by CL Skelton
‘Ye’d better nae leave it sae lang the next time, sorr,’ shouted R.S.M. Macmillan as he put his foot on the body of his victim and heaved his bayonet out. He pressed another cartridge into the breech of his rifle and turned away.
Within minutes all of those who, with desperate bravery or foolhardiness, had broken through into the square, were dead, and Donald, who had not moved, tried to hold back his tears of shame.
Suddenly as the attack had started, it ended, and the enemy was streaming away towards a second line of entrenchments.
‘Come on, let’s get after the buggers!’ shouted Peter Leinie, filled with the lust for more blood.
‘Just ye wait,’ said Frankie Gibson as he reloaded his rifle. ‘Ye’ll be told when tae move by your betters.’
The square had not been given orders to advance. Instead the front lines stayed where they were while the flanks formed up on either side of them, making a double line of men nearly half a mile long. Leaving their dead and wounded to be dealt with by the medical teams, they advanced on the town itself.
Not all of them moved forward. There had been casualties. One man ‒ it was a tommy ‒ grabbed fitfully at Lance-Sergeant Smith’s kilt as he was stepping over him.
‘Don’t leave me, mate. Don’t leave me ’ere,’ the man said, and coughed.
Smith glanced down and saw the trickle of blood coming from the side of the man’s mouth and the great spreading wound where a sword had been thrust into his chest. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Dinna worry yerself, the doctors are comin’.’ But he knew that the man would not be all right. He knew that he would be dead within the hour and the fat flies would feed on his corpse.
Over to their left they saw a detachment of naval ratings storming a fortified building. In front of them it seemed that every few yards the earth spewed up a Sudanese who opened fire, then dropped his weapon and ran until he was either out of range or cut down by the fire of the British.
By two o’clock in the afternoon the cavalry were recalled and the position had been taken. Behind and around them lay over two thousand Sudanese ‒ grotesque, shapeless things, a mass of torn flesh and suffering. Some of them still moved. One man in his death agony tried with every ounce of life that remained in him to thrust his spear at Private Anderson. Anderson grinned and thrust his bayonet into the man’s gut, twisting it as he did so and spitting into the brown face. What remained of the Sudanese force was rapidly vanishing over the horizon in the direction of Tokar.
As for the British, Graham’s force, there were thirty-four killed and one hundred and fifty-five wounded. The Maclarens had not had a single casualty. Ian Maclaren was, much to his surprise, delighted to find himself still alive.
Chapter Six
The winter frosts were upon them in the Highlands. The ground was hard and unyielding beneath the foot. Willie Bruce had spent the day following his interview with Ian Maclaren at his home at Cluny Cottage. Cluny Cottage lay about four and a half miles from Culbrech House, a little oasis cut out from the Maclaren estates and a small establishment by comparison. It was Maud’s house really. She had bought it before she married Willie while he was still an N.C.O. The bare trees and the recently primed rose-bushes, left to lie dormant in their neat patches of black earth until the coming of spring brought them back to life; the little patch of lawn which led down to the green wicket gate: this was home for Willie Bruce, and he wanted no other. He had no yearning for grand establishments. Home to Willie was a place where he and his wife could be alone and lock themselves away from the world, and if it was comfortable, which indeed it was, it was all that Willie asked. It was here in Cluny Cottage that he had spent the first tempestuous years of his marriage.
Willie Bruce was one of those rare officers who were more than willing to live on their pay alone. When he had first been commissioned, Sir Henry, Andrew’s late father, had made him an allowance of three hundred pounds a year. This had been perpetuated in Sir Henry’s will, for Willie was Sir Henry’s son. Sir Henry had always been proud of Willie, who, by an unkind mischance, had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. On the death of Sir Henry, Willie had objected strenuously to the allowance being continued. This matter, as Andrew pointed out, was not really in his hands, so finally Willie reluctantly accepted. At the time he was a lieutenant-colonel and he maintained that, as he was a man of modest needs, he was quite capable of living on his pay. Willie was a proud man. Maud, his wife, was blessed with a fairly considerable private income but she found no small difficulty in trying to supplement the family budget. Willie would accept nothing from her, his Highland pride demanding of him that he be the breadwinner in his home; nor, for that matter, would he take advantage of a law that said that a husband had complete right of disposal of his wife’s property. He relaxed in only one thing. Maud insisted that as Naomi was not his daughter, she should at least be allowed to cover the expenses which that young lady added to their budget. When Willie had protested at this, they had had a flaming row, and he had given way for the sake of peace and quiet.
He had taken the day off for the quite specific reason that he wanted to have this thing out with Naomi. As soon as he was able to get her alone, he had tackled her on the subject of Ian Maclaren, and her association with him. He had reiterated to her the circumstances of her birth, and though it had hurt him to do it, for he regarded it as a near insufferable injustice, he had had to point out to her that marriage with Ian was just not possible if he was to continue his career in the regiment.
‘Your mother,’ he said, ‘had to suffer just as you are suffering now, and for the same reasons. Mind you, I am glad that she lost that battle, for if she hadna, I’d no be sitting talking to you now. You don’t hae to tell me that it’s bloody unfair. I ken it is. Now, I’m as fond of your Uncle Andrew as any man could be. For that matter, I’m fond o’ the whole brood o’ them. But they are Maclarens, and they’re no like us. They’re a different breed.’
‘But, Father,’ she replied, ‘I was totally aware of all this. If it is marriage you are worried about, you can set your mind at rest. I never had the slightest intention of marrying Ian. I know that it is impossible, and yet I was not strong enough to deny him to myself if only for a little while.’
‘And just what dae you mean by that?’ asked Willie.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘I don’t know whether I ought to tell you this, but I shall, if you will promise me something. You must regard what I say as a very strict confidence. You will never, no matter what the circumstances, either by thought, word, or action, indicate to Ian that you know.’
Willie was impressed by the gravity of Naomi’s tone. ‘All right, my dear. I promise.’
‘For the past weeks,’ she said, ‘we have been lovers. Does that shock you?’
To her surprise, Willie’s expression did not change.
‘No, Naomi,’ he said. ‘It doesna shock me, nor does it astonish me. When I was a laddie, there was many a lassie I, well, you ken what I mean. And I know that society condemns the woman and applauds the man in these cases. But that’s bloody unfair, too, for how could a mannie gain that applause if there were no a lassie tae help him wi’ it? The real point is, Naomi, what are you going to dae? Dae you really feel serious towards Ian?’
‘Yes, I do, and I don’t want to hurt him.’
‘You’ll dae that whatever you dae.’
‘I know. As I see it, the only thing I can do is to go away from here, because if I stay, I shall continue to see him.’
‘And where would you go to? I’m not stopping you, mind. You’re twenty-five years old and you should be able tae tak’ care o’ yourself.’
Naomi looked at him. No, he would not attempt to stop her. She knew him well enough to realize that here was, in another form, a reflection of her own independent spirit, and that he would have no brief with the convention which demanded that a lady should not travel alone and unaccompanied, much less have an establishment of her own. She smiled at Willie. They un
derstood one another, these two.
‘I think that I should go to London,’ she said.
‘That’s an awfu’ lang way.’
‘Not really. London is easier to get to than most places. Once there I could get some sort of a job. Women do work, you know. They can be other things beside being a housewife.’
‘But you don’t need a job,’ said Willie.
‘I know.’
‘And if you went to London, where would you live? It’s a big place and some parts of it are no the sort of places I’d like you tae be living in.’
‘Perhaps Uncle Andrew would let me stay in his house until I found a place of my own.’
Andrew had a tiny town house just off Sloane Square. It was unoccupied for almost fifty weeks of the year and he would probably be glad to have someone he knew living in it.
Willie was well aware of this. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘dinna be too hasty. Think it over for a couple of days and if that’s what you decide tae do, I’ll no be the one tae stand in your way. I’ll talk to Andrew about it and tae your mother, and then we’ll see if something canna be arranged. That is, if you’re still of the same mind.’
And that was the reason why, a few days later, Naomi was aboard the night train from Inverness on her way to London. She moved into the little pink house in Charlotte Street, finding it comfortably, if not extravagantly, furnished. She occupied only two rooms, her bedroom and the large kitchen where she cooked her own meals and generally attended to her needs. There were no servants. Sir Andrew, on the rare occasions when he occupied the house, always engaged temporary staff. It was totally sufficient for what she wanted and it was in a pleasant and comfortably well-to-do neighbourhood. It was one room wide, two rooms deep, and three rooms tall, built into a terrace of a couple of dozen houses, all of which were identical apart from the fact that they were painted in different pastel colours. All of this gave an airy, light, pleasant atmosphere to the area.
Every morning she studied the ‘Situations Vacant’ column in The Times. She was reasonably well educated and considered that she was a suitable candidate for any of those advertisements which began: ‘Lady of gentle background required for …’ Usually it was for the position of governess in a smart London household. However, on the two or three occasions that she went for interviews, her prospective mistress, seeing her beauty, ‘regretfully’ decided that she was not quite suitable. Not many women wanted to take the risk of anything as lovely as Naomi living in their house and in close proximity to their husbands.
Naomi did not worry about her failures. She was adequately, if not lavishly, provided for. Her mother made her an allowance of two hundred and fifty pounds a year, which was quite sufficient for her modest needs. It was primarily the boredom of having nothing to do which gave her the impetus to keep trying. She had come to the conclusion that she must not be cut out for a position as a governess, and had decided to try for a job in a shop in one of the more fashionable areas.
Not that her life was dull, not by any means. She had suddenly been transplanted from the slow-moving peace and quiet of her Highland glen into the largest city in the world. Most of her contemporaries would have taken fright, but Naomi found it fascinating.
At that period there were five million people packed into a tiny area. More than there were in the whole of Scotland. It was big and it was busy and it was the heart of the Empire and Imperial Britain.
Sometimes she would go down to the river. The Thames was turgid and swimming in filth from the thousands of sewers which cascaded their effluents into its slow-moving waters. She enjoyed watching the great Thames barges with their reddy-brown sails, their hulls only inches above the water as they plied up and down the river.
But she missed the blue skies and the clear unpolluted air of home. A million chimney pots, daily belching their coal smoke into the skies above the capital, left a permanent murky haze over the city and a permanent coating of grime over most of the buildings in the fashionable areas and all of the houses in the poorer parts. It was all bustle and Naomi treated herself as a spectator. She walked mostly, but sometimes she rode in a hansom and always she watched the seething life of London as it passed her by.
On leaving for London, she had been provided with a number of introductions, and gradually her circle of acquaintances grew. One of the people she met was a Mrs Bunty Worthing, who was related by marriage to Sir Andrew’s late wife Emma. Bunty was a great socialite and moved in the circles of London’s cafe society and it was at a party in her house that Naomi met Lord Charles de Vere-Smith.
Charles de Vere-Smith was the second son of the Duke of Beverley. When he was introduced to Naomi, he took her hand and held it too intently. He was obviously pleased with what he saw. Naomi herself was flattered by his attention. He was a very personable man, about thirty, she thought. Tall and slim, he had brown eyes rather like a spaniel’s, sad and gentle. The eyes were, however, given the lie by his mouth, which always seemed to be twisted up at the left corner, giving him a permanent air of cynical amusement. He was dark-haired and immaculately dressed in white tie and tails with two large diamond studs sparkling from the front of his stiff shirt.
He had obviously taken more than a passing fancy to Naomi for he dominated her company throughout the evening. When the party was about to break up, he asked her if there was anyone escorting her home.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Bunty will send one of the servants for a hansom.’
‘Totally unnecessary,’ he said, ‘I have my brougham here and I shall be only too pleased to see you to your home. It may take some time to get a cab just now, and I should not like to think of your parents worrying about your safety.’ He had noted with satisfaction that the third finger of her left hand was bare of any rings.
‘I’m afraid that my parents are in Scotland. I live alone.’
‘How very brave of you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ she smiled. ‘But you may take me home.’
As she went to get her wrap, Bunty pulled her to one side. ‘Are you going home with Charles?’ she asked.
‘Yes, why do you ask?’
‘Well, my dear, I feel that I ought to warn you that he has a most terrible reputation. Of course, he is a delightful man and such fun. But I thought I ought to tell you. After all, he is married, you know.’
‘I didn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I’m glad he’s fun, though.’
Cocooned in the blackness of the interior of the brougham, she snuggled comfortably and catlike into a corner. She was enjoying herself. She felt happy, a little excited, and just the smallest bit tipsy. She had had rather a lot of champagne.
‘Did you tell the coachman where to go?’ she asked into the blackness.
‘He knows.’
She was silent for a moment, listening to the slow clip-clop of the horse’s hoofs. ‘He’s not going very fast,’ she murmured.
‘I told him to go very slowly.’
‘That’s nice,’ and she hiccuped slightly.
She felt rather than heard him move across the padded leather seat, and then his hand was holding her chin and he kissed her. For a moment she responded, and then turned her head away.
‘You should not do that, you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Now she could feel his body touching hers. His hand searched for hers, and, finding it, he held it palm upwards on his lap. She started to withdraw it and felt his grip tighten. She relaxed and let her arm go limp. He began to draw the tip of his finger across her open palm.
‘I like that,’ she murmured, very aware that he must be able to hear her heavy breathing. ‘But I’m sure that you should not be doing it.’
He took his hand away and, for a moment, she thought that he had taken her seriously. But then she felt him move, and his lips were touching her palm with his tongue drawing quick circles on it. It was then that the brougham stopped.
‘You’re a damned attractive girl,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she
said.
‘Sink me if I can understand why the devil you’re not married.’
‘Because I’m too nice,’ she said, ‘much too nice for only one man,’ and she giggled. ‘It’s the champagne.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Must say, you’re forthright, aren’t you?’
‘Do you know, Lord Charles, we have been stopped for five minutes.’ Her tone was rather cool and formal.
‘Not as long as that, but I am aware of it.’
She looked out of the window. ‘And your driver is lost. This is not Charlotte Street.’
‘I know that, too, and my driver does know the way. This is my house.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘are you going to take me in to meet your wife?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘My wife is in Yorkshire. My wife is always in Yorkshire. But I thought that you might like a cup of cocoa or something before I get Barker to run you home.’
Naomi was rapidly sobering up and was now completely aware of the situation into which she had allowed herself to be persuaded. However, she was interested in this man and curious as to what would be his next move.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll come in. But I think you should know that I am perfectly aware of what you mean when you say “or something”.’
‘Miss Bruce,’ he replied, ‘I will give you my word that nothing will happen this evening to which you are not a willing party. I shall not touch you or come near you without your full consent.’