Lieutenant of the Line

by Philip McCutchan

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I feel deeply about this action.’ The Chief of Staff’s voice rose high. ‘I believe I can say I had a reputation once. You are destroying it.’

  Fettleworth’s face grew mottled and he blew out his moustache. Then he said, ‘Dammit, man, you’re nothing but a blasted hysterical prima donna,’ and he turned his back ostentatiously.

  Still scarlet in the face he rode his horse a few paces to the front, where he reined the animal in and sat glaring through his field glasses at the battle. Even to Fettleworth, it was in fact quit plain now that his tactics were not paying off, that the squares had lost not far short of a quarter of their strength dead and wounded.

  Of course, it would never do.

  Fettleworth gnawed angrily at his moustache, wondering how best he could back down. After some minutes he let out his breath in a hiss and, his face set firmly, rode back towards the Staff.

  ‘Very well, Gentlemen,’ he said briskly. ‘I have determined on a change of tactics at this stage. Chief of Staff, the infantry will break square. They are to reform in line to the rear behind the cavalry. The cavalry will re-deploy in readiness to charge, and the infantry will follow up behind the squadrons. See to that, if you please.’

  ‘Very good, Sir.’ Forrestier passed the orders, catching as he did so the very sardonic eye of General Preston. It was obvious to both men that Fettleworth was sedulously taking his battle tactics from the native example. It might work out, and it might not, but in all conscience there was little else that could be done now. The slaughter on the plateau was tremendous, with the dead lying in heaps where the squares had been, as the infantry withdrew in obedience to the bugles from Division, the bugles whose strident calls echoed harshly off the surrounding mountain ranges. As the regiments moved back from their dead and wounded, Lord Dornoch found himself in the middle of running men, men bloody with bullet wounds and knife thrusts, men eager to get their revenge as speedily as possible. In double quick time, while the cavalry continued to harass the native flanks and then to prepare for the charge, the regiments reformed into line and stood ready behind their officers, awaiting the word to advance. When the bugles sounded, they went forward as one, line upon line, with the cavalry now charging thunderously along the entire front ahead of them while a band somewhere struck up ‘Bonnie Dundee’, a time-honoured cavalry canter of the British Army—though they were scarcely moving at anything as genteel as a canter at that moment. The Guides and Lancers swept forward, their sabres gleaming until they met the tribesmen in head-on collision courses, after which those blades became stained red with heathen blood. They swept on and on until they had carved a path right through the enemy and had come up behind, and then they turned and charged again through the centre, cutting the force into sectors. The Chitralis and Pathans, however, with the standard of Shuja Khan in their middle, fought on regardless, using their still overwhelmingly superior numbers to good effect, meeting the British infantry in a clash of steel and rifle fire. They still had the day going very well in their favour; indeed they had an even greater preponderance of numbers now, thanks to the decimation of the squares earlier. It began to seem as though Fettleworth’s change of mind had come too late. Dornoch’s spirits were low when there was a diversion—very sudden, and totally unexpected. There was a bull-like bellow along the Scots line from the Regimental Sergeant-Major:

  ‘The guns! God be praised, it’s the guns!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The batteries had made good time along the last leg of the pass and the moment the Major sighted the broad plateau ahead the elephants were taken from the traces and the bullocks, who were better able to withstand the noise and pandemonium of battle, were yoked on instead. Urged on by the sticks and cries of the native drivers, they trundled ahead in column until Barrington was satisfied with the range, and then, apparently unseen still in the confusion of the battle below, they wheeled into line, with the massed gun-barrels pointing towards the native levies. In the moment that they were observed from the Scots line, Barrington passed the order to open. The heavy batteries, together with the lighter mountain pieces, opened with sheerly devastating effect, dropping their shells into the massed tribesmen, cutting the yelling, screaming mob—as it quickly became—to ribbons with the lyddite, case and shrapnel, ploughing wide swathes through the mass. The gunners worked like fiends blackened by their own gun smoke, working off the frustration of the long march when they had been the despised cinderellas of Division. It was a sustained bombardment that went on and on—but the standard of Shuja Khan, Ogilvie saw, was still floating over the heads of his followers. When the first shock had passed, Shuja Khan seemed to rally his men; his cavalry reformed, and wheeled to charge the guns, and at the same time a barrage of rifle fire spattered the dust around the batteries. There were many casualties among the gunners; as a man close by him fell, Ogilvie ran to take his place, and saw that Sergeant Makepeace, his face alight with the battle lust, had already taken over as layer on Number Two gun of C Battery close by. As the native cavalry thundered up the slope towards them, Makepeace sent a shell straight into the squadron. The force seemed to disintegrate into smoke and flame and blood, and the debris of dead men and horses, and only a handful of riders on the flanks were left to carry on the charge. They were met by revolver fire from the gunner officers, and from Ogilvie, and not one of them reached the batteries alive. As Ogilvie watched through a red, bloody mist he saw the enemy on the plateau break and run under the rain of shells and the swift following thrusts of the British cavalry squadrons. Then he saw, and saw with tremendous pride, through the smoke and the flame, the splendid, stirring sight of the English and Scots moving in for the kill in the van of the general infantry advance. Shells from the batteries were still dropping into the native rear line, but, as the British force cut into them and the fighting became more confused, the artillery bombardment slackened. A yelling mob of retreating tribesmen came up the slope towards them, making for the escape route of the pass, and the hand-to-hand fighting started. Ogilvie saw Makepeace leave his gun and snatch up a rifle dropped by a native who had just been shot by a gunner subaltern; the old man, moving like a youngster now, drove the long, snaky bayonet home into a man’s groin. Then Ogilvie was fighting his own way through, desperately, using his revolver, his broadsword, taking punishment from the fleeing Pathans and Chitralis without even being aware of it.

  ***

  As the native remnants streamed past the guns and along the pass behind them, Ogilvie, feeling a sudden lurch in his heart, saw the rider detach from Fettleworth’s Staff and come towards the batteries.

  Fettleworth’s face was a study; he was struggling with himself inwardly, and it showed. The enemy had broken, there was positively no doubt about that. Pursued by the British infantry and cavalry, they were making off in a most disorderly fashion for the hills, with Shuja Khan’s standard—unfortunately—still in their centre. Fettleworth realized that he had won a victory and a notable one; and soon now he would form up the Division to march in triumph into Fort Gazai. So far, so good—naturally! Honours, promotion, peerages even, loomed before him. There might be a bar to his D.S.O. But he was in a quandary—a dreadful quandary. The guns, appearing as if by magic from God alone knew where, had swung the whole action and just in time too—he could see that now, quite clearly, and he couldn’t disguise it even from himself. He shrugged; one lived and learned. He had been wrong; but he was damned if he was going to admit it! He still felt a deep seated mistrust of the gunners, who had stolen the glory from the cavalry, and more especially from the infantry.

  And he had given no order to the guns.

  He couldn’t; he hadn’t known where in Hades they were.

  He would dearly like to know the sequence of events that had brought the guns into the battle! Somebody had blundered; but it would be most difficult to apportion blame for a blunder that had led to victory on this scale. Churlish, too. Even more important—unwise. It was a great victory...it was goi
ng to be a very long time before the hill tribes rose again to cock any snooks at British arms and impudently challenge the absolute supremacy of the British Raj. And who, other than himself, would be responsible for that?

  Someone—someone as yet unknown.

  General Fettleworth blew through his moustache and turned to the Chief of Staff, whose right sleeve was stiff and discoloured with drying blood. ‘They did surprisingly well,’ he said.

  ‘Who in particular, Sir?’

  ‘The guns. Yes, I have to confess...the guns.’

  ‘I fail to be surprised at that, Sir. Except…’

  ‘Yes, Forrestier?’

  ‘Where the devil did they turn up from?’

  ‘Forrestier...kindly send at once for the senior battery commander.’

  ‘You and Makepeace had better come along to Division with me, Ogilvie,’ Barrington said. ‘You brought the orders and old Makepeace got us here. Credit where it’s due!’

  Ogilvie wiped blood from his face; there was a gash over his eye that was giving him trouble and another in the calf of his left leg. He asked, ‘what d’you think the General wants, Sir?’

  Barrington grinned, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I dare say a word of congratulation’s occurred to him,’ he said. ‘We don’t seek honours, do we, but it’s always nice to know one’s appreciated...especially if you happen to be a poor wretched gunner under Bloody Francis!’

  Ogilvie made no response to that; the forthcoming interview, he felt, was going to be a damn sight worse than any Battle.

  ***

  ‘But what, exactly, did Major Archdale say, Mr. Ogilvie?’

  Ogilvie’s hands were shaking badly. He said, ‘Sir, Major Archdale had been badly wounded. I...found it hard to hear him, Sir. I—I gathered you wished us to do what we did, Sir—detach along the other track and reach the plateau. independently. That was the message I passed to Major Barrington, Sir.’

  ‘Ha,’ Fettleworth said. The young Scots officer had side-stepped the question and Fettleworth knew it, but didn’t propose to press. Glancing sideways at his Chief of Staff, he met a very blank stare. Forrestier had known quite well what his order had actually been. This was a most difficult situation. Fettleworth felt suddenly angry, as though the whole thing was unfair; always, one had to compromise somewhere along the line to high places and it was obvious he would do well to make the best he could of this...no doubt the orders had become misinterpreted somewhere, such often happened in the heat of battle and he would probably never get to the bottom of it anyway now Archdale—who could conceivably have botched the message himself—was dead. Nor would anyone else, and he could very easily stifle any suggestions of an inquiry. Yes—far better, really, not to probe too deeply. He could deal with Forrestier later.

  He turned to Barrington. ‘You did well, Major. Very well. I shall see your gallant action does not go unremarked, you may be sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  ‘And you, Mr. Ogilvie. Well done—well done, indeed. The orders were not precisely as I had given,’ Fettleworth said, avoiding the eye of his Chief of Staff, ‘but they were near enough—near enough! The intent, you understand, the gist. I am indebted to you for so bravely taking my orders on, Mr. Ogilvie. I shall mention this in my dispatch to the Commander-in-Chief.’

  Ogilvie gaped, recovered smartly, and said, ‘thank you, Sir.’

  ‘And you, Makepeace. The man who guided the guns through! You may be sure this will count in your favour. I congratulate you on your excellent memory—but am at a loss to understand how it was that you failed to report this alternative route to me when we spoke together earlier—hey?’

  Makepeace, standing rigidly at attention with his tattered old blue jacket flapping around his scraggy body, said, ‘Sir! I had not remembered at that time. It was only when I came upon the entry to the track again that I recollected a journey up this way, Sir.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Yes, it’s understandable, of course. You’re an old man, Sergeant—but a very gallant one as things have turned out.’ Briefly, he smiled. ‘Did you have a crack your-self at the damn heathen, Makepeace?’

  ‘That I did, Sir!’ Makepeace answered with relish. ‘I put some shells where they were not wasted, Sir. It was grand to be working a British gun again, Sir!’

  ‘Yes, no doubt. Well done.’ Fettleworth gave a stiff nod, a nod of dismissal to all three. ‘That is all, gentlemen. Carry on, if you please.’

  They saluted and turned away. Fettleworth caught Forrestier’s sardonic eye. The Chief of Staff said, ‘the orders you gave, Sir, sounded to me very different from the effect given them.’

  ‘Different, Brigadier?’ Fettleworth smiled thinly. ‘You’re deaf, man, deaf as a post! As deaf as I may be...when it comes to remembrance of certain damned impertinences earlier. D’you understand me?’

  The Chief of Staff glared back at him and edged his horse closer. In a hissing whisper he said, ‘by God, Sir, this is no way to run an army!’

  ‘There are many ways to run an army, Brigadier,’ Fettleworth said smugly, ‘as you will find out when you are called upon to command a Division of your own.’ His smile after this became benign. ‘You may well be so called in the fullness of time. You have been a great support to me, Brigadier—a great support. My dispatches to Murree and Calcutta will reflect this, very possibly. Yes, I think we shall both do well to settle for a little deafness. And now, if you will be so kind as to pass the word, I wish the Division to be formed into column at once, and to do so smartly, for our entry to Fort Gazai.’

  Fettleworth, the tiresome affair settled, rode his horse forward.

  Re-joining his regiment as the column formed for the last march, with its wounded in the doolies or staggering along supported by the fit men, Ogilvie felt many eyes upon him; notably his Colonel, and Cousin Hector, and Captain Andrew Black, and Urquhart, the latter whispering to a couple of his brother subalterns. Urquhart, of course, knew what had happened; but Ogilvie felt he could be trusted to hold his tongue about that, even though the truth would undoubtedly be enough for its bearer to dine out on for the rest of his life. There was even a touch of envy, of jealousy in Alec Urquhart’s eyes as he grinned across at Ogilvie, broke off his whispering, and made his way towards his half-company.

  For Black, it was bitter as gall. There was a rather ironic constraint about the attitude of some of the subalterns, Ogilvie was to find later, as though they had guessed the truth and thought him abnormally lucky to have got away with such an enormous act of, in effect, disobedience of orders; but Black was showing no constraint as he rode his horse savagely up the regimental line, scowling and snapping. Ogilvie was clearly due for much acclamation from the men, who would see him as their very own salvation—it was in the nature of things that he, rather than the gunners themselves, should be the immediate hero of the 114th Highlanders; which was a lot for Captain Andrew Black to stomach. As spontaneous cheering broke out in the ranks, Black wheeled savagely to put a stop to it, his face working and a strange mad look in his dark eyes. Ogilvie watched the adjutant as the latter urged the battle-weary Scots into column of route; he had an idea Black was looking for someone in particular, and it was not hard to guess that the someone was Sergeant Makepeace. But Makepeace, miraculously unscathed in the action, was out of harm’s way for the time being : He had pleaded with Ogilvie to allow him to march in with the guns, and Ogilvie, who knew that in basis the whole success of the artillery action was due to the old man, had at once agreed.

  ***

  The entry to Fort Gazai was something James Ogilvie was to remember for a long time. The original formation of the column had been preserved, and the pipes and drums led the Division across the drawbridge and into the fort, the wild Highland music beating and reverberating off the age-old walls. Their welcome was fantastic, tumultuous, the starved and depleted garrison rushing forward with their wild-eyed, shabby women and children to shake the men by the hand as they marched in. It was a time of great emotion and
a time of pride in their race, a time to thrill to the hardihood and doggedness, the courage and sheer tenacity of ordinary British soldiers. It had been, if ever there was one, a private soldier’s march and a private soldier’s victory, a time of heroism from ordinary Englishmen and Scots, Irishmen and Welshmen, and a high price had been paid in dead and wounded.

  Later, when the regiments had been dismissed to quarters and the shadows of the night had fallen over the walls, Lord Dornoch sent for Ogilvie to join him on the battlements. Ogilvie found him standing motionless in the moonlight, looking out towards the darkness of the distant hills. The Colonel’s right arm was in a sling and his head was bandaged, and there was something in his stance that spoke of a stiffness in the legs.

  Ogilvie halted and saluted. ‘You sent for me, Colonel.’

  ‘Yes, James. As you’ll have seen, our accommodation is rather wretched. What I have to say, I can say better up here.’ He paused, looking somewhat wistfully out towards the long route through from Peshawar. ‘We’ve come a long way together,’ he said abruptly. ‘The regiment has been badly mauled. That’s a great sorrow to me. But it would have been a great deal worse if...if the guns had not gone into action when they did. You realize that, of course.’

  Ogilvie waited; Dornoch went on, ‘I’d like you to be honest with me. It will go no further, I promise you. I have formed a certain picture of what happened...I think you understand me without my having to go into more detail?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘Well? Is my picture the right one? You need only answer yes or no, James.’

  ‘Then the answer’s yes, Colonel.’

  Dornoch nodded. ‘Very well. I have only this to say. Victory is a most wonderful excuser of, among other things, a flagrant disregard of one’s General’s wishes. Defeat is not. Had things gone wrong today, somebody—let us not be too precise—somebody would have been cashiered.’