The Maclarens (The Regiment Family Saga Book 1)

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by CL Skelton


  Sir Henry was delighted that he had found so powerful an ally, and the two men talked for over an hour about the plight of the medical service in the army. He left Balmoral feeling elated and believing that his self-imposed task was near to accomplishment.

  He did not realize that another forty years would have to pass, and his ally would have become king, before that dream became a reality.

  Four days after the wedding of Margaret Maclaren and Richard Simpson, Lieutenant Farquhar and Sergeant Maclaren, his senior N.C.O., and one of four Maclarens in his half-company, were up at dawn. They spent with their men an unpleasant hour or so sweating and cursing over the Gatling gun as they limbered up. After breakfast, they would move off to the open range five miles away.

  No one liked going out on to the open range. It was a stretch of barren scrubland with no shade, and somehow things were always organized so that you spent the hottest part of the day sweating it out under the blazing sun. It was about an hour and a half’s march over dusty trails, and the idea was that they should get there before the sun was up and approaching its zenith. However, things never worked out like that. There was always some hold-up, and the private soldier would watch the sun and curse his superiors as they argued and discussed plan and counterplan until they finally moved out at a time which would guarantee that they would be hot, tired, and bloody uncomfortable before they started the work in hand.

  C Company were to spend that day in field exercises with the Gatling gun, using live ammunition. Lieutenant Farquhar, who had spent his childhood in the womb of the Establishment ‒ Eton, Balliol, and Sandhurst ‒ should have joined the cavalry. He did not because there was in him a desire to be better than his neighbour. In the cavalry, he would have been one of many, whereas in the 148th, he expected to be a cut above his contemporaries, socially, at least. It did not work. In a Highland regiment, a man’s a man or he is nothing. He had, over the period of his service, come to accept this, most of it at least, and had slowly been accepted by the regiment as one of them. However, he did retain his great love of horses. He owned the finest charger in the regiment and kept a string of polo ponies at Lahore. Like most of his breed, he loved to cut a dashing figure, and the cut of his tunic and the turnout of his mount was always a matter of great concern to him. He would rather face an enemy without ammunition than with an ill-fitting pair of breeches.

  Today, Lieutenant Farquhar was wearing his kilt. Andrew, on assuming command, had immediately stepped up the training programme and issued a directive that only company commanders would be allowed to take their chargers with them on exercises. Exercises now occurred daily, and today being C Company’s and Lieutenant Farquhar still a subaltern, he would have to tramp the dusty trails like the rest of his men, on foot. And so they sweated as they limbered up their mules before a fifteen-minute break for breakfast. Major Bruce had appeared for a couple of minutes before breakfast, grunted contemptuously at their efforts, and left them to it as he went off in search of his colour sergeant.

  Colour Sergeant MacDougal occupied the same position in C Company as Willie had held years before when Andrew had been a subaltern. He was stocky and black-haired, and possessed an above-average beer belly. As a consumer of ale, he must have brought joy to the hearts of brewery shareholders, but he never allowed it to interfere with his duty or his ability as senior N.C.O. of C Company. He was one of the type of N.C.O. who could never have been anything but what he was. It was assumed in the company that he had been born with three stripes on his arm and a Manual of Military Law where his heart should have been. If he had had a hard night in the sergeants’ mess, the word would pass through the ranks via the mess stewards to beware, for Sergeant MacDougal, complete with hangover, was a fearsome thing to encounter.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Willie when he had found him, ‘the C.O. is going to ride out after tiffin to see how things are going. Make sure that the jocks are on their toes.’

  ‘Sirr,’ he replied, and went, as he put it, ‘to put the fear of God’ into the hearts of the men. Not that God was in the slightest as fearsome as Sergeant MacDougal.

  C Company was excused from colour-hoisting parade. Instead they fell in after breakfast ready to move. They marched out of the cantonments towards the rolling countryside of the great Punjabi plains, Willie mounted on his charger at their head, their piper playing, Lieutenant Farquhar, his mules, and the Gatling gun bringing up the rear.

  Andrew, who had inspected them before they left, returned to his office for C.O.s orderly room, where he dealt with offences referred up from company level, and then dealt with the paperwork which had accumulated during the last twenty-four hours. There was not a lot to do, and by eleven o’clock he was able to make his way towards his house with the pleasurable thought of a long, cool drink and a book on the verandah, and then tiffin. Before leaving H.Q., he gave orders for his charger to be brought around to his house at three so that he could ride out and see how C Company were getting along.

  When he arrived at his house, he was not a little surprised to find Maud Bruce waiting for him.

  ‘I’m alone today,’ she said. ‘I thought we might take tiffin together.’

  He had not seen her since their return from Simla. He had even resolved not to see her and now here she was, alone with him in his house and lying to him about tiffin.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she replied.

  ‘But I’m glad that you did. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Some tea perhaps?’

  ‘Later, afterwards.’

  ‘We shouldn’t do this, you know.’

  She paused for a long while looking at him. ‘But we will.’

  Out on the open range, the men’s performance had been predictable. C Company had pleased Willie, and in spite of the none-too-tender ministrations of Colour Sergeant MacDougal, they had acquitted themselves as Willie would have expected of a highly trained group of men. Even the Gatling gun had behaved with reasonable efficiency. It had jammed only three times during the morning, on each occasion because the thin copper from which the cartridge cases were made had bent or become distorted and had jammed in the breech of one of the barrels. There had been quite a breeze blowing, and this had helped to disperse the smoke from the powder, thus allowing Lieutenant Farquhar and his team a reasonable field of fire.

  Andrew arrived at about four o’clock in the afternoon. As far as possible, he avoided direct contact with Willie. He watched the last hour of the exercise and spent some of the time discussing the ammunition with Lieutenant Farquhar.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ said Farquhar. ‘As long as there is enough breeze to blow the damned smoke away. But if it’s a still day, after thirty rounds you can’t see a blasted thing.’

  ‘Yes, I know about that. They tell me that they are trying to develop a powder that will not give so much smoke, but I suppose it will be a hell of a long time before any of us see it. Are there any other problems?’

  ‘Sergeant MacDougal was complaining about the cartridge cases, sir. They seem to be the cause of most of the jams that we get. Too soft, and if they don’t drop into the breech absolutely true, they tend to buckle.’

  ‘All right, Mr Farquhar. Perhaps you will draft me a report and I’ll forward it with recommendations to the War House. Carry on.’

  He watched with some feeling of nostalgia for the C Company that he had once commanded in what now seemed happier times.

  At last the exercise was over, and at about five o’clock, the company fell in for the march home, Andrew and Willie at their head, keeping their horses at a walk so as to stay in touch with their men.

  Just before the cease-fire was called and C Company were ordered to start back for the cantonments, Emma Maclaren drove down the short drive to the commanding officer’s house. She still looked very trim in her tailored linen suit and pith helmet tied down on her head with a swath of fine muslin. She left her carriage, and after t
elling a couple of the servants to take her luggage into the colonel sahib’s bedroom, she went into the house. She felt that it would be a good idea to have a look around the place while her bags were being taken in. In what appeared to be the dining room, she came across a young Indian woman who was dusting the long mahogany table.

  ‘Who are you?’ said Emma.

  ‘Khadija, mem-sahib,’ the girl replied, making a little curtsy.

  ‘I am your new mistress,’ said Emma. ‘What work do you do here?’

  ‘Colonel Macmillan sahib he ask me to be very good ayah, and when ayah not necessary, Colonel Maclaren tell me that it is all right for me to work in this fine house.’

  ‘I see,’ said Emma. ‘Well, perhaps you will show me where is the colonel sahib’s bedroom.’

  ‘This way, mem-sahib.’

  Emma followed her along the verandah and into a large room dominated by a double bed which was in a state of complete disarray.

  ‘Who makes the beds here?’ asked Emma.

  ‘I do, mem-sahib.’

  ‘Then why did you not make this bed?’

  ‘This morning I made this bed, but the colonel and the other mem, they have some rest here before tiffin. I make very good bed now.’

  Emma’s expression did not alter. ‘Leave it,’ she replied. ‘Send four of the menservants here at once.’

  When the men arrived, she ordered them, much to their astonishment, to carry the bed, bedding, and even the mosquito netting out into the middle of the parade ground.

  C Company were almost home. Andrew had even managed to have some conversation with Willie.

  ‘What do you think of the Gatling?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a fine weapon, but it would be a lot more use if the ammunition was better and especially if it didn’t make so much smoke. It wasna so bad today because of the wind. But if the weather is still, after thirty rounds you canna see a bloody thing. Excuse me, sir, what’s that?’

  Ahead of them and coming from within the cantonments was a tall column of smoke.

  ‘My God, something’s on fire, come with me!’ said Andrew.

  ‘Get back as soon as you can,’ Willie called to MacDougal. ‘We’re going on ahead.’

  They spurred their horses to a gallop and within minutes were in sight of the parade ground. They reined in their mounts and leapt out of their saddles.

  In the middle of the parade ground was a large bonfire. A lot of the men were standing around laughing. Close to the fire there stood a solitary figure, a woman, almost statuesque in white linen, her hair awry and falling around her shoulders, her clothes smudged and smutted with the smoke from the fire. Andrew pushed his way through the men, who fell silent and started to make themselves scarce as they recognized him. The only one who did not move was the woman. She stood silently facing him with an almost sweet smile on her face. Andrew stopped a few paces from her as he recognized her.

  ‘What is the meaning of this? Good Lord, Emma!’

  Andrew ran towards her.

  ‘Emma! What are you doing here? Do you know anything about this?’ waving at the fire.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ she said mildly. ‘I know everything about it. I started it.’

  ‘You what?’ Andrew went red in the face. ‘But why? What is it?’

  ‘Your bed.’ She smiled sweetly and walked away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘How dare you!’ Andrew’s voice was cold with fury. ‘How dare you do such a thing to me?’

  He grabbed hold of Emma in the middle of the parade ground and stormed off, dragging her half-stumbling into the house. The men standing around drew aside as he approached them. They averted their faces as he passed, none of them wanting to be recognized as having witnessed his C.O.’s humiliation.

  ‘To do a thing like this in front of the men! I shall be the laughing-stock of every mess in the regiment.’

  She was regarding him coldly.

  ‘Well, damn you, say something!’ he shouted.

  ‘What I did was considerably less than what you did in front of the servants. We will both be laughing-stocks.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Colonel sahib and the other mem had rest before tiffin,’ she said, mimicking Khadija’s voice.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Andrew caught his breath and tried to bluster his way out of it. ‘So, you listen to servants’ tales now? In any case, whatever I did, whatever I have done, that is no excuse. No excuse whatsoever. This is a regiment of the British army. I am the commanding officer. You are the commanding officer’s wife. What the hell do you think the men are going to say about this?’

  ‘Quite frankly, Colonel Maclaren, I don’t give a damn what the men say about this. This regiment is yours because I gave it to you.’

  ‘You? This is a Highland regiment. You’re not even Scottish. The idea is laughable.’

  ‘Oh, no, it isn’t,’ she replied, now in complete control of herself. ‘It was all arranged by my father at my request.’

  He stared at her open-mouthed as she continued:

  ‘How do you think your predecessor, poor old Macmillan, got kicked upstairs? Why do you think the Viceroy asked for a man whom he didn’t even know existed? But isn’t all of this the reason that you married me?’

  ‘No, madam, it is not, even if I believed it, which I do not. If you want the truth about our marriage, you shall have it.’ He paused. ‘I married you because I could not have her. I married you because I had to choose between her and the regiment. I know now that I made the wrong decision.’

  ‘You never made a decision in your life; they were all made for you.’ Her voice was bitter and scornful. ‘If you had made any other decision, you know that you would never have had the regiment.’

  ‘Why not? Why couldn’t I? She married Willie Bruce. He’s an officer, senior company commander, and a crofter’s bastard. Would my situation have been any worse than it is at this moment if I had married her?’

  ‘You know it would,’ she replied. ‘You would have been a civilian and a damned impoverished one at that.’

  ‘Willie Bruce isn’t impoverished. My father makes him an allowance of three hundred pounds a year. Did you know that? Three hundred pounds a year, and that to the man who married the woman I love. The woman who loves me. It’s all so bloody unfair.’

  For a moment she felt a touch of pity. This man standing before her in his fine uniform spattered with the dust of the arid plains, his shoulders sagging and appealing to her like a little boy. She ran a smoke-grimed hand through her hair, leaving a smutty mark across her forehead, and turned away towards the window screens.

  Andrew did not move. If only he could have recalled his last remark, could only have un-said it! But the spoken word can never be recalled. He had exposed himself and his vulnerability. At that moment, he could have thrown himself upon her mercy. He could have made promises and tried to keep them. He knew that his future life was at that moment poised on the razor’s edge of decision. He put his hands to his temples and looked down. A small creature was scurrying across the floor and he stamped on it, viciously.

  The noise of his foot made Emma turn back to him. Gently she spoke to him. ‘If only you would stop feeling sorry for yourself. Just for a moment, Andrew. Perhaps you would find time to consider my position.’

  The anger flared up within him because he knew that what she said was true, and his pride would not allow him to humble himself. For a moment there had been a chance, but now that chance was gone.

  ‘Why the hell should I?’ he shouted at her.

  Emma’s face set hard. If Andrew would not or could not yield, then neither would she. It was a time for facts plainly stated.

  ‘Because, Andrew, I happen to be your wife, and because whatever else happens, I intend to remain your wife. If you choose to make life between us a hell on earth, that is your business. But you’re not going to change anything. Bastards excluded, I am the mother of your child. I know that you don’t love me
. I know you never have. I married you with that knowledge, but I kept the rules. I never deserted you for a Sepoy’s whore!’

  It was then that something inside Andrew snapped, and he struck her hard across the face with his open hand. She did not reply at once, but stood there looking at him, the colour rising to where the blow had fallen across her cheek. She put her hand to the spot and finally spoke to him, quietly and calmly. ‘That is the first time that I have ever been struck by a man. I promise you, Andrew, that you will regret your action for the rest of your days. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and order dinner.’

  ‘You needn’t bother,’ he said, already ashamed of what he had done. ‘I’ll move over to the mess.’

  She turned back to him. ‘You will do no such thing,’ she said, almost spelling out the words. ‘Whatever happens between these walls is between you and me. And I have no intention of allowing either my, or my children’s, position to be placed in jeopardy because of their father’s behaviour. We will, of course, occupy separate rooms. That will not appear so unnatural in view of my pregnancy. Now I have no doubt that you have a great deal to attend to. Dinner will be at seven-thirty. I shall see you then.’

  ‘You damned well won’t,’ said Andrew, blustering again.

  ‘I damned well will,’ replied Emma calmly. ‘Because if I don’t, I shall come over to the mess and accuse Willie Bruce, in front of all his brother officers, of allowing his wife to seduce my husband.’

  Andrew knew that he was defeated and turned to go.

  ‘Just one other thing before you go,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘At the moment, I think it inadvisable to be separated from my husband, so I have decided to stay in Lahore and have my baby here.’

  As soon as she was alone, Emma went over to the walnut writing bureau in a corner of the room and took out paper, pen, and ink and started to write:

 

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