Lieutenant of the Line

by Philip McCutchan

  Makepeace said, ‘once, I knew this country, Sir. I remember now that I have been brought here in the past by the men who held me prisoner for so many years. Seeing it again has brought it back to my memory. There is another track to Fort Gazai, Sir, away to the west and a little in rear of where we are now. The guns will not be far from the entry to that track. It is a difficult route; and one that would not normally be taken—but it is there, and with God’s help we can make the passage—with the guns. Then we can reach Fort Gazai, and we shall not be expected. We can attack—with total surprise as an element in our favour. Do you see now, Mr. Ogilvie?’

  ‘You mean the orders from the General—’

  ‘Can be misunderstood, Sir, and passed on by yourself. I stake my life the orders would not be questioned...if those orders were for the guns to detach and march to Fort Gazai! And there you have it, Sir. It is in your hands, Mr. Ogilvie. As for me, I would be a happy man if my last act in Her Majesty’s Service could be to guide the guns on to Shuja Khan.’

  He said no more. Ogilvie took a deep breath, then felt Urquhart’s hand on his arm. Urquhart said, ‘it’s madness, James. We’d all be Court Martialled and—and cashiered, if not worse! In a sense we’d be running away from action! You’re not taking this seriously, are you, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Give me just a moment,’ Ogilvie said quietly. He moved away a little, seeing for the first time that Makepeace had now got himself a rifle with bayonet fixed, from a man who had fallen. It was just as well he had, for at that moment their temporary oasis blew up around them as the fighting surged in from the flank. Ogilvie fired his revolver at a big Pathan; the man went down screaming and holding his stomach, and Ogilvie swung round to deal with another. From the corner of his eye he saw Makepeace drive his bayonet home into a tribesman’s groin. As he fought, Ogilvie’s mind was working hard, digesting and construing Makepeace’s words of wisdom—or of folly. If he, Ogilvie, was prepared to take an enormous risk with his career, it could work out. He was willing to admit the truth of Makepeace’s reasoning: a surprise attack by the British artillery could well send Shuja Khan’s levies fleeing in rout; the tribes were poorly equipped with artillery, and, as the old man had said earlier, they had few expert gunlayers in their ranks. And, bearing in mind Fettleworth’s almost insane mistrust of artillery, any deprivation of the guns could hardly have any adverse effect on the fortunes of the column at this stage. All he would be doing would be to deprive Fettleworth of some manpower—manpower which, it seemed, if Makepeace were right, the General meant to use as mere cannon fodder in any case. If, as a result of his action in withdrawing the guns along another route, victory should be won, Fettleworth might well be content to take the credit without asking too many questions, a credit which in the circumstances Ogilvie would never seek for himself in any case. If they were to lose, it wouldn’t matter, for it would end in massacre; the British would naturally fight to the last man...

  And no one but themselves would know—he, Makepeace, Urquhart. Urquhart wouldn’t be much help, but at least he might keep his mouth shut. He could do that without compromising his own fortunes. As for Major Archdale, he was almost certainly dead. Ogilvie’s mind gave a sudden lurch as he thought of the terrible enormity of a subaltern swinging the tactics of a battle, even the strategy of a campaign really: the very idea was appalling. Yet—it could be done, it could bring victory. The overriding consideration now must be the women and children in that beleaguered fort, the people who would be torn asunder, raped, set on spikes upon the very battlements if Shuja Khan’s hordes should sweep in and overcome them.

  Ogilvie waited no longer. As there came a lull in the fighting once again in their vicinity, he pulled Makepeace and Urquhart to the ground where they lay shamming dead for a while. Ogilvie said, ‘all right, Sergeant, I’m with you.’

  ‘Count me out, then,’ Urquhart broke in.

  ‘That’s up to you Alec. I can’t order you to join us and if you’re not willing we don’t want you. All I ask is this: don’t say a word to anyone about what we’re going to do. Can I trust you to keep quiet, Alec? There’s no one else to know you were here with us, and I give you my word I’ll never let it out afterwards. All right?’

  After a pause Urquhart nodded. ‘All right,’ he said. He added, ‘good luck to you both, then. You’ve always got away with too much for a mere wart, James. This time it isn’t going to be so easy.’ He moved away, to be swallowed up in the darkness and the mob of fighting, cursing men. Ogilvie put a hand on old Makepeace’s shoulder. ‘We’ll make for the guns,’ he said. ‘Fast as you can, Sergeant.’

  Scrambling up from the ground and half supporting the old man over the fallen bodies, he made his way towards the rear of the column, fighting off the Pathans, sustaining flesh wounds from the knives. He felt the blood running warm down his right sleeve though he had scarcely noticed the slash of the blade as it struck. The fitful moon’s light had vanished again and they could see little as they plunged on through the ranks, past another cavalry squadron wielding bloody sabres, past infantry and sappers and support corps, past some of the commissariat animals and their native tenders. Ogilvie had no idea how long it took him to reach the batteries, the silent batteries whose gunners were standing-to and guarding their guns, fighting off the bloody attack from the long ridge above them. With Makepeace struggling along behind him, Ogilvie approached the Major of Artillery commanding the leading battery.

  He saluted. ‘Sir! Lieutenant Ogilvie, 114th Highlanders. I have orders from Division, from the General personally.’ He felt the increased beat of his heart as he committed himself finally. ‘All batteries are to withdraw to the west, Sir—’

  ‘Withdraw!’ The major, a tall, cadaverous man, stared at Ogilvie with red-rimmed, angry eyes. ‘Withdraw! What the devil for?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been waiting for orders to deploy here and now—though I’m dashed if I ever expected Fettleworth to show blasted sense enough to make use of us!’

  Ogilvie spoke with total confidence, knowing he had to convince more than at any time in his life until now. ‘The orders are that the guns should go on to Fort Gazai by a different route, Sir, and attack the force in situ immediately upon arrival, using the element of surprise. I have been sent with Sergeant Makepeace to guide you through. Sergeant Makepeace knows the track.’

  ‘Ah—I see. That’s more like it!’ There was clearly no doubt in the gunner major’s mind, no doubt at all that he was receiving the expressed wishes of the Divisional Commander. ‘Sounds strangely sensible, I must say. Where is this track—hey?’

  Makepeace stepped forward and gave a swinging salute.

  ‘Sir! Approximately one mile to the rear, Sir, and leading off westerly through the hills. I believe I shall have no difficulty in recognizing it again when we reach it, Sir.’

  ‘Right.’ The major stared at Makepeace, bending his tall, angular body as he did so. ‘You’re an old man, Makepeace. Do you think you can stand the march?’

  ‘I shall do my best, Sir, for Her Majesty and the women and children in the fort. I shall not fail, Sir, if you will trust me.’

  ‘Trust you?’ The major cleared his throat. ‘I’ve heard the rumours about you—about your re-joining. I had scarcely entered Woolwich when you and your family were captured, yet I had heard about that by the time I joined my first battery. Yes, I shall trust you, Sergeant.’

  ‘I am deeply grateful, Sir, and—’

  ‘Then we must channel your gratitude into action, Sergeant. Mr. Ogilvie, there is no time to lose now. Kindly go to the rear with the sergeant. Contact all battery commanders en route and pass the General’s order. F Battery in the rear of the line will lead out. Carry on, if you please.’

  The deception was complete, the die cast. Ogilvie knew that the very fact the major had not the smallest doubt about the authenticity of the order was in part a tribute to Makepeace’s tactical sense: the order, however false, was a sound one. As Ogilvie saluted arid turned away down the line wit
h Makepeace, he heard the artillery commander calling for his Battery Sergeant-Major and soon after this the guns began to swing round behind their limbers and head to the rear. Making his way down the line Ogilvie found that of the five other battery commanders, four were dead or seriously wounded, as also were a number of captains and subalterns and gunners. The sooner they withdrew from the column now the better, or the guns would be silent before Fort Gazai. As he saw the carnage all around him, Ogilvie remembered Major Archdale, and remembered with a pang that he had taken no steps to send along a medical orderly. Perhaps Urquhart would think of it; but then, Archdale was merely one of very many that would be needing medical attention if by some miracle he still lived. The fact that he was Mary’s husband made no difference to the Gods of war.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As dawn came palely up over the eastern mountain ranges, casting a silvery green light across the snow-capped peaks and bringing with it a chillier wind from those same snows, Fettleworth’s column fought off the last of the night attack and then began to lick its wounds—and count its dead. The casualties were heavy, though not, surprisingly, as high as might have been expected considering the size of the Pathan force. There was no time for burial of the dead or even for a full count, but the estimates reaching Division totalled something over eight hundred dead with another nine hundred wounded in varying degrees of severity. The 114th Highlanders had lost eighty-odd N.C.O.s and men, two subalterns and a captain—Smith-Mackay of E Company. And totally unaccounted for was Lieutenant James Ogilvie; and also Sergeant Makepeace.

  Barr was triumphant, gloatingly so. ‘What did I tell you, Sarn’t-Major,’ he said to Cunningham. ‘The old rogue’s joined up again with his own friends—and yon Ogilvie’s taken the opportunity of making himself scarce!’

  Bosom Cunningham’s face darkened dangerously and he put the end of his pace-stick against Barr’s chest. ‘You’ll hold your tongue, Barr,’ he said, ‘or I’ll have you in irons. That’s a promise. You will not say another such word about an officer or about Makepeace either, do you understand me?’

  Barr sneered openly. ‘Aye, I’ll hold my tongue, but you can’t stop my thoughts, Mr. Cunningham.’

  The R.S.M. swung away angrily, and marched stiffly down the regimental lines. He was more disturbed than he had shown, and the Colonel was equally worried when the reports of the missing men reached him. He ordered another and more thorough check through the regiment’s dead and wounded before the order came to move out, and when there was still no sign of Ogilvie or Makepeace he could only assume, as he said to Major Hay, that the two had been captured by the Pathans. But, when word came down the line from Division that all the artillery batteries had mysteriously vanished during the night, he was left with a fresh and perhaps illogical anxiety as to what might have become of James Ogilvie.

  ‘He’s an impetuous young man at times,’ he said to Hay, ‘and he’s been very much influenced by old Makepeace. I wonder…’

  ‘What’s in your mind, Colonel?’

  Dornoch shook his head. ‘Damned if I know really, John. As I said, he’s impetuous...and sometimes steers a pretty narrow line between obedience and—well, not quite insubordination. He’s inclined to use his own interpretation of orders, I’ve noticed.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘I think we’ll say no more about it for now, in the absence of any facts. There’s just one thing, John : I’d like you to keep an ear open for anything Black may say about this. I think you’ll understand what I mean?’

  Hay nodded, pursing his lips. He had a shrewd enough notion in his head of what capital Andrew Black might make out of any suggestion that the disappearances of Ogilvie and Makepeace might be linked. He looked around the inhospitable terrain, at the high peaks, the scrubby track running below the ridge of the foothills, at the carrion birds hovering, waiting till the regiments moved out so that they could begin their horrible meal upon the dead.

  Anxiously he said, ‘I wonder what the explanation is, Colonel. As to the guns, I mean.’

  Dornoch gave a hard, mirthless laugh. ‘My dear John, that’s precisely my worry! Ogilvie, and Makepeace, and the guns...damn it all, I don’t know! The batteries could simply have been captured, I suppose, and if that’s happened, well, we’ll not have a hope of getting them back, not in this sort of country—even supposing Fettleworth would delay long enough for a search, which I doubt he will! God’s teeth, John, it’s a damned disgrace to lose the guns! You’d think even Fettleworth—’ He broke off sharply. Such behind-the-back recriminations didn’t help at all. ‘Let’s hope they’re not to be used against us outside Fort Gazai,’ he said, ‘that’s all! There’s a strong likelihood.’

  At that moment the adjutant approached and saluted. As he returned the salute Dornoch noted the curious look in Black’s eye, a look, he suspected, of restrained triumph. The man was mentally driving a very large nail deep into James Ogilvie’s coffin, but was too astute to put anything into words, or even insinuations, at that moment. He had come merely to report the battalion ready to move out, and this he did punctiliously enough; after which the Colonel dismissed him with a nod and waited for the order to come down the column from Division—where, as it happened, General Fettleworth was having thoughts similar to his own as regards the eventual destination of the mysteriously vanished guns and was discussing the occurrence with the officers and the Staff. Although naturally angry at what he took to be the impertinence of the enemy, he was not unduly alarmed at the possible consequences of the loss itself. And despite the fact that Major Tom Archdale had been reported killed, there was no reason whatsoever to doubt that his, Fettleworth’s order, had in fact been received by the battery commanders. Fettleworth’s assumption, reasonably enough in the circumstances, was that his orders had been obeyed and the gunners had detached themselves from the guns and had joined the defensive action as infantry; and that some woodenhead, now, alas, beyond his retribution, had failed to leave any effective guard behind and the native force had made off with the guns.

  ‘A pity, and the heathen will be made to pay in due course,’ he said imperturbably, ‘but I doubt if I would have found any employment for the batteries myself, gentlemen. I think you all know my views well enough by now. Of course, there is the fear that they may be used against us—but I still doubt the real effectiveness of artillery against well-deployed infantry and cavalry. Infantry, gentlemen, infantry is the acknowledged queen of battles!’ He brought up his field-glasses and carried out a reconnaissance of the whole area.

  When he had finished he said, ‘All quiet, gentlemen. Apart from the blasted guns, I fancy we taught the heathen a lesson he’ll not forget in a hurry.’ Indeed, the slaughter amongst the Pathans had been very heavy; a rough count of bodies had produced a figure in the region of three thousand. It was to be an excellent day for the vultures. ‘Now we must not delay any further. Pass the word for the Division to move out, if you please—and I want a reconnaissance ahead. I think the Guides, what, Forrestier?’

  ‘As you say, Sir,’ the Chief of Staff answered.

  ‘Yes, quite. A message to the Colonel of the Guides. Two squadrons are to advance ahead of the column, and reconnoitre as far as the final ridge of hills—so they can see the enemy’s camp. They are not to engage unless attacked, but are merely to observe and return as soon as possible.’

  Brigadier-General Forrestier cleared his throat. ‘The Bengal Lancers are already leading the column, Sir. I would suggest you send them rather than bring the Guides through.’

  ‘You didn’t say that when I decided upon the Guides!’ Fettleworth snapped. His tone was edgy; even the Staff were feeling the strain and were tending towards disrespect and argument; Forrestier had been unpleasantly forbearing during the night touching the use, or non-use, of the artillery—before it had vanished.

  Now, Forrestier said, ‘then I apologize, Sir. My fault entirely.’

  He gave an exaggerated bow over his horse’s neck, an action that annoyed Fettleworth intensely.

/>   ‘Damn silly suggestion anyway,’ he retorted cuttingly. ‘Think I want to leave the van unprotected, do you, just when I’m approaching the enemy?’

  Forrestier gave a shrug of something close to weary indifference. The order was duly sent by runner, and the horses of the Guides ploughed solemnly and infuriatingly through the ranks of the infantry, a manoeuvre that perforce took far longer than a simple detaching of the lead squadron would have done. Reaching the head of the column, the Guides went forward at a canter and were soon obscured by their own dust-cloud, which itself vanished shortly after over some rising ground. The main column once again got on the move—like the walking dead by this time, numb in mind and body, stumbling onward by automatic reflex, the column dotted with the blood-stained white bandages applied by the medical orderlies to as many of the wounded as possible. The bands were not playing now; there was no wind to spare for that. Nor were the men singing anymore; they simply hadn’t the strength or the will. They scarcely cared even that the guns had gone. Leg lurched after leg and that was all; instinct and training and the fear of consequences kept the heavy rifles in their hands. The throngs of pack animals, the mules and the ponies and the camels, came on behind, driven by cries and sticks and abuse, carrying their burdens more or less uncomplainingly.

  Four hours later an approaching dust-cloud gave warning of horsemen, and in the van the 114th stood to on orders from their Colonel, as a precaution. But soon the dust-cloud revealed the Guides, riding in with their report. The squadrons rode down the parting files of infantry and their major reported in person to the Divisional Commander, who, shortly after, sounded the halt and then immediately called another conference, this time of Brigadiers and Commanding Officers only. When these officers were gathered. together Fettleworth said, ‘Gentlemen, the news is heartening up to a point. The British flag still flies above Fort Gazai.’