Soldier of the Raj

by Philip McCutchan

  There was no doubting his sincerity and his utter, single-minded belief; but there was equally no doubting the content of the answer he would not give: no sign, no rising. It was as clear as if he had shouted it aloud from the mountain top. And, if the sign should in fact fail to reveal itself, the impact of its failure was going to be the more catastrophic to Nashkar Ali Khan’s hopes by simple virtue of the overwhelming importance already accredited to it.

  Ogilvie looked up again at the sadhu. At any moment, presumably, the sign might be revealed. It would not be overtly revealed to Ogilvie, or indeed, perhaps, to anybody but the sadhu himself. History, very bloody history, would assemble its legions in the processes of an old man’s mind; and the sub-continent would move inexorably to war.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The day had come at last, the day of the Queen’s birthday parade, the official celebration delayed until after the rains; and from the Himalayas in the north to Cape Comorin at India’s southern tip the loyal subjects of the Queen-Empress had gathered to pay her homage, and to show their love and respect. The sound of trumpets was in the very air hanging over city and village, swamp and mountain, forest and fertile plain, over sacred river and desolate, empty gorge. Even the gaily-decorated elephants, lumping along in the parades beneath the lurching howdahs, seemed to be rejoicing.

  In the Peshawar garrison a splendid extravaganza had been mounted; cavalry, infantry, artillery and support corps were to march their might past Lieutenant-General Francis Fettleworth. Three squadrons of the Guides would lead, followed by the Bengal Lancers, moving past the saluting base at a walk before cantering off with a rattle of harness to the strains of Bonnie Dundee from an artillery band. After them, leading the infantry, would come the 114th Highlanders, the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, behind Lieutenant-Colonel Lord Dornoch and the pipes and drums. The guns, so disliked by General Fettleworth, would rumble past behind their horse-drawn dark-green limbers after the last of the infantry but ahead of the menials of the support corps. There had been some high-level complaints from the artillery commanders about this virtual down-grading, and plenty of tooth-sucking from lowly sergeants and bombardiers and gunners; but all to no avail. Fettleworth, as was his custom, was adamant.

  There had been complaints on another matter also. Lord Dornoch himself, never a man to be overawed by rank, had spoken out strongly at the conference called by the Divisional Commander to settle the plan for the birthday parade. He had got to his feet and he’d stated his opinion. ‘Sir, as you before all of us know, we’re likely to be having trouble with the tribes.’

  ‘True, Colonel. Why do you bring this up now?’ Fettleworth plucked irritably at his Sam Browne belt.

  ‘For this reason, sir. I doubt if this is the time to concentrate virtually the whole division upon one parade-ground. Can we not reduce the strength of the parade, in view of our possible commitments?’

  ‘It would be a slight upon Her Majesty, Lord Dornoch.’

  ‘I think not, sir, I think not! I think I know where Her Majesty’s closest interest lies, and, given the choice, it would not be found to lie in pomp and ceremony.’

  ‘Pomp and ceremony, fiddlesticks! A parade’s a parade, a simple mark of respect — and besides, it’s always been done.’ Fettleworth snapped his teeth angrily. ‘If I must justify my decisions to my Colonels, let me say this: in full assembly, no enemy can possibly catch us unawares, which is what you seem to be suggesting — hey? We’ll be all ready for ‘em!’

  ‘In scarlet, sir — in full-dress scarlet, with ladies in the stands? Why, damn it to hell, sir, we’ll be all but caught with our breeches round our ankles! We’ll have the guns firing into the backsides of the infantry, and the infantry climbing up the cavalry’s tails!’

  Dornoch had overstated his case; Fettleworth had not liked the rustle of amusement that had run through the assembled officers, and he had snapped Dornoch’s head off. His decision stood; there would be a full muster on parade and no excusals except for men on the various fatigues who could not be clean in time to march.

  And now, here they were. Fettleworth, impressive in his scarlet coat and white breeches, shining spurred riding boots, white feathers cascading down his cocked hat, breast colourful with the medals and stars of past campaigns, stood four-square to the thump of the music on the saluting platform. Behind him Brigadier-General Lakenham, Chief of Staff, and his Brigade Commanders and aides-de-camp, plus certain high-ranking departmental officers, and a representative Civilian from Calcutta sweating into clerkly black cloth. Behind again, the senior ladies in the stand — Mrs. Fettleworth, Mrs. Lakenham, Lady Dornoch, Mrs. Colonel this-and-that. Fettleworth rose and fell slightly on his beautiful polished bootheels, feeling the heat but feeling a surge of emotion too as the squadrons of the Guides approached amid the clash and thunder of the gunners’ band crashing out patriotic and traditional tunes. As his right hand began quivering, ready to return the salute of the officer commanding the cavalry, he thought of Her Majesty and his chest swelled. When the cavalry had passed, his hand came down, rose again to acknowledge the lifted claymore of Lord Dornoch, riding behind the barbaric wail of his pipes, the colourful kilts of his highland men swinging behind. As the sloped rifles and the gleaming bayonets went past to the tune of The High Road to Gairloch, guarding the resplendent battle-honoured Colours of the Royal Strathspeys, a runner from Division hastened on to the parade-ground and made his way below the stand towards the saluting base. He caught the eye of an A.D.C. and saluted. The young officer bent towards him, impatiently.

  ‘Urgent message for the General, sir.’

  ‘Great heavens, man, he can’t possibly take it now!’ The A.D.C. gnawed at his moustache, anxiously, gilded ropes and tent-pegs dithering at his left shoulder. ‘How urgent?’

  Music blared brassily across the vast sandy space, seeming to echo as far as distant Himalaya frowning grandly to the north; heat pressed down, rose again from the ground to make men swelter into thick full-dress uniforms. The runner had to shout; the message was something about a man called Wilshaw. ‘It’ll have to wait,’ the A.D.C. said irritably. ‘I’ll inform the Chief of Staff after the march past.’ Fettleworth’s view on interruptions to solemn occasions were well known to all his officers, and so were his patriotic emotions. His eyes were always a trifle moist after a surfeit of martial music and subaltern-borne Colours, and his inner thoughts about the Monarch were not so private as he fancied. It was the same on every royal occasion, and an A.D.C. had once been heard to remark in the Mess that Bloody Francis ought to send a picture postcard to Windsor Castle reading ‘having a wonderful time, wish you were here’.

  *

  The arrival of the message at Division had ended a journey as circuitous as had been Ogilvie’s own meanderings from Peshawar to Waziristan by way of Abbottabad. It had been ridden across the border by a fast horseman out of Maizar, and taken over by another in a tiny village in Bannu, and hastened north into Kohat. In the town of Hangu it had been transferred to an itinerant knife-grinder who had brought it more slowly to Peshawar and handed it over to a friend of the same calling who knew Peshawar intimately. This man had wrapped the roughly scrawled message around a stone and, whilst pursuing his trade in the vicinity of the British military officers’ married quarters, had deftly hurled it through the first unshuttered window he had found, knowing very well that it would reach its ultimate destination in safety. The window had happened to be that of a bungalow occupied by a Surgeon-Major of the Army Medical Staff who had prudently placed himself on the sick list for the duration of the parade, he being a man who disliked great heat; thus he had been at home when the message arrived, and, supposedly sick or not, he knew his duty. He had personally taken the message to Divisional Headquarters and had handed it over to a Staff Captain on duty. It was another three hours before General Fettleworth’s mind was free to concentrate on the message from Waziristan and when he did read it at last, back in his residence, he announced loudly that it should hav
e been brought to his attention much earlier.

  ‘Could be serious,’ he said, easing the sweat-soaked neckband of his scarlet tunic. Glory was still circling in his head, reducing his concentration. ‘With a tum, tum, tum, tum, tum...tum. Yes. Damn serious — I don’t like it, Lakenham.’

  ‘Nor I, sir.’ The message was simple enough, baldly put. This is written on behalf of a British officer, Wilshaw Sahib, held prisoner as a spy in Waziristan. He asks help before he is tortured. There was no signature.

  ‘It’s a trap, of course.’ Fettleworth sat down and drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘What do they take me for — hey?’

  ‘I’m not inclined to agree entirely, sir.’

  ‘Not a trap?’ Fettleworth snorted. ‘Fiddlesticks — of course it is! Ogilvie wouldn’t ask for help — no officer would in the circumstances.’

  ‘Again, I can’t agree. The message speaks of torture—’

  ‘Torture! Damn it, this isn’t the Middle Ages!’

  ‘No, sir, but it’s the North-West Frontier. We know very well that the tribes indulge in torture.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s so damn melodramatic, isn’t it? Overplayed. Asks for help before he is tortured. Sort of thing a damn native would write!’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  Fettleworth looked blank. ‘What d’you mean — hey?’

  ‘A native did write it, sir. Surely that’s obvious?’

  ‘No need to be rude, Lakenham.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  Fettleworth scowled at the message, pushed at it with his hand, with distaste. ‘A native, eh? A friendly native! A damn courageous native — to take such a risk! No, Lakenham, I’m convinced it’s a trap of some sort. Very fishy.’

  The Chief of Staff blew down his nostrils, heavily. ‘Very good, sir. What do we do about it?’

  Fettleworth pondered, fingering his chin. Then, ‘Send for Lord Dornoch,’ he ordered. ‘Tell him to report at once.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ On his way out of the General’s presence, Lakenham turned. ‘Is Ogilvie’s father to be informed?’

  ‘Good God, no, certainly not...not yet.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘That’s all, Lakenham. No one is to be informed of anything in this connection. Oh, except Major O’Kelly, of course. He’d better come along with Dornoch. See to that, Lakenham.’

  When Dornoch and the Political Officer arrived, Fettleworth showed them the message and repeated his belief that it was a trap. In opposition to the Chief of Staff, they both agreed that it probably was, though neither could suggest what the purpose of a trap might be. Lakenham made his point once again about torture. He said, ‘No man can be sure how he’s going to stand up to the sort of thing the Pathans can dish out. Dornoch, you say Captain Ogilvie wouldn’t explicitly request help, that he’d simply — well, sit down and take it. But —’

  ‘That’s my opinion,’ Dornoch said. ‘The Ogilvies have a long military tradition and I’ve served under his father myself. I think I can forecast what young Ogilvie’s attitude would be and it’s as I’ve stated.’

  ‘I don’t agree —’

  ‘You never do,’ Fettleworth put in angrily.

  ‘— I think, if he found the opportunity to ask for help, he or any other officer might use it, just in case he should break under stress. I confess, I would. And I would do it in the best interests of my orders, what’s more! Surely, it’s better to ask honestly for help than run the risk of giving away information?’

  ‘A British officer,’ Fettleworth began as expected, ‘would never —’

  ‘One moment, General,’ Dornoch cut in brusquely. ‘Brigadier, I take your point, of course. But in Ogilvie’s case...I don’t see him doing so. I have an idea that the older you get — the more senior you get — the better a sense of these things you develop. You and I have seen for ourselves what the Pathans can do — we’ve seen the results. Ogilvie isn’t so experienced on the Frontier. And I think any young officer who’s only just been given a captaincy...no, his reactions would be different. He’d feel, very likely mistakenly, that he could pull through it on his own — and that he must, what’s more!’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t see him initiating such a call for help. I have to agree with the General.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Fettleworth said with a touch of sarcasm. ‘O’Kelly, I think you also agree?’

  ‘Yes, broadly. Mainly, I think, for this reason: I told him he was on no account to communicate with Peshawar, and I also put it to him before he left that he wouldn’t get any help anyway. He thoroughly understood that. It’s part of my routine, of course. It’s nasty, but there it is.’ He flapped a hand in the air, dismissing conscience.

  ‘Nothing nasty about it,’ Fettleworth snapped. ‘It’s a case of duty, no more, no less. Now then, what about this trap? No ideas at all, gentlemen?’

  Glances were exchanged, shoulders shrugged, and it was left to O’Kelly, as the expert in subterfuge, to answer as best he could. Pouting doubtfully he said, ‘You never know which way the Pathan mind is going to turn, of course. Wily devils all of them, and Nashkar Ali Khan has a reputation for not even being consistent in his inconsistency — if you follow me, sir?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  O’Kelly gave him a sardonic look. ‘Sorry I can’t be more help, but you know how it is. Never try to out-think a Pathan is my motto — he’ll always contrive to come up behind you!’

  ‘Then what would you do, O’Kelly?’

  The Political Officer pondered again, fingering the small cigar that Fettleworth had obstinately refrained from giving him permission to light. ‘Well, I’d take it that the obvious thing to think would be that Nashkar’s trying to lure an expeditionary force inside his borders — don’t ask me why, unless it’s so he can cut it up as a warning to us and an encouragement to his followers. But then, d’you see, that’s too obvious — so I’d disregard it.’

  Fettleworth muttered, ‘God give me strength.’

  ‘I think, on reflection, I’d adopt the old precept of maintaining a masterly inactivity. Do nothing.’

  ‘Ah, ha,’ Fettleworth said, liking the sound of that in all the circumstances. ‘Wait for something more positive to show itself?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dornoch said, ‘Wait for Ogilvie to be brutally murdered, you mean.’

  ‘Colonel you —’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but Ogilvie is one of my own officers and a very promising one. The message itself may be a trap, but I think we all know the threat of torture is likely to be real enough. I cannot sit by and — and connive at Ogilvie’s abandonment!’

  ‘Connive! You’re under orders, Dornoch! My orders — and I’ll take the responsibility!’ Fettleworth’s face had reddened dangerously; but suddenly he underwent one of the curious changes that his officers had so often remarked in the past. He said with obvious sincerity, ‘You must never think such responsibility is easy, Dornoch. I detest the idea of possibly sending a young man to his death, but I have no alternative. It grieves me a great deal...the son of an old friend too. But even you would not expect me to place these considerations — weighty as they are — before my duty to the Raj. Would you, Dornoch?’

  Dornoch lifted his hands and dropped them again with a gesture of great weariness. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say that, Dornoch. I understand your concern for your officers. It does you great credit, and I would not have it otherwise. But as the Divisional Commander, I am forced to take other views. Now I have something else to say to you — to impress upon you all, gentlemen.’ He leaned forward heavily, his stomach riding over the lip of his desk in a surging thrust of scarlet and gold. ‘There is to be no mention of what we have been discussing. No one is to know the position Captain Ogilvie is in. I shall now speak personally to Surgeon-Major Warrender, who brought the message to this headquarters, and to all others concerned — nothing will be said from that quarter, I assure you. I need hardly remind you, ge
ntlemen, of a vital fact of military life: we do not acknowledge espionage.’

  *

  They did not acknowledge espionage, even though the enemy knew full well that espionage was carried on every day of the year to the greater glory of the British Raj. Spies were spies and ladies and gentlemen used the word with a shudder of repulsion, while they lived and drank and gorged and fornicated and rode arrogant horses and stuck pigs in Peshawar and Nowshera and enjoyed the cool of the Simla hills — safe behind the curtain of security held in place by officers acting as spies. Dornoch’s mood was savage as he rode back to his regimental lines that afternoon. James Ogilvie was to be abandoned, written off the regimental rolls, his name never to be mentioned, an officer who had vanished and left a query marked against him. That was what it had all sounded like, anyhow. Dornoch’s lip curled as he thought of the dexterous O’Kelly and his girlish manners. Wait and see! Wait for something to show — when they all knew nothing ever would, before it was too late to save Ogilvie! Of course, it wasn’t Fettleworth’s fault — except for having dreamed the whole ridiculous mission up in the first place. It was that for which Dornoch would never forgive him in his heart. He had a sudden dangerous fancy that on arrival back at the lines he would send for his second-in-command, his adjutant and his bugler, and parade his regiment, and march them, every man, for the Waziri border, behind the pipes and drums. He knew that every man would have gone willingly, with the Highland blood-lust singing high, to hack their way through the Pathan hordes as generations had done in India before them...

  The vision faded, leaving bitterness behind. Even he could baulk the issue when the point was reached. A Nelson would indeed have marched the regiment out and to ruddy blazing hell with his superiors! To such a pusillanimous pass did the habit of obedience and the training of years reduce a man.

  On the way in he met Andrew Black, and gave him a nod. ‘Well, Andrew.’ He could think of nothing else to say.