‘And?’ Ogilvie asked.
‘Black gave the man fourteen days cells. The Colonel had already left for Murree and the Major was on the sick list as it so happened. So Black laid into Bruce as well—gave him a month’s stoppage of leave. If Bruce had had any sense, he’d have settled with the man privately. My father’s told me he’s known officers before now who’ve fought it out behind their bungalows and made a firm friend of the man afterwards. But the point I’m trying to make is this: you’re not Black’s one and only target, James. He just doesn’t like his fellowmen.’
Ogilvie grinned. ‘It looks as though he did the right thing this time, doesn’t it? After all, Bruce could have killed some of his patrol by sheer drought, from what you’ve told me. Whereas the poor, thirsty, insubordinate private...that’s where Black slipped up!’ He looked around the room, at the semi-somnolent officers in their mess dress, at the quietly moving servants, at the comfortable furnishings and the silver and the glasses of port, brandy and whisky, with cigar smoke wreathing over all. Abruptly he said, ‘I wonder the men put up with it, really.’
‘It’s a man’s life.’
.’You need to be a man to stand it, certainly!’
‘That’s what they like about it—that, and the adventure. The people at home know they’re leading a man’s life, and that does their ego good when they’re on leave. They get the girls, James.... don’t we all! Besides, think of the alternatives outside—unemployment, slums, semi-starvation even, in a good many cases. Hard taskmasters when they get a job, and always the threat of the sack.’
‘What about their officers, Roddy?’
Gray laughed. ‘Black again?’
‘Yes. But not only him. Fettleworth.’
‘Fettleworth, eh?’ Gray rubbed .at the side of his nose, reflectively. ‘He’s not so bad. My father served under him some years ago. A little bigoted, perhaps, a little set in his views, but he’s a fighter, James. He’s no headquarters general. He’s really quite a brave old boy, I’ve heard. Personally dragged a wounded man out of the line of fire in Zululand. I wouldn’t be too bitter about men like Fettleworth. They’ve done well in their time.’
‘That’s just it,’ Ogilvie said. ‘In their time! We have to suffer them in the present—and their time’s in the past! That’s what worries me.’
‘Well, we’ll see how things shape if the Frontier blows up,’ Gray said, ‘Which doesn’t seem all that unlikely to me. But if you want another word of advice, and I don’t suppose you do it’s this : stop being so damn morose and stand-offish. That’s ,not the way to win friends and influence people!’ He got to his feet and went off before Ogilvie had had a chance to make any reply. Ogilvie finished his port and left the Mess and, walking along towards his own room, he passed MacKinlay’s. The company commander’s light was on; it seemed he had not found another card player. On an impulse Ogilvie knocked and went in. MacKinlay was sprawled on his bed with his pipe in his mouth, re-reading a letter from home. He sat up. ‘Come along in, James.’
‘Aren’t I disturbing you?’
‘Not a bit. What’s the trouble?’ He waved Ogilvie to a chair.
Ogilvie said hesitantly, ‘I just wanted a bit of a talk, that’s all, Rob. About that patrol.’
MacKinlay said quietly. ‘Yes, I thought as much. I did try my best to pull you clear of that, as a matter of fact, but you know what Black is. He and Barr are two of a sort, I’m afraid.’
‘Why did he choose me in particular?’
‘You mean because of what happened last time?’
MacKinlay got up and walked across the room, frowning. Coming back, he stood in front of Ogilvie and looked down at him seriously. ‘No reason why he shouldn’t choose you,’ he said. ‘You must never doubt your own competence, old boy.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘No. No, I know you didn’t. All right, I won’t dodge the issue, James. You think Black hopes you’ll make a balls, isn’t that it?’
Ogilvie nodded. ‘Something like that.’
‘Face it, then. Don’t try to dodge the undoubted possibilities of his devious mind.’ Frowning still, he added, ‘all you have to do is to concentrate on making a damn big success of it—that’ll not only confound Black, but leave him powerless as well. I can’t say more than that, old boy. I’m sure you understand. Personally, I have every confidence you’ll bring that patrol off brilliantly. There’s just one other thing. I’m glad you looked in, James, because I was meaning to have a word with you—a word of warning.’
‘About the patrol?’
‘About Colour-Sarn’t Barr in particular. I know Barr. He’s a good soldier—a very good soldier—but he has a bad side to him. You’ll agree on that, James, of course. Now, I believe you’ll be finding him exceptionally difficult during the next two weeks, because, you see, he knows you know he was at fault during that last patrol. Also, you weren’t slow to show your feelings to the Court, even though you did your duty and backed Barr formally. He’ll not forget that. He’s far too clever a man to give a fool proof opening, but he’ll go as far as he can short of that point. Watch it, James. And unless he does overstep the mark really seriously, don’t make any reports you can’t substantiate afterwards or you’re in for big trouble. Barr will get to know and he’ll also know Black will be reading your own personal dislikes into your reports. Just wait your time, James. Given the rope, sure as fate, Barr will hang himself in the end. Remember that and suffer him till that happens.’ He brought out his watch. ‘Since you’ve an early start, and need the clearest head you’ve ever had, I suggest you cut along to bed.’
In the morning Ogilvie’s servant called him just before dawn. He got up at once, and washed, shaved and dressed. He strode out to the parade ground, where his patrol had assembled and was standing easy awaiting his arrival. Furious with himself, Ogilvie understood from Colour-Sergeant Barr’s face that he was a little late; he wondered if Barr had intentionally ordered the men on parade five minutes early. But there was nothing wrong with Barr’s manner that morning. He brought the men to attention with a shout that echoed clear across the cantonment, probably awakening the whole battalion quite unnecessarily, and slammed to the salute in front of Ogilvie.
‘Patrol present and correct. Sir!’
‘Thank you, Colour-Sergeant. Stand them at ease, if you please.’
‘Sir!’ Barr turned about, swinging his kilt around his knees, and shouted the order. There was a jingle of equipment. Ogilvie went towards the men; he had a brief word with each of them. He knew they appreciated that; Barr’s heavy breathing behind him announced that the Colour-Sergeant disapproved. When he had finished Ogilvie took up his position ahead of the men and gave the order to march. They left the cantonment with the pipes silent, keeping step to the beat of the drum, marching north-east for the Frontier villages, not taking it too fast, conserving their energies for whatever might lie ahead of them on the march as, in the name of the Empress of India and the might of a far flung Empire, they set out to probe the strongholds of that Empire’s likely foes.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the village of Sikat a young Pathan, lately arrived from Afghanistan by way of the Khyber Pass, rode along rutted tracks between the hovels of the villagers. Men, women and children grovelled in the dirt beneath a hot sun as this man passed by, riding a big black stallion. The young man had the hawk-like features of his race; and his expression was commanding and autocratic. Dark eyes roved over the bent backs, the bowed heads, but he gave no acknowledgement of the obeisance. He seemed preoccupied as he rode out from the other side of the village, making for a walled fort, known along the frontier as the Black Fort, that stood guard along the terrible track running through from Abazai, through the almost inaccessible tangle of mountains that reached heavenward, stretching as far as the eye could see and shimmering beneath the great heat of the day. His approach was under observation from the fort, and as he came up to the gates they were opened from within to admit him. He rode pa
st a quarter guard of four tallish men with their scimitar-shaped swords drawn; and on across a courtyard towards a doorway set in a square tower that cast its shadow, grotesquely large, over the sand-coloured walls and ground. Outside the doorway the rider stopped and dismounted, handing his horse over to a young boy who salaamed deeply.
In a cool, disdainful voice the Pathan said, ‘your master expects me.’
‘Yes, Highness.’
‘Why is he not here to greet me, boy?’
‘Highness, I cannot say.’
The Pathan grunted irritably. ‘Look well after the horse,’ he said with a dismissive gesture, ‘or I shall slit your throat.’
He looked quite capable of it; the boy cringed a little and said, ‘yes, Highness.’ The man from Afghanistan turned away and walked into the doorway. Inside he was met by a terrified old man, white-haired and bent, abject in his apologies for not having personally met his visitor at the gates of the fort. The Pathan cut him short. ‘Hold your stupid old tongue, Masrullah Sahib. You were not there to pay the proper courtesies, and excuses are useless, and powerless to alter the facts. On this occasion I shall overlook your slackness.’ He strode ahead along a bare stone passage, knowing his way well, and turned into a square apartment with a single window and its walls draped with dirty, torn tapestries. The air smelt stale and foul; two middle-aged women and a young girl sat on cushions. The Pathan—his name was Shuja Khan and he was a descendant of the Shah Shuja who had been set upon the throne in Kabul by the British in 1839—swung round on the fort’s aged master. Roughly he said, ‘get rid of the women, Masrullah Sahib. Our business has nothing to do with the female ears.’
‘Yes, Highness.’ Waving his arms, the old man dispatched the women, who bobbed and grinned obsequiously at Shuja Khan as they passed by him in an aroma of unwashed flesh.
When they had gone the princeling, without waiting for the invitation to do so, sat himself on one of the cushions and gestured his host to do likewise. He said, ‘you know what I have come to discuss.’
‘Indeed, Highness.’
‘I believe matters will come to a head sooner than we expected, Masrullah Sahib. This is why my father has sent me into India.’ The dark eyes stared intently into the old man’s face. ‘Already, since I have been in India—in the village of Dera, as you should know—I have heard that the British are moving. Not in strength, but they are probing. A small force, no more than a patrol, has been observed in the hills, having presumably moved out from the British base at Peshawar...the men who dress like women, in skirts, the most bloodthirsty and savage of them all. Do you know anything of this, Masrullah?’
‘I, too, have heard the tidings, Highness.’
‘Do you know any more than I have told you?’
‘No, Highness, nothing more.’
Shuja Khan went on staring, broodingly, a slim brown hand stroking his jaw. Then he asked, ‘what action have you taken, as a result of these tidings, Masrullah Sahib?’
The old man bowed his head. ‘Highness, I have given orders to my Captain of the Guard that at all times a most wakeful watch is to be kept for these skirted British soldiers and that I am to be informed the moment they are seen, if they are seen.’
‘Yet it seems your guard was not alert enough to report my own coming to you, in time for you to meet me decently.’
The old man bowed his head once again. ‘This was due to my own slowness of body, Highness. Alas, I am no longer young.’
‘The slowness of body must not be transmitted into slowness of mind also, Masrullah Sahib. What else have you done, what other action have you taken?’
‘I have ordered no firing, Highness, it being my understanding that such was your father’s wish.’
The Pathan smiled, coldly. ‘Masrullah Sahib...what would have been your action, had your men reported seeing British soldiers in strength?’
‘Highness, I would at once have sent word to the village, and a runner would have been dispatched to inform His Highness your father in Afghanistan. I did not consider the movement of a mere patrol of sufficient importance to send word to your father. Patrols are often observed.’
‘Yes. But this business of sending word...it is slow.’
‘The best that can be done, Highness.’
‘Until now, yes.’ Shuja Khan stretched his long limbs and yawned. ‘I have been sent into India for two reasons, Masrullah Sahib. One, to take personal charge of the • rising of the tribes on my father’s behalf. Two, to inform you, and all others, that my father’s wishes have changed. Since the time for action is now very near, my father commands that all British troops seen in the vicinity shall be killed. He wishes to take no risks of the British finding out our plans.’ He gave Masrullah a close look. ‘What is the matter, old man?’
Masrullah said humbly, ‘if British soldiers are killed, and if the main rising does not come very quickly, I fear reprisals on the village, Highness.’
‘Then you fear unnecessarily, Masrullah Sahib. If you do your work well, the British will not know whereabouts in the hills their soldiers died. For you will see to it that you kill them all, and that you leave no traces of what has happened. Is this understood, Masrullah Sahib?’
The old man bowed low. ‘It is understood, Highness.’
‘Good. Let me tell you this, old one. It is well known to my father that you have always maintained good relations with the British invader and that there has been no blood shed in Sikat for many years past. This does not speak well for your loyalty to our cause—’
‘Highness, I have thought only of the welfare of my people, and of the advantage of peace, and of a turning of the other cheek—’
‘Then you will think no more of such things,’ Shuja Khan said roughly. ‘Your people’s welfare and your own will be much better served by driving the British from the Frontier. We have allowed you to remain here in the Black Fort because there was no other suitable person available to put in your place without questions being asked by the British, and also because you are known to have your people under good control. This happy state of affairs may not always prevail, Masrullah Sahib, and will assuredly not prevail if you do not follow my father’s wishes to the letter. I am empowered to inform you that if you fail us, in the smallest degree, your village of Sikat will be razed to the ground, also this fort and your men slaughtered, and your women delivered to our men to use as they please. When you have witnessed all this, then you also will die, but slowly. Thus, old man, you will kill any British soldiers who approach Sikat, for that is the one path along which lies your own safety. If you play your part well it will not be the women of Sikat who will be delivered to our men—but the British women in Fort Gazai beyond Chitral! You will do well to bear in mind one other thing: your known friendliness towards the British will be of much help to you in luring any soldiers into the paths of your artillery and rifles.’ He paused. ‘Now, Masrullah Sahib, I wish to speak personally to the British gunner, Makepeace.’
***
By this time Ogilvie’s patrol, sweat-streaked and covered with dust, had already passed through the village of Mundari and the men were now climbing through the hills beyond. In Mundari they had all been aware of the strong undercurrent of hostility as they had marched behind their piper and drummer through the village. There had been nothing overt; indeed, the inhabitants had appeared lethargic, almost apathetic, but Ogilvie’s impression had been that the apathy was a studied, contemptuous expression. Even the children of the village had been subdued and somehow disdainful. There had not been so much as a stone thrown, not so much as a single stream of saliva directed at the marching men, actions which might have been expected following upon the comparatively recent beastliness of the late Corporal Nichol in raping a native girl. Ogilvie had felt that he had been taking part almost in a stage farce. The swinging kilts, the smart step, the raucous voice of Colour-Sergeant Barr, the martial sound of the pipes and the beat of the drum as they passed by the mud walls had struck a note so odd as t
o bring a sinister feeling to the very air. Ogilvie was seriously worried about the implications; all along, the country had seemed unnaturally quiet. From time to time they had passed men of the tribes tending flocks of goats or mountain sheep, or hunting the occasional gooral that had strayed down from the higher peaks of Himalaya, or digging in the rough fields in the lower-lying areas before the hills; and now and again they had been aware of eyes upon them and had seen furtive men with long-barrelled rifles lurking on the high peaks as they had pushed on into the hills. Those men had the look of Afghanistan about them and Ogilvie had mentioned this to Barr.
The Colour-Sergeant had said, ‘that may be so, Sir. And then again it might not. I’m thinking there’s a deal of Pathan blood amongst the tribes this side of the border too!’
Ogilvie nodded, shielding his eyes against a high sun. ‘True enough. But there’s something in the air. Don’t you feel it, Colour-Sarn’t?’
Barr scoffed. ‘Och, ye’ve no’ but a touch of the ghosties an’ bogies,’ he said in an infuriatingly familiar way. ‘Ye’ve no been out here long, Mr. Ogilvie. Myself, I had five years on the Frontier wi’ the Seaforths.’
That was another thing about Barr: he couldn’t forget he had served with the Seaforths, which he seemed to think a cut above the Royal Strathspey, and he brought his old regiment into every conversation if he could manage it. Barr had been one of those time-expired seven-year-men who had opted for the reserve and then found he couldn’t settle to civil life. He had re-enlisted, this time in the t i4th where he had seen more chances of promotion, and had worked his way up again, past his old rank of Corporal, to Colour-Sergeant. He couldn’t have done that if he hadn’t been an excellent soldier, but his manner grated nonetheless. Fighting down his irritation Ogilvie said, ‘it’s not imagination, Colour-Sarn’t. Far from it. There’s something brewing.’
Barr shrugged his wrestler’s shoulders. ‘I’ve never known the North-West Frontier when there has not been, Mr. Ogilvie.’
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