military caste simply carries out the orders of the politicians?”

  “Broadly, yes.”

  “And in detail yes, also!” Ahmed Khan gave a throaty chuckle. “I understand your system. We do things differently, Ogilvie sahib! That is the first thing for you to learn. The warriors make war, and when they win, they appoint the little scribblers, the officials, the men in offices. It is the military caste that runs affairs and gives the orders and makes the laws. That is the way we have always wished it, and we seek no change. Nor do we wish to have the interference of your country in our own affairs—”

  “Then you should not act rebelliously, Ahmed Kahn.”

  There was a light laugh, and a twinkle in the rebel’s eye. “Oh, my dear young man, you show so very clearly that you do not understand! In effect, what I am rebelling about, as you put it, is quite simply the fact of British interference. This interference comes through our illustrious Amir in Kabul, to which city I am most heartily glad his influence is largely confined. The Amir, as you are no doubt aware, is friendly with your Government, he is its lackey, its lickspittle. Because I am not these things, I have a very large following. As the leader of that large following in Afghanistan, I must achieve their wishes for them. I wish no man harm, Ogilvie sahib; but you and the British must try to understand that I am a patriot who means to set the people of Afghanistan free of an unwelcome influence. Think, Ogilvie sahib—think, if your country had been invaded by the French again, subsequent to the invasion by William the Norman—in recent times would you not resent any French influence thenceforward in the conduct of your affairs?”

  “I suppose I would,” Ogilvie answered guardedly. He recalled that Mary Archdale had said something similar in Peshawar.

  “Of course you would, and such a resentment would be very natural and proper. And would you not resent it if, in those circumstances, your Queen made agreements with the French, some of them secret agreements which even, let us say, her Prime Minister knew nothing of, and that because of those agreements your people suffered, and lost their independence?” Ahmed Khan made a sweeping gesture. “Of course you would—I need not ask the question at all really. And that, you see, is the precise counterpart of the position here in Afghanistan. Our people cry aloud—to me, Ogilvie sahib!” He smote himself on the breast, “To me—to depose the Amir and then to ask the British to be so good to leave Afghanistan alone. You must see the similarity between my hypothetical case in regard to your country, and the actual one in regard to my country. You cannot, except by the exercise of hypocrisy, resolve a conflict in your mind by saying that we in Afghanistan are merely filthy natives. We also feel pain and sorrow and joy, we also have wives and brothers and sons and fathers, we also die when shot, bleed when wounded—and we also have pride in our independence. Why is it wrong for us and yet right for you?”

  “That’s something I can’t answer,” Ogilvie said, and added curiously, “Why are you telling me all this, Ahmed Khan?”

  “Because I prefer to reason with men rather than to kill them or torture them, though these things can become necessary. And for another reason also: I wish, as I have said, for your help, but it must be willing help. Do you understand?”

  Ogilvie said, “I’m damned if I do! All I have gathered is, you intend to make use of me in some way—and I’ll refuse to cooperate whatever you say or do.”

  Ahmed Khan bowed his head. “Well spoken, Ogilvie sahib,” he said. “You have my respect. Your father would be proud of you—your Colonel also. But—it is not much I ask of you, and you may be able to be of great service to your own country. Do you wish to hear more?”

  Ogilvie made a weary gesture. “I can’t stop you talking, can I?”

  Ahmed Khan got to his feet and stared down at Ogilvie. He said, “Ogilvie sahib, I wish for you to meet your father, man to man. I wish you to go out from here under a flag of truce, and talk to him, half way between my advanced line and the British positions. You see, I have things to offer him and I prefer the personal approach. When I have your word that you will go, and go willingly—for as I have said, that is most important—I shall send a message that will reach your father. Now do you understand?”

  “I don’t know if I do or not.” Ogilvie bit his lip. “What if I refuse?”

  Ahmed Khan’s eyes seemed to glow at him. “In my possession I have two documents,” he said slowly. “Agreements, the existence of both being unknown to the British. One, made as I have already told y
ou with the Amir in Kabul, grants me my terms, namely, that he abdicates in my favour with ample financial recompense and full guarantees for the safety of himself and his family and servants. Because he knows my strength, he is willing to sign this document—provided the British agree, for he fears a punitive war against him if he acts without their approval, and I know he is right to have this fear. As for me, once I am in Kabul, I shall deal with any British demands or threats. In the meantime, the British must agree, if agree they do, to the treaty precisely as it stands and they must seek to attach no strings to their approval. In return they will be assured of a peaceful neighbour on this side of the Khyber Pass. Now—I realize very well that the British will in fact be certain to refuse their approval...unless, Ogilvie sahib, you can persuade them, through your father, that it would be wiser to give it.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Ogilvie sahib, you, for—”

  Ogilvie broke in with a jeering laugh. “Really, you do overrate my influence, you know! I might just as well save you the bother of preparing horses!”

  “You are the General’s own son—”

  “Certainly, and so...look, Ahmed Khan, I think there’s an awful lot you don’t know about the British! Fathers don’t often listen to their sons—and certainly don’t take orders from them, or even advice! My father would simply laugh and—and ride away!”