Soldier of the Raj

by Philip McCutchan

  There was a sudden gleam in Mary’s eye. ‘That is all you will tell me, Lord Dornoch?’

  ‘It’s all I can tell you,’ he corrected.

  ‘Then I thank you. You’ve been more than helpful.’

  When she had gone Dornoch moodily joined his wife in the drawing-room. ‘Mind my cigar?’ he asked absently.

  ‘Yes, but you know very well you’ll smoke it just the same—’

  ‘No, no, my dear—’

  ‘Oh, go on with you, Alastair!’ She patted the sofa. ‘Sit down and tell me all about it.’

  ‘All about it?’

  ‘Yes! Your little tete-a-tete with that very attractive young woman. I’ve always admired her looks.’ She paused. ‘Well?’

  He examined his cigar. ‘I’ve let something out, damn it! I said Ogilvie was on leave.’

  ‘Well, Alastair?’ she asked again.

  ‘She obviously hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘I doubt if it’s very important, Alastair. Anyway, that’s the official truth, isn’t it?’

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Official truth — yes! But it does go against the grain to tell barefaced lies to a girl who so obviously loves him, my dear. God, how I wish I’d resisted Fettleworth right from the start!’ He blew smoke for a while, a fragrant smell, then asked, ‘What do you think of her?’

  ‘Mrs. Archdale? I suppose I’ve been a little swayed by what’s supposed to be her reputation —’

  ‘A lot of gossiping old harridans who’d be all the better for the attentions of a man —’

  ‘Hoity-toity! Never disregard the garrison ladies, Alastair, for if you do, it’ll be at your peril! I see you’ve fallen for her charms yourself. But as for what I think...I may sound catty, Alastair, though I’m sure I don’t mean to, but she puts me in mind of the saying, always the blushing bridesmaid, never the —’

  ‘Oh, nonsense.’ Dornoch shifted irritably on the sofa. ‘She’s been a bride, she’s been married —’

  ‘I know, I know. I have the thing wrong in my head anyway. What I meant to say was, she’s the perennial blushing mistress, and not noticeably blushing really. But — yes, I think I like her, Alastair.’

  Dornoch said, ‘You’ve no reason to call her what you just have, my dear, no reason at all. There’s been far too much loose talk.’

  Lady Dornoch sighed. ‘I dare say. It’s possibly just her appearance, her personality...she looks the part! Too attractive.’ She thought, but wouldn’t say, too sexy. ‘I like her, but I can quite understand any anxieties Fiona Ogilvie may have.’

  ‘Possibly. But I’ll say this without fear of contradiction: she’s very much in love with young Ogilvie.’ He couldn’t quite interpret the look his wife gave him when he had said this. The matter went out of his mind soon after, when Captain Black was announced on regimental business. By this time Mary had ordered her carriage elsewhere; alarmed by Dornoch’s revelation that James was on leave, she had made up her mind to go to the top. If James had genuinely had leave of absence from Murree he would have come to see her. Of that she had not the slightest doubt in the world. But he had not done so. Ergo, he was not on leave, and lies were in the air. James had talked a good deal about Lord Dornoch, and she had met him herself many times — indeed it had been Dornoch who had introduced them in the first place, at that dance before James had gone off with his regiment to besiege Jalalabad in Afghanistan. Lord Dornoch was an honourable man, none more so. If he was being forced to lie, to conceal something, then it began to look very much as though Mrs. Bates had somehow managed to hit a nail firmly on the head. Impetuously, Mary decided that there was only one thing to do: she must talk to General Fettleworth, upon whose own Staff Tom Archdale had served as Staff Major.

  Fettleworth, when she was admitted to audience, was attentive and polite. He had always had a bulging eye for a pretty woman and the mere presence of one in his immediate vicinity tended to give him a slightly roguish air. ‘I’m delighted to see you again, Mrs. Archdale,’ he said. ‘I have many memories of poor Archdale, of course. A first-rate officer, if I may say so.’ He hadn’t been; he’d been a confounded nuisance on the march, with that blasted field-lavatory of his trundling along with the commissariat in the charge of his frivolously-named bum-havildar: Fettleworth hummed and ha’ed for a few moments, then leaned close. ‘My dear gel, is something the matter?’

  ‘Yes, General Fettleworth, there is. Captain Ogilvie of the 114th Highlanders.’

  ‘Oh. Really? But I don’t see —’

  ‘I’ll come to the point,’ Mary said, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. She was feeling unusually nervous, and this was sharpening both her voice and her attack. ‘I’ve no doubt you, as well as everybody else in Peshawar, have heard talk about Captain Ogilvie and myself. I have nothing to say about that beyond the fact that I — am very fond of Captain Ogilvie.’

  ‘Ha,’ Fettleworth said, closing his eyes. Mrs. Archdale, he had been quick to note, was wearing an exceptionally low cut dress, quite outrageous really of course; and he was being given a delectable view, a grandstand one; the dangerous nub of this interview having been reached, he realized with a pang of regret that on no account must he allow temptation to sway his judgment and his tongue. The woman was after something for which she would be willing to pay heavily, and as Divisional Commander he could not, in this particular case, afford the cost. Hussy!

  ‘I want to know where he is, General Fettleworth.’

  ‘To the best of my remembrance, Mrs. Archdale, he was posted to Murree.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, but where is he now?’

  Fettleworth mopped at his face with a handkerchief. ‘Really, my dear young lady. I do not wish to sound pompous, but it is beyond my capabilities to keep track of the movements of every junior officer in my command. I’m sorry, but I really can’t tell you where he may be at this moment. I —’

  ‘If he’s on leave of absence,’ she burst out, ‘which I’m told he is, why hasn’t he come to see me? Why? Can you tell me that?’

  ‘No, I can’t. Surely this is a personal matter? I can’t possibly answer such questions!’

  ‘You could if you wanted to,’ she said hotly. ‘I know you could. I believe he’s in trouble. If he is, I want to know.’

  ‘God bless my soul,’ Fettleworth said in alarm. He blew out his cheeks. Tricky! Of course, he was aware of the rumours that had been circulating; they had worried him a good deal, but he had seen no other course but to disregard them and hope they would die down as all rumours did in the end. To issue explicit denials would do no more than exacerbate the situation and, in a sense, confirm that something was up. This business of Mrs. Archdale would have to be handled with similar negativeness, he decided. Nevertheless, he had to keep his reactions in proper order, so he asked, ‘Now, what has given you that idea, my dear gel?’ and he managed to strike just the right note of amused, tolerant disparagement. ‘I see no special dangers in being on leave of absence in Murree!’

  She told him about the rumours; he dismissed them with a laugh. ‘You need have no fears,’ he said in a fatherly way. ‘I’m quite sure all’s well with Captain Ogilvie —’

  ‘Then who is this man Wilshaw, General Fettleworth?’

  He checked her on that, sharply. ‘You must not ask me military questions, Mrs. Archdale. I have nothing to say on the subject.’ Realizing that he had made a boob, he tried to cover up. Wilshaw, as I had already been given to understand, is simply part of these stupid rumours. I’ve no knowledge of any Wilshaw, none at all.’ He stood up. ‘Now, Mrs. Archdale, you’ll appreciate I’m a busy man, and I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you. I feel sure all will come well, however, and you really mustn’t worry.’

  He went with her to the door and assisted her into her carriage. He held her arm as he walked, and his grip was hot and lecherous, but he was undeniably throwing her out. Mary had no doubts in her mind that to bring Bloody Francis into bed would be child’s play normally and that his hot desire could be
made to tempt him into indiscretion — but not, definitely not, this time. And that spoke far more truly than had any words from Bloody Francis’s lips.

  She drove away, through the dust and the heat, past the military sights and sounds of the cantonments, the sweating soldiers drilling under the loud screams of the sergeants. A short distance from the Divisional H.Q. building her carriage passed a military cart coming from the direction of the hospital. She scarcely noticed the square-shaped hump beneath a pile of sacking, nor the dried bloodstains, and was not near enough to catch the sharp smell of formaldehyde and antiseptic, and naturally Mr. Jones would not have meant anything to her in any case. Her thoughts drummed through her head, circling uselessly. What was she to do? Should she go herself to Murree? But if she did that, and everything was indeed all right, she would make a fool of herself and James might even be furious, to say nothing of the Ogilvie parents, whose strictures might rebound on James himself. It was a quandary without solution, and she had the feeling of a brick wall, of a conspiracy of total silence surrounding James Ogilvie and blotting him out of her life, as though there was an implicit determination to be done with him.

  *

  ‘We can’t let it go on,’ Fettleworth said. He said it with force and obstinacy, slamming his first down on his desk. He glared round at his Chief of Staff, at Lord Dornoch, at Captain Andrew Black, and at Major O’Kelly, for all of whom he had sent, after Mary Archdale’s departure, to help resolve his dilemma. ‘Can’t any of you suggest one damn thing we can do?’

  Lakenham shrugged. ‘It’s difficult, sir. I do agree, he can’t just be left at Murree as it were. Officers do return from leave, after all!’

  ‘Well, exactly. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? I’ve had that damn woman here interrogating me, and I tell you, I don’t like it! I don’t like it at all! Half Peshawar will be laying siege to my headquarters before long. What do we do?’

  Black said, ‘If I may say a word, sir...the problem seems to be, to decide upon some permanent and logical disposal for Captain Ogilvie —’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Dornoch protested angrily. ‘Oh, come! We really can’t have that. I certainly haven’t written him off, I assure you. I’ve every confidence that he’ll return — with an understandable feeling of having been cruelly let down.’

  ‘By whom, sir?’ Fettleworth demanded angrily.

  ‘By you, sir,’ was Dornoch’s sharp answer, ‘among others — myself included —’

  ‘Damned impertinence —’

  ‘None was intended, sir. I apologize.’

  ‘So I should damn well think.’

  ‘But the facts remain. We’re abandoning a British officer to Pathan hands, and whatever the military necessity I consider that a scandal to the army and the Raj, sir.’

  ‘Pish — to the last part. For the sentiment regarding abandoning a British officer, though I do not accept the word abandoning, for he will still be doing his duty as an officer of this garrison — for that sentiment I need hardly say I have the highest personal regard.’ Pointedly Fettleworth swung away from Dornoch and faced Andrew Black. ‘You were about to make an observation, I believe, Captain Black. What was it, pray?’

  ‘A permanent and logical disposal for Ogilvie, sir.’ Black looked down, studying his fingernails. ‘It is not a welcome suggestion, General. I realize that, but needs must, I think, when the devil drives. It would appear to me obvious, in that light. There must be a funeral. A weighted coffin. It would, of course, be a delicate matter to broach to the parent.’

  There was a silence, the silence of shock. Even Fettleworth was shocked. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘A funeral. Bless my soul a little drastic, don’t you think, Captain Black?’

  ‘But effective, sir, very.’ Black leaned forward. ‘It would be the end of all gossip, of all rumour. And if we cast from our minds all thoughts of — how may I best put this — of reality in the occasion, then there will be no effrontery in it. No insult to the Lord.’ Black hesitated, his dark eyes scanning the group of senior officers. ‘This does not commend itself, gentlemen?’

  Fettleworth said, ‘Dornoch?’

  ‘I think it’s wholly preposterous, sacrilegious, unfeeling — and scandalous!’

  ‘I must say, I’m inclined to agree with your Colonel, Black. Oh, I acknowledge it as effective, but we have to bear in mind that Ogilvie may return. Should he do so, I think you can see the complications for yourself, without my detailing them.’ He drummed his fingers on his desk, unhappily. ‘Some other solution must be found, and quickly!’

  The talk flowed around Dornoch’s more or less unheeding ears. Brigadier-General Lakenham made some vague suggestion that Northern Army Command be asked to give the absent officer a further posting, say to Calcutta, but Fettleworth found difficulties in the way of this. Dornoch was thinking of Black, thinking that his revolting proposal had been born of murkier depths than would have been obvious to Fettleworth. Fettle-worth may have had his reasons for wishing James Ogilvie off the local scene, but Fettleworth was not a vindictive man at heart and he had that human side that kept coming to the surface at unexpected moments. He would not knowingly — and here was the essential difference between him and Black — he would not knowingly and with deliberation act in so despicable a manner as to rid himself of a possible embarrassment by leaving a junior officer or anybody else to the mercies of the Pathans. Black, Dornoch had come to believe, was capable of this, at any rate in his innermost thoughts. Black had a kind of death wish for Ogilvie, and it was this wish that had fathered the idea of the funeral. As for Fettleworth, he must have some other reason for that headstrong, stupid insistence that a Political Officer should not, after capture, be acknowledged. Certainly this was normal military practice — under normal conditions, if any conditions along the Frontier could be described as normal; but there was surely a difference in this case! Once that message had been received, firm action should have been taken. Further secrecy was pointless. Now that rumour appeared to have caught up with the truth, action was more than ever the only right and proper course. To dither and hedge in the changed circumstances, to abrogate a General’s responsibilities, would be, once the whole thing came out, to bring the greatest possible discredit upon the whole military institution.

  Forced by his inner conflict into speech Dornoch said as much, cutting across a further contribution from the Chief of Staff. It did not the slightest good. Fettleworth, made only the more obstinate by opposition, treated him to an angry speech on military necessities and expediencies and the over-riding importance of not being seen to be engaged in espionage, et cetera. Dornoch, who had heard it all before, listened in boiling silence. In the end the officers dispersed without a real decision having been taken. The day was won by the policy of wait and see. Or, in O’Kelly’s phrase, more masterly inactivity...

  *

  James Ogilvie’s continued inactivity was far from masterful; it had become so intensely painful that he doubted his ability to hold out for many more hours. Day after day, with only the guard-changes to relieve the desperation of his monotony, only the distant mountain tops and the old sadhu and the occasionally perambulating legs of the sentry to watch, he had borne his confinement and he had no idea when it would end; but he kept going, kept his sanity as his limbs, his whole body, trembled uncontrollably, by telling himself that Nashkar Ali Khan must have a genuine use for him and, in his own good time, would order his release. It would have been quite pointless to keep him here under guard if that statement had not been genuine; death would have been more effective security-wise, and visible torture more fun.

  Thoughts of Jones tormented his hours, more especially when sheer exhaustion brought brief and nightmare-ridden sleep. Then he could see that poor tormented body gradually dwindling to a trunk, could hear the terrible shrieks and the high, sighing moans that had burst from the tongueless mouth in those last horrible moments of bouncing up from the flat rock. Jones himself could never have remotely visualized th
e way his life would end, when he had first set out from Brum to make his money. To make it by a dirty and unworthy trade, certainly — Healey was only too right about that. He had deserved punishment, but not torture and degradation. He had got far, far more than his deserts, and it was ironic that this should have come about as the result of an act of patriotism at the last. For Jones had done a brave thing, and had done it to the best of his ability and in full awareness of the risks involved. He had not been a soldier, he owed no military allegiance to the British Raj; he was acting under no orders. Poor Jones had been a true volunteer, even though possibly a well-paid one. And no one in Peshawar or Nowshera or Murree would mourn his death; he was expendable, an easy sacrifice to the greater good. Some Staff Officer, some O’Kelly who had initiated Jones’s participation, would have been wining and dining carelessly enough in some depot Mess the night Jones had bounced his screaming way to death and to whatever recrimination awaited him when once more he made contact with the late Regimental Sergeant-Major of the old 14th Foot.

  Ogilvie found that this thought of Jones’s father brought the relief of a smile and temporary forgetfulness of horror. Jones had been a character, however disreputable, and their journey together had had its lighter moments. He was thinking of some of these moments, and seeing Jones in wily conclave with Gojun Khan, first of the khel leaders with whom they had made contact, when he became aware of things happening outside his rocky prison. The dawn had reached across the hills and the Pathan on guard had scraped himself to his feet and had moved some distance away, so that Ogilvie could see the whole of his tall, rangy figure and the rifle that was pointing down towards the track leading up from the pass.

  Men were coming up the track; three men, Pathans. When they reached the hole one of them bent down and Ogilvie saw that it was Healey.

  Healey gave him a warning wink, with his face close, and spoke in Pushtu. Wilshaw Sahib,’ he said, ‘you are to be released and you will come with me.’

  ‘By whose order?’