The Maclarens (The Regiment Family Saga Book 1)

by CL Skelton

  ‘Of course not, sir. I was only speculating.’

  ‘I hope that you damned well are. It is quite apparent to me that you have not given this any serious thought at all.’

  ‘I’ve thought a great deal about it, sir,’ Andrew replied defensively.

  ‘Poppycock! And what would happen if the child were to be a boy? Tell me that? You’d sit back and watch it inherit the estate and the title and the regiment, even though you had a son of your own?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I’m damned sure that you hadn’t. Apart from being a bastard, that child will be Eurasian. Can you imagine a half-caste bastard commanding this regiment?’

  Andrew was silent and the colonel, calming himself with an effort, continued. ‘My boy, up to now you have behaved exactly as a gentleman should, given all the circumstances. But this talk of marriage … Do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘Have you ever been with a woman?’

  ‘But I’m not married, sir.’

  The colonel’s jaw dropped as he stared at his son in amazement. ‘Seems to me that I’ve neglected your education. You’re nearly twenty-two. Great Scott, I’d had a couple of dozen by the time I was your age. You might even have a half-brother or half-sister living on the estate at this very moment.’

  ‘Does mother know?’ It was the first thought that entered his head.

  Suddenly the colonel laughed. ‘Heavens above, man, yes! Marriage is for breeding, for the family. The others, all of them, are for pleasure. Men born to your station take mistresses. You’re more than ready for that. God alone knows when you’ll be ready for the other. If you feel attracted by this girl, why don’t you take her as your mistress? No one will mind that.’

  Andrew was visibly shocked at the thought. ‘I am sure that Miss Westburn will never agree. And I would certainly never dream of putting such a proposition to her.’

  ‘More fool you, then. But be that as it may. As your father, I strongly advise you against even contemplating marriage with this young lady. And as your commanding officer, I would like to point out to you that it is contrary to Queen’s Regulations for any officer to marry before he has attained the age of twenty-six. On those grounds if on no other, I positively forbid it.’

  ‘I could resign my commission, sir.’

  ‘You could what?!’ the colonel exploded. ‘No son of mine would ever do such a thing. For if he did, he would cease to be my son.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means, Andrew, that I would disinherit you. It would break my heart, and it would break your mother’s heart, too. She would hate me for the rest of my life. But I’d do it.’

  ‘But I don’t understand, sir,’ Andrew pleaded. ‘Why is it so important?’

  ‘I’ll try and explain, lad. On one hand you have a woman. I won’t name her because it could be any woman. On the other hand,’ he paused and waved his hand in the general direction of the barracks, ‘out there, there are twenty-four of your brother officers and nearly a thousand men. They may not all be gentlemen. A lot of them were the sweepings of the gutter when they joined the army. Many of their families thought that they had brought terrible disgrace on to their name when they enlisted. But they are our men. They are all Maclarens. They are all, even the meanest of them, our family. They may not love you as an individual, and they’re not all heroes, not by a long chalk. But there is not a man Jack of them who would not die to protect you and your honour. Tell me if you think you could give up all of that simply because of a woman!’

  ‘It would be hard.’

  ‘It would be bloody impossible.’

  There was a silence, and then the colonel got up and refilled their glasses. He handed Andrew his.

  ‘My boy, I want you to drink a toast with me. Look.’ He pointed to the portraits. ‘One day, my picture will be there, and then God willing, your own. Will you drink with me ‒ to the regiment?’

  Andrew hesitated. It was not going to be an easy decision. There was wisdom in what his father had said, and he did not really know how he felt about Maud. It would have to wait. Maybe it would go away. He could not decide, not now anyhow. Slowly he rose to his feet.

  ‘Well?’ said his father.

  Andrew raised his glass to his ancestors. ‘The Regiment!’

  Chapter Four

  ‘As you were!’ roared Colour Sergeant Willie Bruce. ‘Call yourself sodjers?’ He glared at C Company with studied contempt. ‘Teuchters, the lot of ye! Now,’ he continued with withering sarcasm, ‘if ye’ll oblige wi’ a wee bitty effort, we’ll try again.’

  Momentarily he turned his back and there was a mutter from the ranks. He whipped around. ‘Wha said that?’ There was no reply. He expected none. He walked menacingly up to one private. ‘Wha said that, I said!’

  ‘Naebody, sergeant.’

  ‘I canna teach ye bugger all. Nobody! Now just remember, I’ve got eyes in the back of ma heed and I can see round corners. We’ll try again.’

  He paused to fill his lungs. ‘C Company, ’tand a’ hease. At-tennntion! Stand at ease. When I say attention you bend your right leg till ya foot is fifteen inches above the ground and then ye bring it doon seventeen inches. Attennnnntion! Sloooop ‒ you there, hald ya heed up or I’ll stick ma bayonet up your left bloody nostril. Slooop ‒ wait for it, wait for it!’ he barked as one over-anxious private twitched an anticipatory muscle. ‘Slooop harms. Open order march!’

  The men’s feet crashed to the ground with a single satisfying thump. Willie paused, glowering at the motionless files in front of him and then walked slowly down the front rank. He inspected each white buff crossbelt from which was suspended the bayonet frog and scabbard with its polished plate bearing the number 148 hanging over the man’s left shoulder. Twice he berated men who had failed to polish the back of the plate. Three times he found a speck of dust on a waistbelt held by a polished buckle bearing the regimental crest. One of these buckles had a tiny spot of verdigris; he pronounced that it was a field fit to grow tatties in. He paused in front of one man and stuck his finger at the small pocket on the man’s right chest.

  ‘What ha’ ye got in there, lad?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing, sergeant.’

  ‘Open it up!’

  Inside he found a cigar butt. ‘I suppose ye think you can fire your rifle wi’ one o’ these?’ He pushed the offending object under the man’s nose. ‘That pooch is for percussion caps. Company office for you, me laddie.’

  So he continued down the second file, stopping here and there, adjusting a crossbelt which had moved a fraction out of true, or reprimanding some unfortunate whose rifle sling was not as white as driven snow, or whose boots had not been polished to a degree where he could see his own face in them. He stopped before one man in the rear rank and straightened his feather bonnet.

  ‘Macbeath,’ he said despairingly, ‘when am I going to make a sodjer oot o’ ye?’

  ‘Rome wasna built in a day, sergeant.’

  ‘Only because I wasna there!’ snapped back Willie, and passed on.

  It was rumoured behind closed doors in the sanctuary of the barrack room that Williewaught, as he was known by the men when he was out of earshot, ate a bag of rusty nails for breakfast, a gleckard private for dinner, and drank a barrel of ale for his tea. The men, many of whom were little more than boys, took an inordinate pride in Willie. It was a distinction to be singled out for his wrath on the parade ground. They feared him and they cursed him, but he was theirs. No man who was not a member of C Company was allowed the privilege of uttering a word against him without the risk of a bloodied nose.

  They were honoured to be in the same company as a man who had gone out three times under fire and, single-handed, carried wounded comrades back to their lines. And it was said that he had then lambasted them for daring to get themselves shot.

  Willie Bruce stood six foot two inches, weighed nearly a hundred and eigh
ty pounds, and there was not an ounce of spare flesh on him. He was a big man in every way, loud of voice, strong of arm, able to bend a six-inch nail with his bare hands; and under it all, gentle of heart. He had the red Pictish hair and heavy eyebrows overhanging pale blue eyes, and a long, thin nose which, it was said, could smell out a defaulter a mile away. His skin was weather-beaten and tanned with the suns of half the world, and he was what he had always wanted to be, a Scottish soldier.

  Willie had joined the regiment ten years before as a drummer boy and had been under fire before his fourteenth birthday. He had been wounded in the arm in the Kaffir wars in South Africa in 1850. He was twenty-four now, but in spite of his youth he had that strange maturity which comes to a man who had been under fire and looked on death, not without fear ‒ for no one but an unimaginative fool does that ‒ but with courage and an unshaking faith in himself and the men around him. If they were proud of him, he was no less proud of them. After South Africa, when he had returned home to Strathglass, he had shown his scar to Andrew, visible proof that he was now a man. Andrew, reared as he was in an environment which revolved around the regiment, listened to his stories with envy. Willie’s mother also listened to the same stories in the confines of their little house on the hill, near the big house, and she listened, not with envy but with sadness, fearing the day that might come when someone else would walk up to her door to tell her of Willie’s deeds, because her son would not be coming home any more.

  Willie’s mother was a big-boned Highland lassie, who always wore her mutch, the linen cap which was the mark of the properly wedded woman. She wore simple dark clothes, invariably covered with one of the voluminous aprons of which she seemed to possess an inexhaustible supply. Her sleeves were always pushed up to her elbows as she strode around her everyday tasks of caring for her men and their small holding. Her face shone as if it always had been recently scrubbed.

  Willie’s father was a small and dark man, a true Celt, smaller even than his mother. He was one of Sir Henry’s two shepherds. In return for this task, he received a small wage, his house, and a few acres of land on which he kept the family cow, their Highland pony, and a few sheep, and grew oats for their porridge and the winter feed.

  They always had plenty to eat, porridge every morning, a good bowl of steaming broth at noon, cooked in the cauldron hanging over the peat fire which never went out; and in the evening, a full meal of meat or fish. Sometimes there would be a stag hanging in the steading, or a salmon fresh from the Glass. And if the summer was bad and the crops were poor, if there were any problems like someone being ill, then Lady Maclaren from the big house did not have to be asked. She always knew and was there with help, just as she would be to any other home on the estate, to make sure that none of them ever went hungry or lacked medical attention.

  As for Willie, he never thought about these things. He was a man content with his lot. He had all that he wanted from life in being a soldier. On this he had always insisted, even when the dominie at the local school said that it was a waste of one of the brightest boys he had ever taught. Not that he did not appreciate his home. The fact that he had a comfortable but-and-ben to come home to was an added bonus. If anything, the regiment meant more to Willie than it did to the Maclarens, and C Company meant more to him than the regiment.

  Today, he was in high spirits even though his emotions were somewhat mixed. Young Master Andrew had been made a captain and given command of Willie’s beloved C Company. That pleased Willie. It would be their childhood all over again. In that egalitarian Highland society which overflowed even into the regiment, they would continue their respect for each other. Once again they would be able to play at soldiers, only now they would have a real army to play with, and Willie would make Andrew the best company commander in the regiment. For if he failed in this, it would be a criticism of his own professionalism.

  There was a snag though. Willie very much wanted to break Andrew in himself, but that would have to wait. In a week’s time he would be leaving Perth on a month’s detachment and would have to hand over C Company, albeit temporarily, to Sergeant Fraser. The sergeant major had told him only last night that he was to travel north to Strathglass, recruiting. It was all very necessary, of course. Just now, the regiment was some two hundred under establishment, and Willie had been detailed to put that right.

  The thought of going home appealed to Willie. He would be able to stay with his parents, and of course the big house would supply him with a saddle horse whenever his duties required one. It would be nice, too, to earn the bounty which each new recruit would bring him. He would tour the villages and the courtrooms and the jails. Many a good soldier came directly from prison to the army. He would be singing the praises of the regiment. He would stick his posters in village halls and institutions ‒ posters featuring the head of the wildcat which exhorted:

  All lads of true Highland blood willing to show their loyalty and spirit may repair to the village hall at‒ where the recruiting sergeant will see that they receive high bounties and soldier-like entertainment. The lads of the 148th Regiment of Foot will LIVE and DIE together. They cannot be draughted into other regiments. Huzza for the Scottish Soldier, God save the Queen.

  He finished his inspection and took up his position in front of C Company.

  ‘C Company, ’tand a’ hease!’ he roared. ‘Stand easy.’ And the men relaxed.

  The whole regiment was drawn up in open order and ready for the morning colour-hoisting parade. The officers were marching in little groups of twos and threes, up and down the edge of the parade ground in front of headquarters block. Sergeant Major Mackintosh was pacing in front of the flagstaff, and the colour sergeants were reporting to him one at a time as they finished their preliminary inspection. Willie came to attention in front of the R.S.M.

  As he approached R.S.M. Mackintosh, Willie glanced up at the sky. There had been a threat of rain earlier. That would have been unfortunate; feather bonnets did not take kindly to a Scottish downpour. But the cloud was now broken and the shadows of the barrack buildings were etched across the square in the early morning sunlight.

  ‘C Company present and correct, sir.’ The R.S.M. acknowledged with a grunt and Willie returned to his place.

  When all the companies had reported, the sergeant major took a last professional look around the regiment, then strode over to the adjutant, roared something at him to the effect that the parade was in order, and marched back to his position in front of the flagstaff.

  ‘Parade!’ The precautionary word of command brought the regiment to the proper ‘at ease’. ‘Parade ‒ ’shun!’

  There was a satisfying single crash as nine hundred hobnailed boots thundered down simultaneously. Now the clan, the regiment, the family ‒ call it what you will ‒ was ready to receive its officers.

  ‘Fall in the officers!’ called the adjutant in a weak, high-pitched voice many decibels lower than the sergeant major’s.

  The officers broke from their pacing and took their positions in front of their companies and half-companies. R.S.M. Mackintosh, all the time eyeing the immaculate files, marched around to the rear and the adjutant spoke again:

  ‘Fall out the Roman Catholics and Jews.’

  About thirty men took one pace forward, turned right or left, and marched to the side of the square nearest to them. The adjutant stood the parade easy, and the minister of the local kirk ‒ the 148th did not boast a chaplain ‒ roared a few platitudes at his Maker. The men who had fallen out pretended not to hear, and when the minister had finished, they were recalled to the ranks. The parade was then brought to attention and Colonel Maclaren, having been assured that all were present and correct, took over the parade.

  ‘Battalion, general salute, present arms.’

  The men brought their new Enfield rifles to the present, the officers drew their swords and held them at the salute, their gleaming basket guards obscuring the lower parts of their faces, and the bugle sounded the stirring, almost gay
notes of the salute. The colours were broken at the gaff of the flagstaff, which stood a few yards inside the grey stone arch, the camp entrance, in its own little square of bright green lawn.

  The colonel turned smartly under the flagstaff, facing the battalion, and by companies they all marched once round the square and back to their starting points, while the colonel took the salute.

  The colonel and the adjutant left the parade ground. Andrew turned and dismissed his subalterns and stood staring at Willie as he marched round to the front of the company towards him. He had his mind on something, but he could not quite formulate his thoughts.

  Willie came to attention and saluted. Andrew returned the salute absent-mindedly.

  ‘Is there something wrong, sir?’ asked Willie after a long pause.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Andrew replied quickly.

  ‘Good to have you in C Company, sir,’ said Willie.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Andrew. ‘It’ll be like old times.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose that you will be going to breakfast now, sergeant?’

  ‘Aye, sirr,’ replied Willie.

  ‘What’s the form for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Kit and barrack inspection at ten, sir. Company office at eleven-thirty, two defaulters. Route march after dinner at two o’clock, full marching order.’

  ‘What about after breakfast?’

  ‘Spot of square bashing wouldna dae them any harm, sir. Then gi’ them half an hour tae get ready for kit inspection.’

  ‘That sounds all right, sergeant. Tell them to drill by half companies. Don’t go on yourself. I’d like you to come over to the company office after breakfast and give me a rundown on the men, especially the N.C.O.s.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘You can dismiss them now, sergeant.’

  ‘Sirr!’

  Willie turned to face the men. ‘C Company, attention! Officer on parade, to the right, dismiss!’