Soldier of the Raj

by Philip McCutchan

  Riding past the General’s guard at H.Q., Dornoch saw Colonel Hennessey of the Connaught Rangers dismounting ahead of him and handing over his horse to an orderly. Other senior officers were present as well — several Colonels, and Brigadier-General Preston who had commanded the column marching from Gilghit to join Fettleworth’s advance from Peshawar upon the rebels outside Fort Gazai. Since then, to General Fettleworth’s great annoyance, Preston had been appointed on the C.-in-C.’s recommendation to command the brigade composed of the 114th, the Connaught Rangers and a native regiment of the Indian Army. Catching Preston’s eye, Dornoch gave a punctilious salute, which was somewhat sketchily returned by the Brigadier-General. Preston, who had an impish face and a friendly smile, was in fact dressed not in uniform but for polo.

  He said, ‘Hullo there, Dornoch. I suppose you’re wondering what Bloody Francis has in store for us this time?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dornoch answered, a shade formally. He liked and admired Preston, but was not himself the sort of man who would speak disrespectfully of his commander to anyone junior.

  Preston laughed and said, ‘Frankly, so am I. He’s spoiled my morning and damned if I won’t tell him so to his face!’ He took off his hat, a floppy affair of a green material that looked incongruous in such surroundings as Divisional H.Q., and fanned his face. ‘Well, we’ll soon know the worst, no doubt.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dornoch said again. He nodded at some of his brother Colonels. A moment later an A.D.C., very crisply turned out, very smart with the gilded tassels of his appointment, emerged, glanced with some distaste at Preston’s clothing, and said loudly, ‘Gentlemen, the General’s compliments. He is waiting for you.’

  ‘The devil he is,’ Preston murmured. ‘He usually keeps us waiting. This must be important!’

  They went in, following the immaculate A.D.C. along a corridor paved with cool tiles, its walls hung with tapestries. They entered a room at the end, a large room with tall windows looking onto a cool, shady courtyard where a fountain played beneath the overhanging trees white with the terrible gritty dust of India. Birdsong came through, and beyond the fountain three young children played under the care of an amah dressed in flowing white. Preston whispered, ‘Bloody Francis’s long-suffering grandchildren, Dornoch.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had any.’

  ‘No more did I till a few days ago. His daughter’s staying with him, God help her. Tell you what —’ Preston broke off as the General, who had been seated behind a trestle table on the dais at the end of the room, rose to his feet, short and stubby and paunchy, with a large turnip-shaped gold watch held ostentatiously in one hand.

  ‘You have kept me waiting, gentlemen.’ Sharp eyes roamed his audience. ‘Brigadier-General Preston?’

  ‘Sir?’ Preston stood up.

  ‘Kindly sit down at once, then we shall not be so aware of your dress, which I consider highly inappropriate to the occasion. Before you leave, you will give me an explanation of why you thought fit to attend upon me dressed for a game.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘Afterwards, afterwards!’ Fettleworth lifted his head and addressed his next remarks more generally. ‘Gentlemen, we are all soldiers, sent here to preserve the Queen’s peace, not to dilly-dally on the field of sport. The way we dress is important, if we are to impress the enemy with our intentions and our serious purpose — as I’m glad to note that all the rest of you have realized. I’ve never heard of such a thing in all my life.’ Fettle-worth said pompously, raising and lowering his body on his heels as if to give himself the intermittent advantage of greater height. ‘But no more of this.’ Importantly, he paused. ‘Gentlemen. You will all be aware that for some weeks past there has been some indication of restiveness among the Waziris. No more than this — until the early hours of this morning, when a man, a native, was apprehended in an attempt to break into my headquarters. It appears he was after information - that he was trying to steal copies of my confidential assessment of the Frontier situation and of my plans to deal with any emergencies. Yes, Brigadier?’

  Once again displaying his inelegance, Preston had stood up. ‘He admitted this under questioning, sir? Was he a Waziri?’

  ‘Yes, he was a Waziri. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Because in my experience a Waziri never talks, sir. Never! Whatever else they may be, they are fanatically loyal to their leaders.’

  Fettleworth snapped, ‘I never said he talked.’

  ‘Then, sir, how do you know what he was after? Or am I wrong in thinking that you said the man had been apprehended in an attempt to break into your headquarters?’

  ‘You are impertinent, Brigadier-General Preston —’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Preston sat down again.

  Fettleworth, red in the face, glared at him and then, with an obvious effort, proceeded. ‘Very well. The man was caught in — in the act. He was rifling my desk. I need hardly say that such a thing will not occur again. Of course, the man was questioned, but he has said nothing. The questioning will continue — my Political Officers are currently carrying out my orders to this effect. We must not expect a great deal of help. It is true that the Waziris do not talk easily. Therefore, we must now act in a precautionary manner, to safeguard our position along the Frontier, gentlemen. For, taking last night’s events in conjunction with the many rumours that have been filtering through, it is my opinion that the Waziris may intend to rise. I say may. But if they do, God alone knows what other tribes and disaffected elements they will carry with them! Cornforth-Jarvis, the map.’

  The A.D.C. stepped forward, bearing a rolled-up map. He hung this over a blackboard set upon an easel to the General’s right, and unrolled it. Fettleworth took up a pointer and laid its end on the map. He laid it upon the mountains of Waziristan, south-west of Peshawar, a territory that ran contiguously with the Afghan border from Thal southwards to the Gomal Pass from Largha Sherani into Dera Ismail Khan. He said, ‘Terrible country, gentlemen, treacherous country for men to fight in. In that territory, according to Lord Roberts’s estimate, are no less than forty thousand wild tribesmen — warriors to a man! Other estimates put their strength higher — up to fifty thousand and possibly more. And think — think of what other strength might join a rising that appeared to have any hope of success!’ The pointer lifted and fell, dotting its way north along the frontier with Afghanistan. ‘Kurram, Tirah, the Mohmands, Bajaur, the Shinwaris, Kohistan, Chitral. An endless list.’ As though contemplating infinity, Fettleworth remained staring for some moments at the map, pointer in hand, before swinging round to face his audience again. ‘If the worst happened, gentlemen, the rivers would run with blood, the North-West Frontier would vanish, the hordes would sweep through the passes from Afghanistan, we would be in danger of submersion beneath a storming tide of Asians...’ He stopped abruptly, feeling, perhaps, that he might be overdoing it a little, though Dornoch knew well enough that the element of exaggeration was not very great. To some extent Fettleworth might be allowing himself to be panicked by the action of a thief, but so easily, so very easily, could north-west India become a bloodbath. One error of judgment, of handling...they were all sitting on the edge of a volcano, every moment they spent in India was heavy with threat and potential danger. The smallest sign must never be ignored — India’s history taught that. The tribes sat far from easily under the benevolent yoke of the Raj. ‘From the first probe by the enemy, gentlemen, the whole Peshawar garrison would be instantly committed. In current conditions it would be the gravest mistake to regard any thrust, however small, as a mere border incident, a raid. Our reaction must be instantaneous and overwhelming. We shall need the immediate support of Northern Command at Murree and I intend to inform the Commander-in-Chief of this at once. I also think it likely that reinforcements from Ootacamund would be needed fairly early.’ There was another pause, while Fettleworth moved back towards the trestle table and Captain Cornforth-Jarvis obediently rolled up the map on the General’s abrupt nod. Now, gentlemen. You
will at once prepare your commands, your brigades and your battalions, for possible action at any given moment. We shall not be caught napping. No leave off the station will be granted from now on until further orders, and any officers or men presently away are to be recalled immediately. Your quarter-guards are to be doubled, all sentries, wherever they are posted, are to be warned to be fully alert at all times. Any case of dereliction of duty, of any lack of this alertness, will be reported to me and will be dealt with most severely — most severely! You will all see to it that your weapons and ammunition supplies are checked and brought up to the full authorization — likewise, of course, your provisions for a march. Bear in mind that we may have to sustain ourselves in the field for a considerable time, with possibly very extended lines of communication. Watch your sick lists, gentlemen. Your medical officers are to furnish detailed reports daily for transmission to this headquarters, and the smallest signs of any epidemics are to be treated with the gravest concern and nipped smartly in the bud. Skrimshanking will be severely punished —I will tolerate no malingerers. Training programmes are to be stepped up and the men given every opportunity for rifle practice. When your commands are ready, gentlemen, ready in all respects for war, you will report accordingly — and you will be expected to stand by your reports. No excuse will be accepted for any shortcomings after that. Thank you, gentlemen. That is all. You may go about your duties. Lord Dornoch, you will remain behind.’

  As the various officers departed amid a low buzz of conversation, Dornoch remained seated. So, alongside him, did Preston. Fettleworth busied himself with the A.D.C. until the others had gone, then he looked up and beckoned to Dornoch. ‘Come to my study, if you please, Colonel,’ he said, and moved off the dais towards the door.

  Preston, standing for the third time, brought himself to his General’s attention. ‘You wished for an explanation, sir,’ he began. ‘I —’

  ‘Yes, yes. Later. When I have finished with Lord Dornoch, Brigadier.’

  ‘Sir, I have a brigade to administer and prepare for active service —’

  ‘Dress is also a part of war, Brigadier,’ Fettleworth said evenly. ‘You must wait until I have time to attend to you,’ and he moved away with his head in the air, followed by Lord Dornoch. He was being stupidly childish, Dornoch thought irritably, and he wondered at Preston’s forbearance; but by now the senior officers had grown accustomed to Fettleworth, and let his insults flow over them more or less unheedingly, for he had his good points and in all conscience he was little worse than many another old-time General Officer. He had had a distinguished past, and was as brave as a lion in battle. One could forgive a little pompous assininity — unless and until stupidity increased the casualty lists, and it was there that Dornoch, whose regiment had suffered badly a year ago because of Fettleworth’s insane dislike of using his artillery, parted company with his own forbearance. Reaching his study, Fettle-worth told Dornoch to sit. A native servant appeared, and stood expectant of orders. Fettleworth asked, ‘Chota peg, Colonel?’

  ‘Thank you — no, sir.’

  Fettleworth grunted. ‘Oh — very well. You won’t mind if I do. Thirsty work — these conferences. I’m not much of a man for spouting, y’know, Dornoch. Prefer to get at those black blighters in battle — one, two, one-two!’ He made a couple of thrusts as if with sword in hand, then nodded at the servant, who went out of the room silently, bowing his way out back-wards as if leaving the presence of the Queen-Empress herself. General Fettleworth went across to a window, one that, like the conference chamber, looked out onto the courtyard. His grandchildren had gone by this time and the place was empty but for an ancient, wizened gardener bent over some plants in a rockery, and silent but for the slight, cooling sound of the fountain. The General stood with his hands clasped tightly behind his thick, plump back, his khaki tunic showing sweat-stains around the underarms. He turned when the native servant glided back and handed him the whisky on a silver salver. Fettleworth took the glass in silence, nodded a dismissal, and walked across the dark room — the furniture was that of an English study, chiefly old oak, and the courtyard trees gave plenty of welcome shade —and stood looking down at Lord Dornoch.

  ‘Ogilvie,’ he said abruptly. ‘I want to talk to you about Ogilvie.’

  Dornoch said, ‘Yes, sir?’ and thought, not for the first time, that everyone seemed to want to talk to him about young Ogilvie — for he was assuming, and rightly, that it was the son and not the father who was to be the subject of Fettleworth’s interest.

  ‘Time he had his horizons widened, don’t you think?’

  ‘Widened, sir? He’s seen plenty of action, more than most, in the time we’ve been out here.’

  ‘Action, yes. That’s just what I’m coming to. He has yet to learn that the army isn’t all action — action of a physical, fighting kind, that is. Overt action — you’ll understand, Dornoch — death and glory. Military bands in support. Heroics, and tumultuous welcomes when marching back to cantonments. D’you follow?’

  ‘Not entirely, sir. Oh, I take your point that no officer or man should think of the service entirely as — as a hero’s return! But could you be more explicit, General?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fettleworth turned away, rasping at his cheek with a pudgy hand, and took a few turns up and down the room while Dornoch watched him in silence and with some apprehension. He himself had plotted James Ogilvie’s career for a few years ahead, at any rate in so far as it lay within his limited scope to do so. Ogilvie was going to make a first-class fighting soldier and Dornoch was not keen to have him side-tracked, which was what he now suspected Fettleworth of organizing. Suddenly, the General halted in front of him. ‘There are things,’ he said, ‘that I need to know, Dornoch. Vital things.’

  ‘About Ogilvie?’

  ‘No! About the Waziris.’

  Dornoch started. ‘Do you mean spying, sir?’

  ‘Well, I don’t like the word. We British, Dornoch — we don’t spy. We — er — use Political Officers, but —’

  ‘But Ogilvie is not attached to the Political Department, General, and would not wish to be.’

  ‘It’s not what he wants that matters,’ Fettleworth said tartly, ‘but what the Queen’s service requires of him. An attachment — a temporary attachment — could be arranged with the greatest of ease. It would be most excellent experience for him.’

  ‘I think he needs other experience than that. He has done well. He needs the fulfilment of his efforts — he needs his company. I consider him well fitted for it — I would not have recommended him for promotion otherwise —’

  ‘Of course, of course —’

  ‘— and moreover, I need him as a company commander in the room of Captain MacKinlay. This is doubly important if we are to move into action. Ogilvie has the ability to lead men in greater measure than any of my other younger officers, General.’

  ‘But not more than Captain MacKinlay, one would presume?’

  ‘No.’ Dornoch paused, looking carefully at the Divisional Commander. ‘Sir, may I ask you to come to the point of your proposal?’

  ‘You may, Colonel. I propose to delay MacKinlay’s appointment to Quetta for the time being, and to ask you to be good enough to give him back his company. And to release Captain Ogilvie for formal attachment to the Staff for secondment to the Political Department — on a purely temporary basis.’

  Dornoch’s face stiffened. ‘I see, sir. To be used in the capacity of a spy?’

  Fettleworth snapped, ‘I’ve told you, I don’t like that word! To be used to obtain certain information from the tribes. I see from his records that he is fluent in the dialect — this is a qualification, though it may not be used in a direct sense. I shall require him to infiltrate the enemy villages, to infiltrate the enemy’s confidence, and report back to my headquarters. You understand, Colonel?’

  ‘And if I refuse, sir, as I think I am entitled to do in all the circumstances?’

  ‘It would be unlike you to refuse to obey an ord
er, Lord Dornoch.’

  ‘This is an order, sir?’

  ‘Indeed it is, indeed it is!’

  ‘In that case, of course, there is nothing more for me to say.’ Dornoch stood up, his face hard. ‘I shall inform Captain Ogilvie of your wishes as soon as I return to my regiment. Is there anything else you require of me, General?’

  ‘No, that’s all,’ Fettleworth said, rubbing his hands briskly together. ‘Ogilvie’s detailed orders will be notified within the next day or so.’

  ‘Then good-day to you, sir!’

  ‘And to you, sir!’ Fettleworth seemed in a high good humour, Dornoch thought as he left the headquarters building and mounted his horse. He usually was, when he had won a point; but Dornoch had a nagging feeling there was more behind it this time. Fettleworth’s total disregard of his, Dornoch’s, own recommendations had gone beyond even his normal mule-like obstinacy. He had clearly been quite determined to hook Ogilvie out of the regiment and send him on this dangerous mission — this highly dangerous mission of, to say the least — in Dornoch’s opinion — doubtful practical value. The Waziris were up to all the tricks of the trade and if Fettleworth’s idea was to send Ogilvie in dressed up as some mendicant native selling beads or whatever, that young man’s goose was well and truly cooked from the start. It was much too naïve — if that was his idea. Possibly it was not, possibly he had something else up his sleeve, but if so Dornoch couldn’t fathom it out. The trouble with Fettleworth was his virtual submersion in the past, in all the old outworn ideas. He had failed totally to move with the times — as witness that curious dislike of artillery. About sixty years before, some other pot-bellied General whose name had been lost in the mists of the years had similarly disdained artillery, and, in his case, with success. Bloody Francis still went along with that. And the same in other things. Once, British officers had indeed infiltrated enemy encampments dressed as beggars or holy men and had got away with it —possibly because they had taken a childish delight in dressing up, and playing games, a glorious extension of nursery charades, so they had managed to be convincing! Even the Waziris were a little too sophisticated to be taken in by those antics any more, surely?