Lieutenant of the Line

by Philip McCutchan

  Black scowled. ‘It is, Colonel.’

  ‘Good. You’ll inform Ogilvie accordingly, of course.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. When we detach from the column—’

  ‘You won’t do that now,’ Dornoch cut in. ‘You must leave at once, Andrew. Every moment counts now.’ As Black lingered, he asked sharply, ‘well? Is there something else?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. Perhaps I should have asked you this earlier. Why are you sending me to escort Ogilvie back...when you spoke only recently of possible spite on my part against him?’

  For a moment Dornoch seemed taken aback; then he said, ‘I’m sending you because you are an efficient, knowledgeable and thorough officer, Andrew. I know that if it is possible to reach Ogilvie’s patrol, and bring it back to the column, you will do so. You’ve never fallen down on a job yet and I don’t ever expect you to. In my view you’re the best choice this time and that’s all that concerns me. I am trusting you not to allow personalities to interfere with action, and I don’t believe you’ll let me down. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’ Black turned away, mollified but only slightly. The Colonel was not giving him command of the patrol and he fancied he knew why: Dornoch didn’t trust him far enough to be sure he would not haze young Ogilvie, whatever he might say.

  Within the hour a half-company of the Royal Strathspeys was on its way, marching through the star-filled night, north and west for Sikat, with three pipers and three drummers, and Captain Andrew Black scowling with loss of sleep, and Mr. Hector Ogilvie only half awake on the horse that had alarmingly been provided for him on the Colonel’s order. And back in cantonments soon after this, as the first streaks of dawn lit the distant hills beneath their snow mantles, the strident bugles, and the trumpets of the cavalry regiments, woke the Peshawar garrison from its slumbers, and the great force, drawn in from the whole area, began to assemble unit by unit on the regimental parade grounds, to march and link up into the column of advance outside the town. With the 114th Highlanders the column would include three entire infantry brigades of four battalions each, three regiments of cavalry, six batteries of Mountain Artillery, sappers, miners, and a vast number of pack animals and coolies to carry the rations and water that would be needed on the march—small rations they would be, and a minimum amount of water for each man per day. No wagons would be taken, for the terrain was totally impossible for any wheeled transport other than the elephant-drawn guns. To ensure swiftness of advance the column would travel as light as possible, without the usual heavy baggage train, and each officer was allowed forty pounds weight of baggage only, and each other rank ten pounds; and there would be no tents taken.

  The various units made contact as the sky lightened and, under a great cloud of dust, and amidst the shouts of the sergeants and the neighing of the horses, the rattle and clash of equipment and the rumble of the gun-limber wheels—all this overlaid at intervals along the column by the drums and fifes, and the pipes, and the brass until it returned to base—the Division began its march through almost unknown territory upon Fort Gazai and the impudent disturbers of the Pax Britannica; and there was not a man among them whose thoughts were not with the women and children in that distant beleaguered fort, or who would not willingly have torn out the guts of any native who molested them.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Captain Black...oh dear, oh dear, Captain Black!’

  Black looked round. ‘Yes, Mr. Ogilvie?’

  There was an indistinct torrent of words. Black called, ‘catch up, if you please, Mr. Ogilvie! I cannot make out what you are saying at this distance.’

  Hector sighed miserably, and urged his horse ahead, suffering the most acute discomfort. His clothing was filthy, his white shirt and starched collar—no one had bothered to tell him what he should wear—was as limp as a rag and sticky and foul with sweat. It clung round his neck like a soft wet limpet; and his behind was quite raw, so were the insides of his thighs. Not expecting to have to ride horseback, he had not come prepared, and Black had ill-temperedly refused him the time to go back to his room and change; and, moreover, had angrily sent back the trunk he had packed for the journey. Reaching Black, Hector panted, ‘Captain Black, how far is it now?’

  Black’s mouth opened, then shut gain. Restraining himself icily he said, ‘a long way, Mr. Ogilvie, a long way yet.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but how long?’

  ‘Oh, two days’ march, I don’t doubt.’ Black stared hard at the man from Whitehall, looking down his nose from beneath the peak of his Wolseley helmet. He saw the way Hector was so gingerly seating himself in the saddle, as if the thing were biting, as in a sense no doubt it was. Black smiled inwardly.

  ‘Did ye hear that, Sir? Did ye hear that?’

  The man’s excitement was intense; he had been at his post at the fissure entry, and now he turned, and ran up to Ogilvie. ‘Sir—it’s the pipes!’

  ‘The pipes!’ Ogilvie and Barr ran to the entry and listened. Sure enough, in the distance, still very thin but coming closer, they heard the wailing of the pipes and the beat of drums advancing along the valley from the south. ‘It’s the battalion,’ Ogilvie said. ‘It must be!’ He felt a thrill of pride; this was how the defenders of besieged Lucknow must have felt, when they heard the pipes of Havelock coming to their relief.

  ‘God be thanked for it, if it is,’ Barr said. He was trembling with thankfulness, a smile spreading across his coarse red features. ‘We’ve done it, after all! Those buggers out there—oh, they’ll run the moment they see the bayonets, I’ll be bound!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Ogilvie warned. ‘Have the men ready, Colour-Sarn’t, including Sergeant Makepeace. I’m going to make a sortie out into the open, when the battalion comes up—just to give them support.’

  ‘Sir!’ Barr turned about and began shouting out the orders. Men stood by their rifles, with bayonets fixed now, waiting for the word. Barr thrust a rifle into Sergeant Makepeace’s willing hands. ‘There y’are, Makepeace,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Be sure ye make good use of it—but remember, ye’ll no’ act the sergeant. Times have changed since you pissed off, my friend! An’ mind this, too : I’ll be watchin’ you.’

  Ogilvie, at the entry still, heard the injustice but said nothing. This was scarcely the time to raise any such issues. His heart swelled still as he heard the pipes come nearer, nearer...they were sounding out loud and clear now, a stirring note over the beat of the drums, playing Pipe Major Ross’s Farewell to Invermore, a tune the Pipe Major had composed shortly before they had entrained from the depot a year before. A while later, the music stopped; the relieving force was near enough now for Ogilvie to hear the jingle as bayonets were fixed, and, soon after, the working of bolts. He looked round. ‘Stand by now,’ he said. His revolver in his hand he edged forward, with Barr close beside him. The Colour-Sergeant’s face was tight and eager, full of relish for the killing that was to come. There was a pause; nothing seemed to be happening, outside. Then Ogilvie heard a voice that he recognized as Andrew Black’s, a voice calling an order, and a split second later the rifles of the relief force crashed out.

  Ogilvie waved his men out, he and Barr running ahead; the remnants of the patrol came out raggedly but with spirit, along with Sergeant Makepeace. As they came clear of the scrubby growth, they stared down the valley into the surprised faces of Black and the fresh troops. There was no more firing; Ogilvie looked around, somewhat dazed by the totally unexpected lack of opposition. Black shouted, ‘well, Mr. Ogilvie? Where’s the enemy?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ogilvie called back. He felt remarkably foolish. ‘Who were you firing at?’

  ‘I caught a sight of what I took to be movement,’ Black answered, ‘although I, too, have failed to see any enemy since entering the valley.’

  ‘It’s a bloody ambush!’ Barr said suddenly. He swung, and, almost without taking aim, fired at some bushes. There was a cry and a man fell out from cover, a man in dirty white robes and wearing a shaggy beard.
A private ran over to him and covered him with his bayonet. Everywhere the soldiers stood to, swinging their rifles around cautiously, but there was no more firing. Barr said roughly, ‘the buggers have all gone, Mr. Ogilvie. They left just the one, to report when we moved out. Man, you’ve been holding us in yon bloody hole on false pretences!’ He began to laugh, and went on laughing till tears streamed down his face.

  Ogilvie turned on his heel and walked towards Black. His cheeks were scarlet. He said, ‘I’m glad to see you—thanks for the relief, Andrew.’

  ‘My dear James, I think you scarcely needed it. Come with me, if you please.’ He added as he turned away, ‘Incidentally, your cousin is with us.’

  ‘My—’ Ogilvie stared; he didn’t know how he had come to do so—except perhaps that Hector’s clothing was now khaki-coloured from the dust—but he had quite failed to notice his cousin; and now he was furious that the fellow should be witness to his discomfiture—which undoubtedly Black was going to make the most of. He growled, ‘The last person I expected to see.’ He advanced on the figure on horseback. ‘How are you, Hector? Sore?’

  ‘Oh, damn you,’ Hector said childishly—and unexpectedly. Ogilvie grinned and turned back to the adjutant. ‘Where do you want me to go with you?’ he asked.

  ‘To have words with that tribesman your Colour-Sergeant removed so neatly from the bushes, James. What he has to say may be interesting, don’t you think?’

  He turned about and strode off along the valley. Ogilvie followed, with Barr and some of the men. Reaching the native, who was groaning in pain—Barr had got him through the groin—Black asked for a rifle. Barr snapped an order and a man came forward and handed over his weapon to the adjutant. Black laid the point of the bayonet against the tribesman’s wound, which was bleeding profusely ; the features twisted in fresh pain as sharp steel met mangled flesh. Black said, ‘now you will talk blast you! You’ll tell me what’s been going on and where your friends are at this moment.’ He had spoken in English; there was no response beyond a rolling of the eyeballs. Black shrugged, and tried a hill dialect. He struck lucky; the man answered him.

  ‘What does he say?’ Ogilvie asked.

  ‘He says he won’t talk,’ Black said, ‘but I’m going to prove him wrong.’ With a jerk of his wrist he drove the bayonet home a little way, and then gave the blade a twist. The man roared out in agony and threshed his body like a landed fish. Ogilvie’s hands clenched at his sides. This was going too far.

  ‘Steady, Andrew,’ he murmured.

  ‘Why so—Mr. Ogilvie?’ Clearly, they were back to parade ground formality again.

  ‘The man’s in pain—Sir.’

  ‘Pain? Nonsense. He’s a native, Mr. Ogilvie, a damn dirty native!’ Again Black twisted the bayonet ; even Barr looked a trifle white, and Hector, who had moved up on his horse by now, looked as though he was about to be sick; but the torture worked. The man began talking before Black could twist the blade again, and as he talked, Black nodded away to himself. When the man had finished Black said, ‘Mr. Ogilvie, he tells me the tribesmen have returned to Sikat, all of them. They were withdrawn, leaving him alone, to join the general rising along the frontier. They were withdrawn two days since. How have you spent the last two days, Mr. Ogilvie?’ His voice had risen now; Hector—all the men—were listening. ‘Playing dice?’

  Ogilvie didn’t answer; Black turned to Barr. ‘What were you laughing at just now, Colour-Sarn’t?’

  Barr, to do him credit, looked confused. He said, ‘Just a passing fancy, Sir, nothing more.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Black’s eyebrows went up. ‘I think I know what you were laughing at, Colour-Sergeant, and I cannot blame you for it, in all conscience!’ His eyes lit then on Sergeant Makepeace. ‘Good God, Mr. Ogilvie. In the name of all that’s wonderful, who’s this?’

  Makepeace himself stepped forward. Saluting he said, ‘Sergeant Makepeace, Royal Regiment of Artillery, Sir. If I may make so bold, Sir...young Mr. Ogilvie’s a fine officer and gentleman, and he kept our spirits up nobly, indeed he did—’

  ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion!’ Black snapped rudely. ‘In future, hold your tongue, or you’ll be on a charge of insolence! No officer needs your defence.’ He looked closer. ‘Did you say...the Royal Regiment of Artillery?’

  ‘I did, Sir.’

  ‘I fail to understand...where from, and how, in heaven’s name, were you drafted, Sergeant? Do you belong to—to some kind of reserve, or what?’

  Ogilvie said quickly, ‘I can explain, Sir.’

  ‘Good. Then pray do so, Mr. Ogilvie.’

  Ogilvie told Black the outline of the story. Black listened intently but made no comment. When Ogilvie had finished he nodded and asked, ‘How fit are your men, Mr. Ogilvie?’

  ‘Fit enough. They’ve been on short rations, but no one’s gone without. I have one man wounded—the other wounded have died, and must be buried before we move out. The wound is in the arm, and is not especially serious.’

  ‘Then I can take it you are able to join the column of advance?’

  ‘The column of advance, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Ogilvie. I have orders to re-join the Division in its march upon Fort Gazai.’

  ‘Fort Gazai—near Chitral? So it’s begun, has it?’

  ‘Yes, it has begun, but please answer my question. Are you all fit to fight? I wish your opinion.’

  ‘Yes, we’re fit. But aren’t we going to mount an attack on the Black Fort? They—’

  ‘No, we are not, Mr. Ogilvie. I have my orders as already stated, and they will be adhered to. Rest assured the Black Fort will fall once the general rising is crushed and broken—as it will be. Now—bury your dead, Mr. Ogilvie, if you please, and then we shall march. We shall be hard put to it to overtake the regiment now, so you will work fast. Every man will be needed at Fort Gazai. There are women and children besieged by the damn niggers.’ He looked coldly and disdainfully at Sergeant Makepeace, whose old eyes were shining at the thought of being on the march with British soldiers once again. This was his chance to take his revenge for his many years of slavery and torture and grief, But Black said, ‘the traitor will march in handcuffs.’

  By the time the dead had been buried in shallow, rock-marked graves after a brief reading of the burial service by Captain Black, the wounded tribesman had also died. His body was on Black’s order left for the vultures to pick and the patrol, refreshed now with water from the bottles of Black’s half-company, formed up for the march. Black had duly if grudgingly informed Ogilvie of Lord Dornoch’s order that he, Ogilvie, should retain command of the patrol with Black’s detachment forming the escort only; but had insisted that he, Black, was to give the orders concerning Sergeant Makepeace, who could not be considered any part of the actual patrol. Ogilvie grieved that he had lost control of Makepeace’s destinies. The old fellow had been shockingly treated, in his opinion—and, he knew, in the opinion of all the others except Barr. There was nothing he could do about it, however; he had raised the issue with Black as Colour-Sergeant Barr had clapped the steel handcuffs on, but had been told to hold his tongue. The man, Black said, was a self-confessed traitor. And twenty-eight years’ absence from his regiment could not be so easily written off the books, either; it was normal for a recovered deserter to travel back to his unit in handcuffs—even in chains.

  ‘But he’s not a deserter,’ Ogilvie pointed out. ‘He was captured in a raid.’

  ‘So he says. In any case, I will not have such hair-splitting. Makepeace fired on British troops and that’s an end of it, d’you hear?’

  So the detachment moved off, heading away from the vicinity of Sikat village, across the hills to the east of the valley by way of a pass further up, expecting to cut across the main British column in the region of the Malakand Pass above Dargai. Makepeace hobbled along in the rear between an escort of two privates and a lance-corporal, who gave him a helping hand whenever Barr and Black were not nearby; in front rode Black, and behind him both the Ogilvies up
on a single horse. Ogilvie the soldier sat ahead of Ogilvie the Civilian and both hated their mode of progress. Hector groaned continually as the animal jogged him, and kept cannoning into his cousin’s back. Ogilvie told him, sharply, to keep still.

  ‘I can’t possibly,’ Hector whined. ‘It’s the horse, not me.’

  ‘A bad rider always blames his mount.’

  ‘Don’t nag.’

  ‘Why the devil did you come in the first place?’

  ‘Because Uncle Iain suggested it!’ Hector snapped.

  Unseen by his cousin, Ogilvie gave a wide, wide smile; the humour of this situation appealed, and made up for the less happy aspects of the day. He could so well imagine the glee that would have been on his father’s face when he had thought this trip up for cousin Hector.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By this time the Division from Peshawar had reached the vicinity of Abazai and was on the fringe of virtually unknown tribal territory—territory, indeed, that had remained completely unknown and unexplored until the recent march on Chitral by the 1st Division under General Sir Robert Low. It was now known that the Mora, Shahkot and Malakand Passes gave access to the Swat valley, through which the regiments must pass to reach Chitral and Fort Gazai. These passes were high and treacherous, with no more than rough tracks running through. General Fettleworth knew that Sir Robert Low had had comparatively little difficulty in moving his troops through the Malakand Pass, however, and thus decided to follow in his more illustrious predecessor’s footsteps. But, unlike Sir Robert, who had made feints against the Mora and Shahkot Passes whilst concentrating his main thrust on the Malakand, General Fettleworth decided to throw his total weight against the one pass which he intended to force. Proceeding beyond Abazai with a fair degree of ease and speed considering the rough nature of the country, the Division headed on for the entry to the Malakand Pass. There was no opposition, although the sweat-soaked scouts expected to find the enemy rifles lurking behind every bend of the treacherous track, behind every boulder that they passed along the way as they marched and climbed and cursed, feeling their feet swell painfully in their boots.