Sweethearts and Wives (The Regiment Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  It was around six o’clock that same afternoon that the London train pulled into the twenty-five glass-covered acres of Edinburgh’s Waverly station. The carriage doors swung open onto the steamy, smoky platform and Donald Bruce, under close arrest and accompanied by two captains of the Lancashire Fusiliers, stepped out. It had been a tense, uncommunicative journey. The escort, only too aware of their task, had been too embarrassed to indulge in anything approaching normal conversation and hardly a word had passed between them in eight hours.

  Donald had not been left alone for a moment. Even when he had had to go to the toilet one or other of them had taken him along the corridor and stood outside waiting for him. For himself, Donald was glad that there had been no attempt to force conversation upon him; he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. In a way he was glad that it had happened this way and that he was no longer required to live as another. He was himself again, whatever that might be. The young captains, smart, clean shaven, had taken refuge in behaving absolutely correctly in what to them was an unusual and unpleasant task.

  Outside the station, just for a moment, Donald got a glimpse of the castle which was to be his destination, standing grim and timeless on its rock, and then he was thrust into a closed wagon and driven off up the Mound and along the eastern approach and into the castle yard.

  There he was escorted into the building, through the thick grey walls, and taken to a bare room containing the minimum of furnishing: a cot, two chairs, a small wooden table, and a Bible. This room, which he would share with an escort, was to be his home for the next three weeks. He would eat, sleep, and exist here while the General Officer Scottish Command had the summary of evidence prepared which would be offered at his General Court Martial.

  Chapter Nine

  The president of the court was a Colonel Gordon, late of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, that lowland regiment recruited mostly in Glasgow, who wore trews and held the Highlanders in their ‘skirts’ in the deepest contempt. The colonel however did not feel that way; he had fought with the Highlanders and knew of their qualities. Approaching fifty, with his dark hair greying, he maintained a soldierly manner and an iron control of the court which served under him. He was a veteran of many campaigns in the field. A man who had spent most of his service as a line officer. A man who had stayed on in the army when active service was no longer open to him, because he neither knew nor wanted any other way of life. There was in his cheek a deep indentation where it had been pierced by a ball during the Crimean campaign. It was not his only scar, but it was the only one which was visible. He well understood soldiers and the way they reacted. While his love of the army and all that it stood for gave him the outward appearance of a strict disciplinarian, he was at heart a kindly man who understood soldiers as people. It was he above all others who held the fate of Donald Bruce in his hands and he already felt a certain sympathy for the young man who was now before him on trial for his life. But he was too much of a soldier to allow his personal feelings to cloud the due process of military law.

  Colonel Gordon glanced slowly around at the other twelve members of the tribunal, and after a short, whispered conversation with the Judge Advocate, whose job it was to rule on all matters of law, turned to the ‘Prisoner’s Friend’.

  ‘You may call your first witness, Captain Maclaren.’

  Donald Bruce had been surprised and not a little grateful when, less than twenty-four hours after his arrival in Edinburgh Castle, Ian Maclaren had walked into his room.

  ‘Hello, Donald,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about all this.’

  ‘Thanks for coming to say so. But it’s no use being sorry,’ replied Donald. ‘It had to happen one day, sooner or later. I’m sorry that it wasn’t later, but now it has happened, I’m quite prepared to take what is coming to me.’

  Ian got straight down to business. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what are we going to do about it?’

  ‘We?’ Donald was surprised at the determination in Ian’s tone.

  This was not the boy that he had known five years before. Though they were much of an age, Donald had always regarded himself as the man and Ian as the boy. But this man who had come to see him was not the same boy who had gone away with him. The Ian who had gone away had been a moonstruck, quiet-spoken, gentle adolescent. After his five years on campaign, his face, bronzed and leathered by the African sun, his eyes looked paler, harder, and more determined than Donald could remember. The boy he had known had grown up. For the first time Donald felt less of a man than Ian. There was a preciseness and determination about him, reflected in every movement that he made. And though when Ian spoke his phraseology had not changed, it was the way that he said it.

  ‘I know that the decision is yours and you may consider it damned cheek on my part, but you have to have someone to defend you. I thought that I might be qualified to take the job on.’

  ‘You? Nobody’s going to be able to help me, Ian. The facts will speak for themselves.’ Donald spoke quite calmly. ‘I know as much military law as you do. I did rather well at Sandhurst, remember?’

  ‘Don’t you care, Donald?’

  ‘No, I don’t. You can have the job if you want it. It won’t make any difference.’

  ‘I think it will. Remember, I know you. I’m a brother officer who has served with you. I don’t believe that the facts, as you call them, are in any way the deciding factor in this case.’ He paused. ‘They will charge you with desertion, you know that.’

  ‘Of course. But I did resign my commission.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that you cannot resign your commission while you are on active duty in the middle of a campaign.’

  ‘In which case I have no defence. They’ll take me out and they’ll shoot me, just as I took Jimmy Grigor out. And, Ian, I don’t care.’

  ‘Whatever you say, I think that we can beat this,’ said Ian. ‘I know that I am no lawyer and your father is willing to employ the best that money can buy.’

  ‘It was my father who had me arrested.’

  ‘Of course he did. Do you imagine for one moment that Willie Bruce would treat his son in any way different from how he would treat the most humble private in the regiment? Well, would he?’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Father would not be capable of anything else.’

  ‘The point I am trying to make,’ said Ian, ‘is that no lawyer knows what it is like on active service and they certainly have no conception of what it is like in battle.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The court will be comprised of officers, many of whom will have spent years on campaign. There are things that only a soldier can understand.’

  Donald was surprised to find how much Ian Maclaren had matured in the five years since he had last seen him. They said that the army either made you or broke you. Well, it had made Ian, all right. As for himself, it had broken him.

  Donald looked up at Ian and smiled. ‘I’m very grateful, Ian. We won’t bother with lawyers. You can tell whoever it is that you have to tell, that I have asked you to be Prisoner’s Friend.’

  Between that moment and the commencement of the trial, Ian used every moment he had studying case histories and preparing Donald’s defence. He knew the facts from the summary which was presented to him as soon as it was completed, and he knew that he would not be able to dispute those facts. But dammit, Donald would not help. Ian tried every method that he could think of to persuade Donald to take an interest in his own case. In his own survival. He talked of the glen, of Donald’s father and mother, of Sir Andrew his own father, all to no avail. The awful thing was that he understood, or felt that he did. He believed that Donald had just given up on life. That the Donald Bruce who had come to them from Sandhurst with such a glowing reputation, had never really existed. That was not the real man, it was a sham, a facade, created by family and fear. Not a physical fear, but that moral fear which expresses itself in an inability to say no. And all the time that Donald had been in the army he had not been able
to say, ‘No, this is not the life for me.’

  Ian Maclaren knew that he was dealing with a very complex human being. At first he thought that Donald had changed, until he began to believe that this was not true and Donald had not changed and that the man he was now dealing with was the real Donald and that he had always been there.

  It was out of these thoughts that the idea came which, though it did not conflict with those indisputable facts, gave him, Ian believed, a chance to win his case. It was not a very good chance, but it was just a chance ‒ if the prosecution would let him get away with it.

  ‘Captain Maclaren,’ the President said, glancing sternly in Ian’s direction, ‘I asked you to call your first witness.’

  Ian looked around the improvised courtroom. The high stone walls of the castle interior, the cold light creeping in through the arched windows, the trestle tables for prosecution, defence, and the court, all covered with grey army blankets. It was a dismal setting, relieved only by the red tunics and shining brasses of the assembled military personnel. What a lousy hole in which to try a man for his life, he thought.

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir,’ said Ian, rising from the defence table at which he had been seated next to Donald; Donald was feeling strange and uncomfortable wearing for the first time the fine worsted kilt, silver-mounted sporran, and gold-braided doublet of his full dress uniform. He was of course bare headed and carried no sword, that sword which had been presented to him by the Duke of Connaught at Sandhurst and which he had told Ian was to go to his younger brother Gordon when this was all over.

  ‘Sir,’ said Ian, ‘for my first witness, I call Brigadier William Bruce.’

  The President looked at Ian. ‘That is the accused’s father, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But he was also, at the time of the alleged offence, the accused’s commanding officer.’

  ‘But not present in North Africa,’ the prosecution murmured.

  Willie Bruce came into the courtroom. He made a drab figure against the regimental finery of the junior officers. He wore the black, black braided frock coat and trousers and the little pillbox cap with the tiny peak, of a staff officer. He took the stand and read the oath from the card. He tried to look at Donald, but his son avoided his gaze. It was hell. At what point did love supersede duty? Willie wished that he knew. He regretted what he had done, but knew all the while that he would have done it again.

  He sighed; they all avoided him now. Maud, Naomi, and even Gordon. But what the hell else could he have done?

  After the preliminary questions establishing his identity and rank, Ian asked, ‘Brigadier Bruce, I would like you to cast your mind back to the month of November in 1883. There was ‒ I’m sorry, I’ll rephrase that,’ he said as he saw the prosecution start to rise. ‘Was there an incident during that month which caused great distress to the accused?’

  Again the prosecution started to rise, but the President waved him down. He knew that Ian was no lawyer, and he had no intention of allowing the boy’s case to be damaged on technicalities. Willie looked at him inquiringly and he nodded.

  ‘Aye, there was.’

  ‘Would you please tell the court about that incident?’

  ‘A private soldier by the name of Grigor, a member, I’m sorry tae say, of the Maclaren Highlanders, was convicted and found guilty of a most brutal murder. He was, of course, sentenced to death. My son ‒ I’m sorry, Lieutenant, as he then was, Bruce, was unfortunate enough to be detailed as commander of the firing squad.’

  The prosecuting officer rose to his feet. ‘Sir, I cannot see what relevance an execution in 1883 can possibly have to the present case.’

  The President looked towards Ian inquiringly.

  ‘Sir,’ said Ian, ‘I think that this matter is of the utmost relevance. We are not disputing the facts as they have been presented. It may not have escaped your notice that I did not cross-examine any of the prosecution witnesses. I know all of them, and I know that the accounts which they gave of the occurrence were true, and as full as they were able to make them. But, with respect, sir, I think that I have a right to show both the motive and the reason for Captain Bruce behaving in the manner in which he did.’

  ‘Harrumph,’ said the President, turning to the Judge Advocate, a thin-faced, beaky-nosed individual wearing a legal gown over his civilian clothes.

  The Judge Advocate looked towards Ian and pressed the tips of his bony fingers together. ‘Captain Maclaren,’ he said in his high-pitched, reedy voice, ‘are you trying to establish mitigating circumstances?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, sir.’

  ‘Because if that is your purpose, you should have entered a plea of guilty, and this you have not done. What have you to say to that?’

  Ian suddenly felt for the first time that perhaps he should have persuaded Donald to get a skilled lawyer.

  ‘Go on, Captain Maclaren, we are waiting,’ said the President.

  ‘Sir, I honestly believe that the facts which I hope to present to the court have a great bearing on this case. I am, moreover, sure that, unless the court is fully in possession of these facts, it will be most difficult for justice to be done. Now what I am doing may not be strictly according to law, but I believe that justice is very much more important.’

  ‘That is for the court to decide,’ said the President, silencing the Judge Advocate with a glare just as he was about to speak. ‘I shall permit you to continue with your present line, for the moment at least.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ian, suddenly realizing that an experienced lawyer may have had much more difficulty in getting this evidence to the court, which, because of his lack of that experience, was going to deal with him leniently. He turned back to Willie.

  ‘Brigadier Bruce, would you please tell the court what happened on the morning after that execution?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘But you told me that ‒’

  ‘Captain Maclaren,’ said the President sternly.

  ‘Nothing happened of any significance regarding Captain Bruce’s part in that execution?’

  ‘Och, aye,’ said Willie, ‘but it happened on the same afternoon.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ian, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He felt rather foolish.

  The President turned to Willie. ‘Why don’t you just tell us, Brigadier?’

  ‘Aye. Well, it happened like this. I was in ma office and I sent for Lieutenant Bruce. He brought me a letter.’

  ‘What were the contents of that letter?’

  ‘That he wished to resign his commission.’

  ‘I see,’ said the President. ‘Continue, Captain Maclaren. That is what you were trying to establish, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ said Ian. Then turning back to Willie, ‘Brigadier, did you speak to the accused on that occasion?’

  ‘I did,’ replied Willie. ‘I told him that he was being a damned fool.’

  ‘And what did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me that he was not cut oot tae be a soldier. He said that he hated killing. I canna remember his exact words, but he did tell me that he’d rather not be in the army.’

  ‘What action did you take, sir?’

  ‘I persuaded him to let me tear up his resignation. I could not believe that a son o’ mine ‒ but perhaps I was wrong.’

  ‘Thank you, Brigadier,’ said Ian, and he sat down.

  Captain Roger Brown, the prosecuting officer, of the King’s Royal Rifles, was not and never had been a line officer. He was a fully qualified lawyer who had spent almost his entire military service sitting behind a desk and appearing at military courts. He was a man of about thirty-five, with a receding chin, a high, domed forehead, and gold-rimmed spectacles. His uniform looked a little out of place on him. It wasn’t that it did not quite fit, it just seemed out of character. He had presented his case in a quiet, precise maimer, never raising his voice and never appearing in the least flustered. Ian had watched his obvious professionalism with something approaching envy,
sparked off by his own feeling of inadequacy which had grown as the trial had progressed. Now he looked at Captain Brown as he rose and calmly tapped his notes with a long finger, and then looked up and smiled slightly at Willie Bruce.

  ‘Brigadier,’ said Captain Brown, ‘was Captain Bruce a good soldier?’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Yes, then.’ He spoke gently. He was not there to get a conviction. He knew that justice was a rare thing and that the law, especially military law, had little to do with it. But he had to do his job. He felt the tension building. ‘Please answer,’ he said.

  ‘I always say that ye canna tell a good soldier until he’s been in action under fire. That’s what separates the men from the boys.’

  ‘I’ll put it another way. Had you any reason to believe that Captain Bruce was not a good soldier?’

  ‘As far as I could tell, he was the best.’

  ‘He did, I believe, very well at Sandhurst?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Willie. ‘He won the Sword of Honour.’ He looked across at Donald, who again avoided his gaze.

  ‘Now,’ said Captain Brown, ‘we are all aware of how distasteful it must be to be given the job of commanding an execution detail.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Willie, ‘thank God I’ve never had tae dae it.’

  ‘Of course. Now do you not consider that Captain Bruce’s attitude on that particular occasion was an emotional and perfectly natural attitude for any man, certainly any thinking man, to have after performing such a distasteful task?’

  ‘I did at the time,’ said Willie. ‘But it was more than that. You see, he couldna do the job.’

  ‘A moment, Captain Brown,’ said the President. ‘Brigadier, I would like you to explain just what was implied in your answer to Captain Brown’s last question.’

  ‘Lieutenant Bruce, as he was then, never gave the order to fire. He waited and waited. I never forgot that moment. It was Grigor himself who shouted out the word.’

  There was a long silence. Ian looked down at his boots; he felt that he was making a mess of the whole thing. Captain Brown allowed the implication of Willie’s last remark to register fully on the court.