by CL Skelton
General Charles Gordon, a fellow Scot for whom Willie had infinite respect, had been sent to Khartoum, and Major-General Sir Gerald Graham was raising a force at Trinkitat, a small harbour some hundred miles south of Port Sudan on the Red Sea. Graham was due to mount an expedition against Osman Digna, who had recently defeated a large force, mostly Egyptian, under Major-General Valentine Baker near El Teb.
The Maclarens were to join Graham, presumably at Trinkitat. There they would be placed under the command of Major-General Sir Redvers Buller, V.C.
Buller was another reason for giving the command to Murray. A gallant soldier who had won his Victoria Cross in the Zulu wars in ’78 and ’79, he was none the less a cautious man who would be liable to clash with the ebullient Farquhar or Grant, and would be much more likely to get on with the sober Murray.
Of course, if Murray was to get his majority, then Donald should, in the normal course of things, get his captaincy and A Company, but his son was another worry.
It had really been a hell of a fortnight. Donald had gone about his duties in a mechanical and uninspired fashion. Willie found it hard to believe that the Grigor business was entirely responsible for his son’s lethargy, yet what else could it be? He had had half a mind to transfer the boy to H.Q. Company and keep him in Scotland. If it had been anyone other than his own son, he would have probably done that. But as it was Donald, there would always be the faint suspicion of nepotism, and Willie Bruce would have no part of that.
And now there was this damned business of Ian Maclaren. He had been absent from his quarters the night following the issue of the Martini-Henry rifles. Unfortunately, Willie had heard about this in casual conversation in the mess. He had had to obey the unwritten law which allows freedom of speech in the mess, and had therefore taken no action. But he had kept an eye on Ian and what he had seen had not been very encouraging. The boy had been turning up for parades half asleep. It was quite clear that for some reason or other Ian was utterly exhausted. And now, as if Donald were not enough, Ian had put in a request for transfer to H.Q. Company.
Willie could not believe that Ian Maclaren was afraid of going on active service. Granted the boy had never been tested under fire, but there had to be another reason. Willie could read a man and he knew that there was no lack of courage there. He had sent for Ian, determined to find out what this was all about, and he was now rereading the request for a transfer.
He glanced out of his window and saw Ian Maclaren walking across the square in the direction of H.Q. Block. Willie scratched his chin. It must be something pretty important, he thought. He had better try and put the young man at his ease and not approach the subject directly. He dropped Ian’s letter into one of the three plywood trays on his desk. Then he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a Morse key. This he placed in the centre of his desk where Ian would be sure to see it.
Ian came into the office and saluted and then glanced down to where Willie was tapping away at the key.
‘Wonderfu’ things these modern inventions,’ said Willie. ‘Interesting eh?’
‘What is it, sir?’ replied Ian.
‘Tak’ your hat off and sit ye doon. That’s a Morse key.’ He continued stabbing it with his finger.
‘Something to do with sending messages, isn’t it, sir?’
‘Aye that’s right,’ said Willie conversationally, ‘Ye ken well that I was never a one for newfangled ideas, but this might be useful tae us. Do you no think so?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Ian.
‘Well let me put it this way. If I was to ask you for a good N.C.O. to learn how tae work this, send him awa’ on a course wi’ the Sappers, would ye hae anybody in mind?’
‘He’d have to be somebody who could read, sir, wouldn’t he?’ Ian was beginning to wonder if Willie had read the letter.
‘Aye, that’s for sure. Ye understand the idea of the thing?’
‘Well, only vaguely, sir. They’ve been using it since the Crimea, haven’t they?’
‘Aye. But they is the army and the army is us. Now it’s getting important. Ye see, all ye need is twa o’ these and a bittie o’ wire and a battery and ye can send messages as far as ye need tae. But o’ course ye’ve got tae ha’ people who can operate it. The engineers dae it mostly, but I ha’ an idea tae ha’ a telegraphic unit in the battalion. Then we could dae oor own.’
‘Yes, sir, it’s a very good idea,’ said Ian without enthusiasm; then, ‘What about Lance-Sergeant Smith?’
‘Smith. That’s a verra good suggestion, he’s a guid man.’
‘Is that all you wanted to see me about, sir?’
Willie looked hard at Ian, ‘Now, laddie,’ he said, ‘just you relax. I can see weel that there is something else on your mind.’ He picked the note up from the tray, ‘I ha’ to say that this gave me quite a surprise.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ian.
‘You applied for a transfer to Headquarters Company.’
‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’
Willie picked up a tiny piece of fluff which had dared to land on his desk and dropped it in the wastepaper basket. ‘The damned place is like a pigsty,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir, I mean … no, sir,’ said Ian.
‘You do not give me any explanation as to why I should grant this request.’
‘That is correct, sir.’
‘Well, laddie, I have a few questions tae ask you before I can gi’ a decision on this.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘First of all, does your father ken anything aboot this?’
‘No, sir, nothing.’
‘I see,’ said Willie who did not see at all. ‘Are you prepared to tell me more?’
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘Ian, I canna believe that you, a Maclaren, are afraid of active service, or that you dinna want tae go overseas. So there’s got tae be another reason. I’m right, am I no?’
Ian did not reply.
‘Answer me, boy.’
‘Yes, sir, you’re right.’
‘Then I want tae know that reason and you had better mak’ it a guid yin.’
‘I don’t want to leave Scotland, sir. Not just now.’
‘You’re a soldier, Ian. Soldiers go where they’re sent, it’s part o’ the trade.’
‘Yes, sir. I know that this is true, but there is no reason why I shouldn’t try to stay at home.’
‘Why dae ye want to try, Ian? Is it a woman? It usually is.’ The colour rising in Ian’s cheeks gave Willie Bruce his answer. ‘So that is what it is. You’ve fallen in love and ye dinna want tae go awa’ and leave the lassie.’ And as Ian opened his mouth to protest, ‘I’m no mocking ye, Ian. I can understand.’
‘I did not say it was a woman, sir.’
‘Ye didna have tae. Might I ask who the lady is?’ He waited for a reply but Ian did not answer. ‘Ian, it is not trouble that you are in?’
‘Really, sir!’
‘Och, it happens in the best o’ families, yours and mine included. Ian, I want to know the truth. Maybe I can help ye, but I canna help you if I dinna ken.’
‘I don’t think that anyone can help, sir. Please, sir, I’ve got to get out of the army,’ Ian blurted out.
‘For why?’ said Willie. This was getting to be too much. He had been through all this with Donald only two weeks ago. ‘Because you are under the regulation age to marry? These things can be dealt wi’ you ken that. Well?’
‘This one cannot, sir.’
Willie was really puzzled now. ‘Look, laddie,’ he said, ‘I’ve known you since you were a wee bairn. I’ve watched you grow up and I’ve been as proud o’ ye as if you were ma ain son. It’s no difficult tae see that you’re a badly troubled boy. And ye say that ye canna talk it over wi’ your father.’
‘That’s right, sir, I can’t,’ said Ian gazing down at his boots.
‘Then mebbe you can talk it over wi’ me. Not wi’ your commanding officer, but wi’ your Uncle Willie, your friend.’
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‘I can’t, sir, honestly I can’t.’
‘Do I know the lady?’
Ian nodded.
‘Then perhaps I can help a bittie.’
‘No one can help me, sir.’
The boy was almost in tears and Willie was embarrassed in his presence. ‘Come on, now, laddie. Oot wi’ it. Who is this lassie?’
‘Naomi.’
There was a long silence. Willie picked up a battered meerschaum which was lying on his desk and twisted the stem round and round. Several times during the pause, he glanced up at the embarrassed Ian.
For his part, Ian could not understand his uncle’s reaction. It was not pleasure, nor was it anger, either of which he could have understood. He looked as the bushy eyebrows opposite him drew together and the two deep lines above the nose deepened and darkened. There was more of sadness in Willie’s face than there was of any other emotion. Ian gnawed at his bottom lip.
‘Sir?’ he said. ‘Are you annoyed with me?’
‘Sir?’ he said again, after another pause.
‘Bide a wee, laddie,’ replied Willie. ‘I’m thinking.’ He looked up at the boy sitting in front of him. ‘So you’re in love wi’ my Naomi?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but it just happened.’
‘And Naomi?’
‘Sir, she says that it is hopeless.’
‘Aye, she’s no far wrong there. I’ve always been afraid of something like this. Do you ken how she feels about you?’
‘The same, sir. At least, I think she feels the same.’
‘Are ye sure o’ that?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. I’m absolutely sure. It’s just that she says the whole thing is impossible.’
‘Aye,’ said Willie, ‘I ken it is. Ian, you’ll have tae give me time to work this out. I canna see that letting you stay behind is going to help you at all. I’m involved in this, and not just as your C.O. I am the lassie’s father.’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but she did tell me that you are not her father.’
‘Ian, if I’m no her father, then no one is.’ Then, when Ian did not reply: ‘She told you all about it, did she?’
‘Yes, sir, everything.’
‘Then there’s nae mair that I can say. Not just now. Away you go, Ian.’
‘Sir,’ said Ian, rising, ‘when do you think that you will be able to let me know?’
‘Tomorrow, maybe.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Ian left, and after sitting in silence for several minutes, Willie got up and threw the door open.
‘Orderly!’ he bellowed.
A clerk appeared from the adjoining office. ‘Sir?’
‘Get ma horse. If anybody wants me, I’ve gone hame.’
That night Naomi told Ian that under no circumstances could she ever see him again. Nor could he move her to reconsider. All of his protestations could in no way persuade her to change her decision.
It was three days before Ian returned to barracks. But in spite of the fact that he had gone absent without leave, no one said a word to him. He was left very much alone to wallow in the miserable self-pity of frustrated young love.
Willie knew that he should have done something about it. It was very unlike him to allow one of his officers to take himself off and go absent without leave and yet say nothing. But he held an enormous sympathy for his nephew. He remembered his own beginnings with Maud, when he too had wished for the unattainable, though unattainable in an entirely different way. For him there had been a happy outcome, but he could see no happiness for Ian. So he overlooked the three days and prayed without much confidence, that Ian Maclaren could get it out of his mind.
Chapter Five
On December 20, 1883, in accordance with their orders, A, B, and C Companies of the First Battalion, the Maclaren Highlanders, under the command of their newly promoted Major Murray, sailed from Liverpool in Her Majesty’s Troopship Avonside. She was a big ship and fairly modern. She carried a staysail, but apart from that, no other canvas. Her tonnage was near six thousand and she would have provided reasonable if not luxurious accommodation for about four hundred. She had two thin funnels which were already belching forth black coal-smoke as the men marched aboard with their packs. The soot was dropping down onto the decks in the still air. Those who had done it all before watched this with extreme distaste. The more she dirtied herself the more work there would be for them. Not for the seamen, of course. They never dirtied their hands on a trooper. After all, their cargo was the scum of the earth, let them do the dirty work. Avonside was about four hundred feet long, but narrow in the beam, and as they were marching aboard an old man with a grizzled weather-beaten face and a straggling white beard, and wearing a greasy peaked cap, shouted at them.
‘I hope you’re good sailors, Jock. Yon’s going to roll like a pig.’
Before the men lay the prospect of over a week at sea in cramped and crowded conditions in the all-pervading stench of their own sweat which would get worse as the journey continued southwards until it permeated every nook and cranny of the iron hull. There were nearly a thousand of them on board. The Maclarens were not alone; they were accompanied by half a battalion of the West Yorkshire Regiment, condemned to share their boredom.
For the men aboard, there was no drink. No beer or spirits were obtainable. There was, for those of them who had money, a dry canteen, which opened three times a day for about an hour and made vast profits for the shipowners who ran it. Queues of fifty to a hundred tommies and jocks formed fifteen or twenty minutes before opening time and naturally the inevitable fights broke out. The jocks held the tommies in complete contempt and the tommies regarded the jocks as savages from another world. Within forty-eight hours this had become so serious that the canteen openings had to be taken on a stria rota basis in order to keep them apart.
The officers and the N.C.O.S tried hard to keep the men occupied. The smoke and the coal dust helped; there was a lot of deck swabbing and holystoning and scrubbing. Then there were guards, pickets, and fatigues, and work on the mess deck. But there were too many men. Only a few of them could be set to work at any one time, there just was no room to do otherwise. Most of their time was spent either lying in their hammocks or sitting around in little groups and talking.
Whenever they were not grumbling about the conditions on board they talked and fantasized about women. After the incident in the barrack room when Private MacTavish had come to his aid, young Peter Leinie had attached himself to him, even when it meant also being in the company of Private Anderson. Anderson’s coarseness and his lurid recounting of sexual experiences shocked and awed the youngster. They would gather in the well deck in a corner between the after-funnel and the quarterdeck and sit down in the shade, if they could find any, and listen while Anderson reminisced or gave forth on women.
‘I’ll tell ye,’ he would say, ‘pushers are guid fer a screw and naethin’ else.’
‘What happens if ye get them in the puddin’ club?’ inquired Leinie cautiously.
Anderson laughed uproariously, ‘Ye daft bugger, ye dinna tell them yer name and ye never tell them yer regiment. If ye dae, they’ll be up there in the orderly room and tell the C.O. that their next bairn’s yours.’
‘Do you really dae that sort o’ thing?’
‘He’d like tae think that he did,’ said MacTavish.
‘Watch it,’ said Anderson.
‘We all dae ’em,’ said MacTavish, ignoring Anderson, ‘but no the way he says. Ye’ll dae it yerself. Jest wait till ye get tae the whore hooses in Egypt.’
‘I wouldna gan in yin of them,’ said Leinie.
‘Then ye’ll hae tae wank and ye’ll get hair all over the palms o’ yer hands,’ hissed Anderson.
Leinie looked guiltily at his hands and Anderson laughed.
There were a couple of parades every day, usually physical training in the morning and a kit inspection in the afternoon. But apart from this they were at liberty to spend their time as they wished. The g
reat enemy was boredom; those who could read did so, and those who could not spent most of their time up on deck, leaning over the rail and looking at the water. Gambling schools cropped up all over the ship and many an innocent was relieved of what little he had by spirits more hardened than himself. Gambling was, of course, not permitted, so a lookout was always posted to warn of the approach of any officer or senior N.C.O. with the result that very few were caught.
The food was miserable ‒ for breakfast, half a pint of coffee and half a loaf of dry bread, alternating occasionally with a bowl of coarse porridge. Dinner was at noon and this invariably consisted of a mug of watery soup which many maintained was last night’s washing-up water. This was accompanied by a few greasy lumps of beef or mutton, which gave the impression that the animal had died of old age, and a few soggy potatoes. The last meal of the day was tea, a pint of brown liquid that defied description, and another half loaf of dry bread.
They spent Christmas Day in the middle of the Mediterranean. As a special treat they all received an extra few lumps of greasy meat and their dinner was served to them by the officers. In the evening, they gathered together on deck for a concert. The Maclarens’ piper played, there was community singing and a great deal of dirty-story telling, and everybody was glad when it was all over.
After that they went to bed. Starboard watch below decks and port watch on deck. Those below decks who could not stand the stench of human sweat found little relief even on the deck itself. The hammocks of the port watch were slung so low that it was impossible to move around except on hands and knees.
So it was to a great feeling of relief that the ship docked at the little harbour of Trinkitat and the sea-weary men were able to go ashore. Even the ninety degrees of heat and humidity which greeted them was preferable to what they had been through.
Young Peter Leinie walked down the gangway and onto the harbourside. It was all brown and yellow, relieved only by small single-storied buildings of dirty white rising out of what passed for streets. Their dark-skinned, loin-clothed occupants were sitting on the shady side totally unimpressed with the arrival of the kilted Highlanders. Sweating under the weight of his fifty-pound pack and his rifle, Leinie found himself swept along by the tide of his comrades as they cursed and grumbled their way ashore.