by CL Skelton
These goblets, like the rest of the silver and china, were engraved with the head of a snarling wildcat, the regimental crest, beneath which was a scroll engraved with their motto: Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum. The colours ‒ the Queen’s Colour, a gold-fringed Union Jack with the legend 148th Foot inscribed across its centre, and the regimental Colour, a gold-fringed buff flag dominated by their crest and motto, flanked by six scrolls embroidered with their battle honours, Peninsular, Waterloo, Aden, India, Balaclava, and Gwalior ‒ hung on their gold-mounted staffs behind the carver’s chair in the centre of the table against the wall.
The officers themselves were hardly less colourful than the room they were in. Their kilts were of Maclaren tartan, their scarlet full-dress tunics were double-breasted with gold diamond-shaped buttons, embossed with the regimental number. The slashed flaps of their cuffs were dark blue and picked out in gold braid. The jackets ended in an Inverness skirt, braided flaps of scarlet in front and behind, decorated with button loops and buttons. They wore red-and-white-diced stockings and light silver-buckled shoes. Heavy gold epaulettes and a high collar, again fringed in braid, bore their badges of rank. Their sporrans were of white winter hare pelts with a silver clasp and silver-mounted tassels arranged in two rows of two and three.
As they entered the dining room, the clock in the square started to chime the hour. As the third stroke of seven clanged out, Colonel Sir Henry Maclaren, Bart., strode into the dining room, arriving behind the carver in front of the colours as the seventh chime struck.
Like all the Maclarens, the colonel was tall and slim. His heavy sideburns, greying slightly, swept around and over his upper lip. His hair, or what remained of it, circumvented the burnished dome of his balding pate like a pelmet. A tinted monocle was screwed firmly into his right eye which had been nearly blinded by a powder flash at Sevastopol, and his pale-blue good left eye traversed the table without expression as he waited for his officers to take their places.
‘Gentlemen,’ he grunted by way of greeting.
He never looked at Andrew, who was waiting for the order which would seat him on his father’s right ‒ not because of his relationship, but because, as a returning officer, it was customary that he should take that place at his C.O.’s invitation for his first dining-in night in mess. The command did not come. There was not even the faintest flicker of recognition when finally Sir Henry’s good eye looked straight at him. Andrew compressed his lips; that augured no good. Ignoring him, the colonel came smartly to attention behind his chair, and addressing his Maker as if the Lord was facing him on the parade ground, barked:
‘For what we are about to receive, thank God. God save the Queen!’
The colonel did everything at attention. It was rumoured in the barracks that should he ever stand easy, he would disintegrate. He took his place and they all sat down. The colonel’s hand hovered over the small silver bell which would be the signal for dinner to commence and conversation to begin.
Andrew was sitting next to Captain Chisholm, their backs to the windows. Chisholm returned Andrew’s glance with a compression of his lips and a raising of his eyebrows, drawing a glare from the colonel opposite. Sir Henry transferred his glare to his son.
‘Andrew!’ he barked.
‘Sir?’ replied Andrew.
The colonel tapped the vacant chair on his right.
‘Join me.’
Andrew breathed a sigh of relief, and Chisholm whispered, ‘That was a near thing,’ and was rewarded with another glare.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Andrew, getting up to join his father.
Whatever it was, it was not going to be too bad. At least not in military terms. For his father would never allow domestic matters to interfere with those which concerned the regiment. It was now quite certain to Andrew that his father’s disapproval was aimed at his having brought Miss Westburn home, but on that score, at least, he would be able to argue his case on more or less equal terms, and not as subaltern to the commanding officer.
‘Well, lad,’ said the colonel as soon as Andrew was seated, ignoring the convention that matters military should not be discussed at table, ‘how are things in India?’ He rang the bell and stewards started to serve the soup. ‘Did you know that Havelock had fallen back on Cawnpore?’
‘What happened at Lucknow, sir?’
‘Couldn’t take it. Insufficient force after the hammering you got at Cawnpore. He was down to less than half his strength after he had had a go at Lucknow. Colin Campbell is taking a column up, though. He’s got the 93rd Highlanders with him.’
‘I pray that they won’t be too late, sir.’ Andrew spoke soberly as a vision of the carnage at Cawnpore flashed through his mind, the wrecked assembly hall where the massacre had taken place, with its bloodied floor and the pathetic litter of personal possessions, daguerreotypes, children’s toys, the rag doll by the waterhole, locks of hair, one in particular, long and blonde and bloodied ‒ it might have been Maud’s ‒ and then the waterhole itself. He looked at his soup with distaste. No, he did not want to talk about India.
‘You’ll be glad to hear that you’ve got a company now,’ his father said. Thank God, he had changed the subject.
‘A company, sir?’
‘Aye, lad, you’ve been gazetted captain. You take over command of C Company tomorrow. Good news travels slowly, eh?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Andrew. He accepted the news of the promotion both with pleasure and as a matter of course. In spite of the fact that he was well aware that several subalterns were senior to himself, he was a Maclaren. ‘Who is my colour-sergeant?’ he asked.
‘Willie Bruce,’ was the reply.
Andrew could not complain at that. Sergeant Bruce was a year or two older than himself, the son of a worker on their estate at Strathglass. Willie was one of that rare breed of men who had joined the army because he really wanted to be a soldier. All of his life he had wanted nothing else. When they had been children together, Willie had been Andrew’s hero. He had taught Andrew how to use the land, how to see and not be seen ‒ skills which were second nature to a countryman like Willie, who could stalk a stag and get within twenty-five yards of the beast before he was spotted. Andrew could still remember the time that Willie had shown him his first bird’s nest, a blackbird’s with a clutch of four green eggs mottled with reddish-brown spots. It was in a hawthorn bush. Willie had taken Andrew down to a burn, and after lying patiently for half an hour with his hand in the water, he had suddenly lifted it, holding a fine brown trout. Andrew tried, but was never able to do it. Andrew was always the amateur and Willie the professional. And in the army, in a strange way, that was still true. Officers in the British Army were with very few exceptions not professionals; they were gentlemen, amateur soldiers. As children, they had played army games together. Of course, Andrew had always been the officer and Willie the N.C.O. As a child, he had learned a lot from Willie, and now as men they would be working together again. And Willie would be able to teach him, and he would be able to listen and learn, just as he had done as a child. It was good to know that he would have Willie to rely on.
‘And you will no doubt be glad to know that we are re-equipping with the new Enfield rifle,’ the colonel said.
This was more good news, even though it was no more than justice. When Andrew had left for India, the 148th was still equipped with the old Brown Bess, the same smooth-bore which had been used at Waterloo. The Enfield would be a terrific improvement. He had seen the Enfield and the slightly older Minie rifles in action in India with Havelock, and there was no doubt about the superiority of the Enfield. Weighing just under nine pounds against the Minie’s fourteen, it was accurate up to nearly a thousand yards. With the Brown Bess, you would be lucky to hit the side of a house at a hundred yards. There had been the usual mutterings at regimental H.Q. about favouring English battalions when the Maclarens did not get the Minie, but now they were getting the even better Enfield. So national pride was assuaged and all would be fo
rgiven.
The meal proceeded slowly on its well-ordered and dignified way. Conversation was subdued, as it always was when the colonel was present. Most of it was small talk, talk of sport, hunting, and the regimental football team, which was to play the opening match of the season the following Saturday.
The grouse, which was the main course, had come from Captain Chisholm’s estate. He had taken a party of brother officers out a week ago, and the bag from the day’s shoot had been gifted to the mess. After the dessert, fresh strawberries and cream, the table was cleared and the decanter of port was placed in front of the mess president, and the madeira in front of the adjutant. When the decanters had completed their clockwise circuit, never touching the table in the process, they drank the Loyal Toast. Andrew was given the honour of proposing The Regiment, and then Ensign Smith, the youngest officer present ‒ who had purchased his commission for four hundred pounds only six months ago, just before the colonel decreed that commissions would no longer be available for purchase in the 148th ‒ proposed Sweethearts and Wives, and Andrew thought about Maud.
After the toasts they relaxed a little, though really they were all waiting for the colonel to go. Cigars were handed round and the colours in the room became subdued in a haze of blue smoke.
‘Andrew,’ said the colonel, puffing at his cigar, ‘your father would like to have a word with you after dinner.’
‘Of course, sir,’ replied Andrew. ‘Where?’ His father always referred to himself in the third person when in his role of commanding officer.
Sir Henry pulled out his watch. ‘It’s about eight-thirty now; come along to my office in about ten minutes.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’
They all rose as the colonel made his exit. Now, relieved of their C.O.’s august presence, what had until then been muted conversation became a noisy babble as they trooped into the anteroom. In the anteroom, Major Scott, the mess president, called Andrew to one side.
‘Just a quick word, Andrew,’ he said. ‘It’s highly confidential. It’s about the quartermaster.’
‘Angus?’ said Andrew. ‘No trouble, I hope.’
‘Well, he’s getting a bit behind with his messing. I haven’t told him yet, but you know the way things are. He’s got nothing except his pay.’
‘How much is it?’ asked Andrew.
‘About forty pounds.’
‘I’ll let you have it tomorrow,’ Andrew replied, glad to be able to help his old friend. ‘Don’t say anything to Angus.’
‘Naturally, and now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to escape before things start to hot up.’
Major Scott, Angus Cameron, and one or two of the older officers were drifting out as the younger spirits gathered around the mess piano, where Ian Chisholm had started to play Samuel Wesley’s ‘Arelia’. Irreverently they started to sing:
We are Maclaren’s army,
The Highland Infantry,
We cannot fight, we cannot sing,
What bloody use are we?
And when we get to India,
We’ll hear the Viceroy say,
Hoch, hoch, mein Gott,
What a bloody fine lot,
To earn sixpence a day.
The statement regarding their income was rather pessimistic. An ensign received five shillings and threepence a day, but he needed at least another two hundred pounds a year in order to be able to live in mess.
Chisholm swung around on his piano stool. ‘Andrew,’ he shouted, ‘I’ve ordered a case of champers to celebrate your return. Tonight we will all get drunk in your honour.’
‘Sorry, Ian,’ replied Andrew, ‘I have to go and see the old man.’
‘Let him wait.’
‘Would you?’
‘Maybe you’re right. Well, we’ll have a wake for you instead. Steward!’ he roared.
Andrew slipped out of the mess. The big parade ground was empty. Lights were beginning to come on in the barrack blocks where the men would be bending to their tasks. He walked the few yards to the headquarters block and down the long corridor towards his father’s office.
He knew that his father wanted to talk to him on a domestic matter. Had the subject been military, he would not have referred to himself as ‘your father’. And Andrew was certain that the subject of the talk was going to be Maud Westburn.
This was not going to be easy. He tried to sort out his own feelings in the matter. With the sole possible exception of his mother, women were strange and alien creatures to Andrew. He had two sisters, but even they were beyond his understanding. All his life had been directed towards the army and the regiment. He could not comprehend this compelling urge to be with Maud, to touch her. Perhaps this was what people meant when they talked of love. After all, he believed himself to be in love while they were together on the ship. Perhaps he should ask for her hand, even though she was, to use her own words, ‘a soiled woman’. Could she be blamed for her condition? He was absolutely certain that she was an innocent victim. Perhaps this talk with his father would help to sort things out; after all, the old man was no fool. He tapped on the door of his father’s office.
‘Enter,’ called the familiar voice from within.
The office was sparsely furnished, reflecting the spartan character of the man who inhabited it. There was a large desk on which lay inkwells and pens, paper with the regimental crest, a copy of Queen’s Regulations, and that morning’s issue of The Scotsman.
There was a small bookcase which contained a selection of books, all on military subjects: things like the record of the Peninsular War and Waterloo, and several manuals on arms and ordnance. There was one large window which looked out on to the barrack square, hung with heavy brown curtains. Two portraits dominated the walls. They were of the preceding Maclarens who had commanded the regiment, both of them in uniform and both of them looking uncannily like his father. In the other wall was a fireplace with a cheerful coal fire burning in the grate. This was flanked by two leather chairs, between which was a small table containing a bottle of The Glenlivet and two glasses and a jug of water. In one of these chairs, Colonel Maclaren was sitting, his tunic collar undone.
‘Sit down and help yourself to a dram,’ he said.
Andrew poured out a generous helping of whisky and waited for the older man to speak. He glanced up at his ancestors glowering back at him from their gilt frames.
‘Cigar?’
‘No, thank you, sir,’ Andrew said, anxious to get to the point.
The colonel sipped his whisky. ‘Had a rather tedious chat with your mother before dinner.’ The remark was casually made, but its implication did not escape Andrew.
‘So I heard, sir.’
‘The devil you did. Who told you?’
‘I was on my way to see you when I met Sergeant Major Mackintosh. He told me you were having “a wee disputation”.’
The colonel almost smiled. ‘It wasn’t all that wee,’ he grunted. ‘You know, boy, your mother can ‒ but that’s something else. I want to hear your story. I want to know about this Miss Westburn.’
Well, it was better to have it out in the open. ‘The history, sir,’ he said, ‘is simple and very tragic. Both her parents were killed in Cawnpore, and either before or after that, I don’t know which, she was assaulted.’ Strange, he thought, he could not bring himself to use the word ‘rape’. ‘I’m not really sure of the details, as you can understand. It was not the sort of thing she would want to discuss, especially with a man. But I do know that the only reason she herself was not killed was because they didn’t find her. Her ayah hid her in a cellar when they were rounding up the women and children and locking them in the assembly hall. That was where we found her.’
‘In the cellar?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then you brought her home.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, sir. The Resident arranged her passage, and it was quite coincidental that we were on the same ship. It was not until a couple of days before we docked
that I really became aware of her distress and offered her the hospitality of our home.’
‘Distress? How do you mean?’
‘She was frightened. Terrified. One night she tried to jump overboard. She was alone. She had nowhere to go. There is a spinster aunt in Surrey, but she was afraid to go there in her condition. Besides, I ‒ er …’ He became silent.
‘Go on. You were about to say that you found her attractive or something like that.’
‘Yes, I did. I was very much taken with her. At the time, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing touch with her.’
‘I see,’ said the colonel. He sipped his whisky in silence while Andrew waited for him to continue. ‘This is more serious than I had thought. Your mother insists that she is a most personable young lady, and no doubt when I meet her, I shall agree.’ He paused again. ‘Come now, Andrew, I want the truth. Where do you stand? What is your relationship with this young woman?’
‘I haven’t got one, Father.’
‘Come now, you know what I mean.’
That was the trouble. He knew exactly what his father meant, and the colonel was entitled to an honest answer. Unfortunately, Andrew did not know the answer himself.
‘Supposing,’ he said after a long hesitation, ‘and only supposing, I said that I wanted to marry her.’
Sir Henry gazed at his son with an expression of incredulity. The boy must be out of his mind. Even to contemplate the possibility of such a course was unthinkable. He looked at Andrew as if he were trying to determine that he really was his son. ‘Good God!’ he said slowly and quietly, sitting back in his chair and staring at Andrew. ‘You have just told me that the woman is pregnant. You cannot possibly know what it is that you are saying.’
‘She is pregnant through no fault of her own, you must remember that. If I were to marry her, I could claim the child as my own.’
‘Have you gone off your head, boy?’ The colour had risen in the colonel’s cheeks. He was really angry now. ‘Just you try and imagine your mother agreeing to anything like that.’ And then with a note of anxiety, ‘You haven’t mentioned this to her?’