‘I see that you’re a bastard — that’s all I see! ‘
‘There are times when one has to be. Now — your revolver.’ He reached out a hand. Taggart-Blane backed away, gave another high, almost hysterical laugh and reached for the revolver at his belt. He spun the weapon and caught the barrel as if to hand the butt to Ogilvie, but instead, with a swift and sudden movement, he flung the revolver into the air, away to his left, in the direction opposite the hillside from where the recent attack had come. It went up spinning, in a wide, flat arc, then dropped. There was no sound of its landing, and Ogilvie knew very well why: the bivouacs had been made that night on the track where they had fallen out — almost literally — and a matter of a score of yards to one side was a precipice descending sheer to a rocky gorge and a fast, tumbling river.
‘Now get it if you can, you bastard! ‘ Taggart-Blane cried, shouting the words into Ogilvie’s face with a kind of triumph.
Blood dripped into the snow at his feet, but he seemed not to notice, not even to be aware of the strips of flesh torn from the insides of his fingers where his ungloved hand had touched the bare, freezing metal of the revolver.
TEN
Nothing was said to Gilmour, other than that an apparent bandit attack had been repulsed with only one casualty; Ogilvie didn’t want to bring more worry to Gilmour at the time of his own loss. At full light the hillside was scoured for casualties amongst the attackers, but nothing whatsoever was found. Ogilvie was left with another anxiety: had Mulata Din’s killer staged an alarm simply as cover for his own misdeed? It was not unknown along the Frontier lands for men to fire at shadows, and such would not have appeared unduly remarkable this time. No-one among the sepoys, it was discovered, had actually seen any bandits, nor had they seen any answering gun-flashes from the hillside after the British rifles had opened; and the Pathan from Kunarja, the representative officer from Jarar Mahommed’s bodyguard, had been as baffled as Ogilvie and had been unable to help.
Another worry, also, accompanied Ogilvie as the march was resumed: Lal Binodinand, under close questioning, had confessed his enmity towards Mulata Din, and had given a reason for it, a reason that had brought no comfort whatever to James Ogilvie : the havildar, who, it seemed, had regarded the young sepoy as his own personal protégé, had become jealous of the British officer, Taggart Sahib. Whatever might happen now, the good name of the Royal Strathspeys was going to be dragged through some very filthy mud. Lal Binodinand had protested his complete innocence of the killing, but, after an agonising half-hour of indecision, Ogilvie had felt obliged to hold the havildar in arrest pending a report to the military authorities in Peshawar; and Lal Binodinand was now marching under the not-too-obvious escort of one of the naiks and two sepoys. Ogilvie had taken the decision with great distaste; it went against the grain to make any man march in arrest through the Khyber in such terrible conditions of weather and possible danger. He was well aware that he was perhaps going too closely by the book; but felt that on balance, and in all the circumstances, this was not a matter upon which he could properly exercise an officer’s discretion, however indecisive his investigation had proved. The men who had been bivouacked nearest to Mulata Din had been of no help, repeating again and again that they had seen no-one. As to the revolvers, both Bandra Negi and Lal Binodinand had produced empty chambers for inspection; so had the other two havildars. All the bullets, they said, had been fired into the darkness, which could have been perfectly true and could scarcely be questioned. There had been no need to check Gilmour’s revolver; thus, only Taggart-Blane’s remained unaccounted for, but this was possibly unimportant for he, also, whatever the facts, could have claimed six shots at the enemy as well. The fact of his throwing the weapon into the chasm could have been no more than an act of childish temper at being regarded as suspect : on the other hand...
Ogilvie hardly dared dwell on the implications. He knew very well that Taggart-Blane had had a motive for the killing, and, now that Lal Binodinand had spoken of his jealousy, the sepoys might very well know too. There could be trouble over Ogilvie’s action, or lack of it, in not also putting the officer in arrest.
Meanwhile, with two corpses on its hands now, the march continued.
*
‘You think I did it, don’t you, James?’
The question was abruptly put, without warning; Taggart-Blane had ridden up the line from the rear, leaving his post without orders to do so. It was on the end of Ogilvie’s tongue to send him back with a flea in his ear; but he saw that the subaltern needed to have it out with him. Taggart-Blane looked really ill now, ill with worry and fear and the rigours of the long haul from Kunarja as they began to make the approach to the area which led below the frowning fortress of Landi Khotal, high-perched on its lofty peak to guard the passage of the Khyber.
Ogilvie shrugged and said: ‘It’s not for me to think anything.’
‘Oh, don’t be quite so bloody military! Don’t always go by Queen’s Regulations, dear James. I told you once what Cunningham said. Too serious, too stiff. Too bloody rigid, I’d call you. You have a mind — or I suppose you had once. Has the army turned you into a machine like all the others?’
‘I hope it hasn’t.’ Ogilvie gave a short laugh, felt his iced-up lips crack. ‘I don’t think it has. What do you want me to tell you?’
‘That you believe me. That you don’t think I shot that sepoy.’
‘That hasn’t arisen. I’ve never asked you that question.’
‘No, but it’s what you may be thinking. That’s what I want to get straight.’ Taggart-Blane paused. ‘Do you think I will be asked that question, in Peshawar?’
‘Why should you be?’
‘Oh,’ the subaltern said with a touch of passion, ‘for God’s sake, don’t let’s fence with words now! You know very well you’ve had those other suspicions — I tell you again, they’re groundless, but you must surely have them in mind!’
‘It’s pointless to talk about all that, Alan. I’m only the company commander. This is a long way above my head, and anything I say, when the time comes, will only be opinion. It won’t be evidence.’
‘You have no evidence.’
‘I have nothing to say about that and in any case my thoughts don’t matter...but in so far as they do — to you, that is — you have the evidence of them in what I’ve done in putting Lal Binodinand in arrest. Isn’t that good enough?’
‘Well, perhaps. I don’t know. I wish I could feel you really believed me, James.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry about that damn stupid business over the revolver. I apologise for my rudeness, my utter boorishness.’
‘It was stupid from your own point of view. Damn stupid. Don’t worry about my feelings! They don’t matter.’
‘I hadn’t fired any rounds anyway. I didn’t see any point in blazing away into the dark with a revolver, like those havildars.’
‘Then it’s a pity you chucked it away, isn’t it?’
Taggart-Blane shrugged. ‘Oh, not really, I could have reloaded, couldn’t I?’
‘I’d have known that, if I’d felt the barrel. It’d still have been warm — I was pretty quickly on the scene, you remember.’
‘Oh, come, James! By the time you asked me for it, it’d have been stone cold.’
‘Being precipitate’s never a good thing, anyway. Bear that in mind for the future! ‘
‘If there is one! It’s obvious Lal Binodinand’s going to involve me to some extent.’
Ogilvie nodded. ‘That seems likely enough. On the other hand...’ He paused, not wishing to put his thoughts into words, to be too precise. He had some knowledge of the British in India by now. They had a habit of looking after their own. It could well be that Lal Binodinand would be seen as a handy scapegoat, a native who could be called a liar if and when he made any reference to a British officer. Yes, even possibly in a case of murder! Had this business remained at the level of indecency, Ogilvie now realised, it could have been treated on a domestic basis with no
dirty linen being washed in public at all. But murder...perhaps not, after all. And even if it were...
‘Well, go on,’ Taggart-Blane prompted. ‘You were saying, on the other hand...?’
‘Just thoughts. Now listen. I’ve put Lal Binodinand in arrest as you know, but...Alan, if you have anything to hide — if — then I doubt you’ll find any peace of mind in the future, if you allow Lal Binodinand to be your whipping boy.’
‘I’ve nothing to hide — I told you! ‘
‘Then in that case—’
‘But they wouldn’t hang Lal Binodinand without proof, and when they have that, then I’m in the clear.’
‘Yes. I doubt if they’ll hang the man without such proof as can be called adequate, certainly. But in army terms, in the circumstances of the Frontier, adequate is an arguable quantity. I think you’d do well to ponder on that.’
‘So you don’t believe me.’
‘I’ve never said that.’
‘No. Now I’ll say something instead. I’ve said it before. You’re a rotten bastard, Captain bloody Ogilvie!’ Taggart-Blane wheeled his horse suddenly, causing it to rear with dangerously flailing hooves, and went back towards the end of the column, his cheeks flaming, his mouth compressed into a hard, bitter line. Ogilvie rode on with a set face. He was in no two minds about what he would say when questioned. Whatever might be his feelings for his regiment, he would never be able to stand by and see a man hanged until he was beyond all doubt proven guilty; and would be in honour bound to substantiate Lal Binodinand’s statement that there had been more than a proper friendliness existing between Mulata Din and a British officer.
*
In a sense, the fact of Mulata Din’s death had been a help. A sepoy’s body was being carried onward and not left in Afghan-dominated territory; thus, when the news spread, as in fact it did quickly, that Mrs. Gilmour had died and was being taken on with the march, the murmurs of there being one law for the British and another for the sepoys themselves were stillborn. Death was still not a happy accompaniment to a march, but at least the sahibs were playing fair. The line of men stumbled on, their senses dulled into a state of almost total passivity by the cruel hand of winter. The track was an abomination now, covered with a layer of snow and ice, while far below in the gorge the water lay solid, overcome at last by the bitter cold. In this gorge they lost some of the mule-train, and with the animals went too much of the food and ammunition; the food in particular could ill be spared. Sadly enough, the occasional sepoy who went over could be better spared than the commissariat: in a march that appeared, so far at any rate, to be protected from attack by the fiat of Jarar Mahommed, loss of personnel meant only less mouths to feed. Losses among the camp followers were even easier to sustain. That nondescript band of low-grade humanity had long since ceased its monkey-like chattering, and was plodding on in silent misery, even the tears of the women and children freezing upon their cheeks as they were caught by the bitter wind, the wind that penetrated any covering that man could devise for his protection.
They passed below Landi Khotal, backed to the north by the great mountain of Tor Tsappar. Here they moved with greater security, for the fortress was currently held by the Khyber Rifles, an irregular regiment of militia serving under British Political Officers, and an attack by tribesmen was unlikely in the vicinity. As they came under the fort, Ogilvie made an attempt to communicate by heliograph; but there was too little sun, and the sentries, it appeared, were not as alert as they might have been. There was no answer from the fort, and the weary column of men saw no sign of life at all as they struggled along the track.
It was after another night and another day’s march, when they had left Landi Khotal well behind them and yet one more night was approaching, that the attack came. They were on the lookout for a suitable place to make camp; the sepoys were moving like automatons, numbed into complete insensitivity, stumbling along with nothing more than their own instinct for survival to keep them going, with nearly half their number now sick and lying in the commissariat carts or tied to the backs of the plodding, weary mules. Gilmour was riding with Ogilvie, ahead of his wife’s body. The horses were having almost a worse time of it than the men, with their hooves sliding and slithering on ice where the snow was not half-way to their hocks. Katharine, whose sick horse had had to be shot soon after passing Landi Khotal, was riding in a cart behind her dead mother.
Gilmour, as they moved into a narrow sector of the pass, had remarked that the march was almost over. ‘A little under ten miles to Jamrud now, Ogilvie, that’s all.’
‘All!’
‘Oh, I’m far from making light of it, I’m as wearied by the conditions as anyone else, but the worst should be over now. With Jamrud virtually in range, we’re coming into—’ He broke off, then said sharply, ‘Ahead there! D’you see anything, Ogilvie?’
‘No...’ Ogilvie, screwing up his eyes against the snow’s painful whiteness, stared ahead. Then, a moment later, he saw it: the movement of a rifle against the white. ‘Yes, by God I do! Strewth, the hillsides are coming alive with men! ‘ He turned in his saddle, stood in the stirrups as his horse came round, and shouted down the line: ‘Scatter, get off the track...take what cover you can find behind the rocks!’ Before he had finished passing the order, the firing had started from ahead, while more bullets swept down from snipers concealed on the heights above them. There was utter confusion along the track; as the ranks broke men and animals milled about, carts were overturned, there were screams and oaths as the bullets struck. Alongside Ogilvie the naik in charge of the sepoys escorting Mrs. Gilmour’s body died with blood gushing from his throat. Ogilvie saw the Major wheel his horse to bring it and himself between the tribesmen ahead and the body in the cart. From the rear, Taggart-Blane rode up, pushing his horse expertly through the panic-stricken sepoys.
‘It’s a bloody mob back there! ‘ he said.
Ogilvie nodded. ‘Get the men clear of the track at once, and see that every man who can hold a rifle, sick or not, is ready to fire back from cover—’
‘Can’t we mount a charge, James?’
‘Not yet — we’re a rabble, not an army! Besides, the terrain’s not right for a charge—these bastards know how to choose their own ground!’ Ogilvie stared around him. ‘Where’s that man of Jarar’s, his personal representative—’
‘Dead, James. He got one of the first bullets.’
‘Damn! Well, come on, get the men in cover, and when we’ve done that, we’ll think about re-forming when the time’s right. Get a move on!’
Taggart-Blane nodded, turned and rode back coolly enough, shouting the native troops into some kind of military awareness, urging them with oaths off the track, riding them off with his horse; they were too weary, too close to exhaustion, even to think for themselves now, to see where comparative safety lay. Very many died before the track was clear of men. Ogilvie, with a bullet through the flesh of his upper right arm, stayed on the littered track until all the sepoys were clear and the two carts containing the bodies of Mrs. Gilmour and Mulata Din had been drawn into shelter behind a large jut of rock that gave overhead cover as well. Then he took cover himself behind the same rock, with Gilmour and his daughter. There was no sign of Taggart-Blane; but a few moments after Ogilvie had moved behind the rock, Subedar Gundar Singh appeared, with blood running down his face from a glancing bullet, and reported that Taggart Sahib was rounding up the camp followers with the assistance of Havildar Bandra Negi.
‘I have come for orders, Ogilvie Sahib,’ he said.
Ogilvie nodded, and peered over the top of the rock. ‘Right, Gundar Singh. I want you to pass the word to all the men, that they’re to remain in cover until further orders. They’re to return the fire whenever they sight a good target, but there’s to be no indiscriminate firing. We may be held here a long time for all I know, and we must not waste ammunition. That’s vital. See to that, if you please, Gundar Singh.’
‘There is the question of the commissariat—�
��
‘Yes, we can’t risk losing our supplies. You’ll have to organise a party to get the carts into cover — or if that can’t be done, see that the carts are well covered by the rifles. You understand?’
‘I understand, Sahib, yes.’
‘Then off you go, Gundar Singh.’
The subedar moved away; in the last of the day’s light Ogilvie saw him drop to the ground and wriggle cautiously away on his stomach, across the snow, dangerously slowly because of that deep white carpet, making for the next piece of cover. When Gundar Singh was out of sight, with the enemy bullets snicking into the snow behind him, Ogilvie turned to Gilmour. ‘How long d’you think it’ll take for word of this to reach Landi Khotal?’ he asked.
Gilmour gave a humourless laugh. ‘Not this side of Christmas, I’m afraid! You don’t imagine those tribesmen will let anyone get away? We’re bound to be cut off to the rear.’
‘You don’t think the ambush is likely to be seen or heard by any friendly tribes? Tribes friendly either to the British or to Jarar Mahommed?’
‘Well, that’s always possible, but we can’t bank on it. I—’
‘I could send a man through with a message.’
Gilmour shook his head. ‘No good, Ogilvie. He might get away under cover of darkness, but I doubt it. In any case, we’re well past Landi Khotal, and if anybody goes anywhere, it must be to the mouth of the Khyber itself — to Jamrud, and the field telegraph to Peshawar. That’s a damn sight nearer now.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. It might be worth trying, at that.’ Ogilvie paused. ‘So near safety, Major, as you said not so long ago! It seems curious, doesn’t it?’
‘How do you mean, curious?’
‘I mean that they should wait till we’re nearly through the pass.’
‘Nothing odd about it at all,’ Gilmour said. ‘It’s simply that we’ve now passed beyond Jarar Mahommed’s limit of rule and sway — that’s all!’
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