Lieutenant of the Line

by Philip McCutchan

  She laughed. ‘Oh, James, you don’t really want to know that! I thought you’d had enough of the army. So far as I know, they’re managing to carry on in your absence, but to be perfectly honest, I’m not in the least concerned just now about Her Majesty’s Royal Strathspeys...except one of them. Come and sit down and tell me about Simla.’ They sat, in two chairs facing a big window. ‘Have you,’ she asked, ‘been enjoying yourself, James?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s been—different, and it’s been a rest in a way. One can have too many damn tea parties, though,’ he added with a smile. ‘Mother loves tea parties.’

  ‘Yes, mothers do, nobody else does. You needn’t tell me! Is that all you’ve been doing?’ She studied his face. ‘No young ladies?’

  Again he flushed—that hateful habit that he couldn’t overcome. ‘No.’

  ‘M-hm. James, you’re not still brooding?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Which means you are. That’s such a pity. I thought you were going to lead the new army, and see to it that—things such as happened to Corporal Nichol, don’t happen anymore. Aren’t you?’

  He said moodily, ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’ He sat in silence for a while after that, and she didn’t break it. At last he said, ‘it’s a funny thing, Mary, but I begin to feel differently about things when I’m with you, and when I leave you it all comes back. I think I draw a little courage from you.’

  ‘Oh, dear, you don’t need that!’ she said gaily, then saw how deadly in earnest he was. In a quiet voice she said, ‘you’ve plenty of your own. I don’t think you realize how much. It’s been quite a tough battle, tougher than you know. Indian military life isn’t life with a private crammer. Sandhurst helped, but you made the transition mostly on your own. If you could do that with credit, there’s no limit to what you can do eventually. Don’t ever be stupidly blinded to your own achievement or your own potential. I’ve a feeling you’re at a crossroads, James dear. I’d like to give you a good, hard push down the right path.’

  She meant it; he could see that in her face as he looked into her eyes. But he felt she was wrong, felt that he had already taken the wrong path by joining the army in the first place. What had happened on the parade at Peshawar had affected him too deeply; a man who was born to soldiering would have shrugged it off by now. He said as much to Mary, and her crisp retort was, ‘rubbish. All the subalterns of the 114th will be feeling the same way, but they’ll be drowning it in chota pegs. When the spirits drain away again, they’ll be feeling better. That’s what you should be doing.’ She added, ‘by the way, James, has your mother talked of it at all?’

  ‘Has she tried to?’

  She said, ‘I’m glad. Mothers aren’t really good for young men—they tend to be over sympathetic and that’s not what you want. It’s not what you’ll get from me, my lad!’ she added with a mocking glint in her eyes. ‘My function in life is to tell you you’re behaving like a ninny!’

  He started, and looked at her in complete astonishment. ‘Do you really mean that?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said flatly.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ His tone was stiff.

  ‘You do that, James! And keep on remembering you can give yourself a mission inside the army and the regiment: a mission to do what Nelson did for the navy—humanize it. You know what I mean—’Let humanity, after victory, be the predominant feature in the British Fleet.’ You’re young enough to have a good, long try!’

  ***

  With a metaphorical fanfare of trumpets to herald him, Sir Iain Ogilvie descended upon Simla four days after his son’s visit to Mary Archdale. He meant to spend as long as possible free from the cares and responsibilities of Murree, always provided the disturbing news, as reported by Tom Archdale to Mary, didn’t blow up into warfare; which privately he felt it might. Sirkin would be taking the opportunity of his visit to have some probably lengthy talks with the Commander-in-Chief India, who would also be in Simla with his staff. Sirkin was accompanied by his nephew Hector, son of Sir Iain’s brother Rufus, who, as a rear-admiral in the Queen’s Navy, was currently commanding a battle squadron of the Channel Fleet: Hector, who had joined his uncle in Murree from Calcutta, was the very antithesis of Sir Iain—he was pale and slight and pedantic, clerkly—in his lighter moments Sir Iain was given to referring to him in the family circle as the Munshi Sahib—liking neither strong language, strong drink, nor any sort of woman (in that sense, at all events). Sir Iain always said, disparagingly for he detested his sister-in-law, that the fellow took after his mother’s family and left it thankfully at that. Certainly brother Rufus, who, when he had first been appointed to the indignity of a steamship command, had physically and personally and with the accompaniment of the most foul and violent abuse thrown his engineer overboard from the navigating bridge when the man had failed to produce the speed he wanted, had precious little in common with his son...

  It was not long before Sir Iain tackled his own son about military affairs. He did this bluntly so as to get it over and done with. He said, ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll be expecting some words from me, James. As it happens, however, I have nothing to say. You’ve been informed of a certain degree of disapproval, and I happen to know what your Divisional Commander said to you.’ Sir Iain, who was in the habit of referring to General Fettleworth among his peers as that bloody old dunderhead, would never have dreamed of voicing such an opinion to anyone under Fettleworth’s command. ‘All’s been said that needs to be said and we’ll leave it at that.’

  ‘I want to talk to you about it, Sir.’

  The General gaped in surprise. ‘You do—do you?’ He seemed unusually irresolute all of a sudden. ‘Well, damn it! Don’t see why not, I suppose, if that’s what you want. Advice—eh? But I don’t come into this as your ultimate commander, James. Father to son—strictly that.’

  ‘I understand that, father.’

  Sir Iain blew through his moustache. Then he jerked into action and padded silently on the balls of his feet across the room and opened the door with a sudden sharp pull. He looked out, shut the door, and came back. ‘All right,’ he grunted. ‘Go ahead, boy—before that little bugger comes in. Hector. I’d half a suspicion he might even be listening—never know with these damn Civil people from Whitehall, and the feller’s as sneaky as a schoolmistress, even if he is my own nephew.’ A gleam came into his eye. ‘Don’t like him much yourself, do you?’

  James grinned. ‘No, but—oh, he’s not all that bad, father. I think he means well.’

  ‘Do you!’ Sir Iain snapped. He took a pinch of snuff, noisily. ‘When you’re my age and seniority, you’ll know better than to trust any Civillain. Especially out here—and especially that Whitehall lot! They loathe the army—they only come out to snoop and pry and try to catch us out and cut the estimates.’ He became reflective. ‘I knew a feller once, colonel in Skinner’s Horse, put a major-general’s wife to bed. Damn Civilian out here at the time found out about it—hidden under the bed for all I know, wouldn’t put it past ‘em—probably jealous, bunged in a report—and poor old Benson’s career was finished. Died in Cheltenham. What the devil’s the matter, boy?’

  Protuberant blue eyes—very like Fettleworth’s—glared at James, who flushed and said, ‘nothing, father. Shall we talk?’

  ‘What d’you think I’ve been doing? Still—yes, all right, all right. What’s the trouble?’

  Summoning his courage James came straight out with it. ‘I’ve been thinking of sending in my papers, father.’

  ‘What? Sending in your papers...Why, God bless my soul, boy! Never heard such a thing in all my life. You damn well can’t—you’re a Royal Strathspey! My God. Officers of the 114th don’t resign—they’re bloody well kicked out if they want to go! Damn it—damn it, I’ll not listen—’

  ‘But,’ James said loudly, ‘I’ve decided against doing that.’

  ‘What? Oh. Oh.’ Sir Iain calmed down, but he still looked gravely upset. ‘Well, I’m damned glad
to hear it, and God be thanked for giving you a little sense.’ He paced the room then stopped in front of his son. ‘It’s that damn hanging .—isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sir Iain took a deep breath and let it out again, slowly. Then he said, ‘in my young day, that wouldn’t have disturbed anyone but a few zealous reformers. The damn missionary sort. I’ve seen men similarly hanged for striking their officers! You can’t have any army without discipline. Even in civil life...they used to hang ‘em once for stealing a bird’s egg, I believe. Still, I admit things are looked at differently these days.’ He paused. ‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you, James. My own stomach doesn’t take it as easily as it did when I was your age. I can’t say I’m surprised at your reaction, boy.’

  Ogilvie certainly had not expected this. In some confusion he said, ‘thank you, father. There’s another thing: I’m not sure I’m wise...in my decision to remain in the regiment. I’d like an impersonal assessment, father—a G.O.C.’s assessment, in spite of what you said about this not being official. It’s rather important.’

  ‘Assessment—eh? That’s your Colonel’s job—not mine.’

  ‘But I’d like yours, father.’

  Sir Iain saw that his son was in deadly earnest. He walked over to a window, stood staring out for a while, then turned and, with his hands clasped beneath his coattails, said, ‘this is between ourselves. It’s never to be quoted.’ He paused; it was damned difficult, he was finding, to give one’s own flesh and blood an impartial assessment. ‘Take it from me, you’re basically a good officer. All you need is experience to enable you to attain your full measure of confidence. That, and possibly a more mature and tougher approach to the men. I know very well how your Divisional Commander regards the men, James. I don’t disagree with him entirely.’ This was as far as he would go on that point. ‘They do need a very strong hand. You failed to show that strength on that one patrol, and that may have been because events took you by surprise. You’d never expected British soldiers to loot, pillage, and rape. Am I right?’

  ‘Well, you know now! Whatever they taught you at Sandhurst, you’re learning the hard way that the British private soldier is no different in moments of stress from any other nationality. Not so different from the common people in civil life, either. Frankly, many of them were the dregs of society when they enlisted, and if they hadn’t enlisted, they’d have spent their lives in prison. Remember that. Don’t be taken by surprise again.’

  ‘No, father. Er...there’s something else.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Suppose there are reprisals for the looting and rape?’

  Sir Iain gave his son a long look. ‘There may be—there will be. It’s in the nature of the hill tribes to take their revenge. Badal—revenge—is a Commandment of the Pathans, it is part of Pukhtunwali. They are bound to take revenge.’

  ‘If that happens, will I be held to blame?’

  Sir Iain hesitated, running hand over his jaw. ‘Did Lord Dornoch, or General Fettleworth, suggest you might be?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then don’t lose any sleep over it. You’ve been reprimanded. That’s an end of it. We don’t punish twice in the army.’

  ‘Not ostensibly. But careers can be blocked, can’t they?’

  ‘Oho, so that’s the root of the trouble, is it?’ Sir Iain went on staring at his son. ‘Yes, careers can be blocked. That’s something we all fear, from the highest to the lowest. But clouds can be dispersed when you’re young, James. If that should ever happen to you, you disperse the clouds by some worthy achievement. And never harbour a sense of injustice—that’s a hopeless outlook. That’s all. Anything else?’

  Ogilvie shook his head.

  Sir Iain said, ‘well, since we’re having a talk, I’ve something to say on my own account before your mother comes in.’ Sir Iain pulled out his watch and looked at it, then thrust it back into his waistcoat. ‘In moments of depression and stress in the army, though of course not in action, a damn good skinful of drink works wonders. Not too often—just now and then when it becomes necessary.’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘So pull that tarted-up bellrope and signify that I’m damn thirsty and don’t propose to wait for your mother. One more thing.’

  James, on his way across the room, turned. ‘Yes, father?’

  ‘Get yourself a woman. A good strong one.’

  ***

  From next day onwards James Ogilvie was immersed in his mother’s arrangements for his forthcoming twenty-first birthday. It was proposed that a ball be given; and after much badgering Sir Iain agreed to approach the Commander-in-Chief for the use of the ballroom at his residence of Snowdon, a gloomy but imposing mansion that would provide a fitting background for the Northern Army Commander’s son’s coming-of-age celebrations. Sir Iain himself supervised the compiling of the list of guests; all the notables would naturally be invited, and many of the lesser persons both military and civil, together with the rajahs who owed their loyalty to the Queen Empress in British India and some of the princely figures from native India—such of them at any rate who were not hostile. It would be a most glittering occasion. Ogilvie added to the official list by including various friends he had made in Simla, and a handful who had come up from Peshawar on leave.

  Sir Iain and Lady Ogilvie went through his additions and approved them formally; only one name caused any query. ‘Mrs. Archdale,’ Sir Iain said. ‘Archdale, Archdale. Not that constipated feller’s wife, is she? Brigade Major with the damn mobile commode that he insisted on hauling all the way to Jalalabad?’ Sir Iain had never forgotten, or forgiven, that episode.

  Ogilvie said, ‘yes, that’s the one, father.’

  The General pushed irritably at the list, as though it was somehow at fault. ‘God, what a fool that man is! How he ever acquired a wife I’ll never know. I seemed to remember...good deal younger than him, isn’t she?’

  ‘Not going to ask him, are you?’

  ‘He’s not in Simla.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ The first ‘oh’ had carried overtones of relief and gladness, the second carried a subtly different inflexion.

  ‘Grass widow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hrrrrmph,’ Sir Iain said; and that was all. But there was a curious frown of anxiety between Lady Ogilvie’s brows as she glanced briefly at her son.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was a glittering occasion indeed, almost as colourful with the uniforms and the dresses as the ball in the native ruler’s palace outside Peshawar had been, the night before the march through the Khyber Pass to Jalalabad—the night Ogilvie had first met Tom Archdale’s wife. Once again the representatives of the British regiments were in the full splendour of their mess dress, as were the brilliantly gilded Staff. All Simla seemed to be present that night at Snowdon—all Simla that mattered. The very air was redolent with the pomp and circumstance of British India. Simla was ever party-minded; there was little else for the ladies, at any rate, to do, except plan for and attend parties and balls, and then to talk about them afterwards, and pull them to pieces, and criticize the style of dressing of Mrs. Colonel This and Mrs. Major That; such backbiting and gossip was all part of hill station life and gave spice to days that would otherwise have cloyed with their constant pursuit of pleasure and their total lack of work to be done.

  Despite the gaiety there was an element of personal strain about the festivities that gripped Ogilvie as he stood with his father and mother to receive the guests. He felt—and it was no more than imagination—that there was a reserve about some of the officers as they shook his hand. These men would have heard about the patrol, naturally; the bush telegraph was never slow in India, and besides, this was a matter of obvious professional interest, and even officers (and there were all too many such) who took not the least interest in the profession of arms, preferring to concentrate on the career of soldiering with all its social glitter, would have pricked up their ears and sharpened their tongues over that epis
ode. So Ogilvie suffered, and read disapproval into the stiff faces of majors and colonels and generals as they moved past him with their handshakes and nods or brief words with Sir Iain before they plunged into the brilliance of the scene behind.

  Ogilvie had his first dance with his mother, while his father gallantly piloted the wife of Snowdon’s current tenant. After that James, his programme dutifully filled, for the early dances, with the names of the senior ladies of the district, endured a kind of torture. He had thought it more tactful not to ask Mary Archdale for a dance tonight—he had a feeling she might have refused anyway. He would do better, he had thought, to concentrate on the mothers and the unattached daughters. There was a buffet supper, and endless trays of drinks borne by patient Indian servants with faces held expressionless as they were pushed and jostled and treated as if they did not exist, as though they were mere mobile appendages to the trays they carried. The noise level increased as the military band stepped it up, the officers, and in some cases their ladies, responded to the urgings of a little too much liquor by adding over loud voices to the music. James, at the buffet, found himself the centre of the womenfolk; it was natural enough, of course, as his mother had warned him. But he had not expected to be a magnet for the middle-aged and the old as well as the young. The young, indeed, were not being given a look in ; Ogilvie was pressured by the matrons, garrulous and loud-voiced military matrons whom one would have thought from their behaviour hadn’t seen a man for months. Ogilvie’s natural good manners carried him through, but not without difficulty. One of the ladies, the wife of a Supply and Transport colonel, even pressed her enormous corsage against him continually, which much embarrassed him; it seemed impolite to retreat from it, and indeed when he did so his expensive dress kilt came perilously close to a vast yellow blancmange at the table’s edge. He was pinned down and quite unable to reach his objective, which was Mary Archdale, whom from time to time he could see dancing with one or other of the younger officers.