The Lion's Den Read online

  The Lion’s Den

  Philip McCutchan

  © Philip McCutchan 1972

  Philip McCutchan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1972 by Hodder and Stoughton as The Gates of Kunarja by Duncan MacNeil.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  Extract from Soldier of the Raj by Philip McCutchan

  ONE

  To see London again, after four years of mainly active service on the North-West Frontier of India, had been splendid fun; to have, for a while, his own unregimented rooms in Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly, had been a delicious relaxation, the more so as Mary Archdale had, to his parents’ fury, ac-companied him by train from Peshawar and then by the P. & O. steamer from Bombay to Tilbury. But when, after a month of London—and even though prudence had dictated that Mary should remain behind—Captain James Ogilvie had left King’s Cross aboard the Flying Scotsman for Edinburgh, where he would change on to the slow line for Aviemore and Corriecraig, he had felt for the first time that he was really coming home. For a little over four hundred years the Ogilvies had occupied Corriecraig Castle; from its keep and battlements, once garrisoned by its private army, they had throughout the more democratic centuries set out to their various wars, to fight in all corners of the world for monarch and country and ultimately for Empire, as Lieutenant-General Sir Iain Ogilvie was currently doing in India, as soon James his son would once again be doing; and the grip of Corriecraig, of its wide-flung holdings, of its inherited responsibilities, was strong and binding. The traditions were entwined in James Ogilvie’s very being; he had been a part of Corriecraig from birth, and it had become a vital part of him in its turn, moulding him into a life of service and high endeavour, predestining him, as the only son of his father, to enter what had become the family regiment, the 114th Highlanders, the Queen’s Own Royal Strathspeys, into which the eldest son always went...

  The stations, the landmarks to Scotland, came up and fell behind: Huntingdon, Peterborough, York...Durham, the platforms high-perched by the tall viaduct, with a splendid view of the cathedral and the castle, as dusk fell over the North; Newcastle upon Tyne, with mist wreathing around the station lanterns and the gaslights; and then at last, Edinburgh and the Scots accents of the porters as they loomed up ghost-like in the light from the carriage windows, and bustled aboard to take hold of the trunks of the ladies and gentlemen in the First Class coaches.

  ‘Corriecraig, is it, sir? You’ll be wanting the train for Perth and Inverness, or are you staying overnight in the hotel?’

  Ogilvie smiled. ‘I’ll be going on, porter. I’m going home, you see. All the way from India!’

  ‘India, is it, sir? Then welcome back to Scotland. If you’ll follow me, sir, put you on the train north. You have twenty minutes just.’

  *

  James Ogilvie was met at Aviemore railway station—met by a large, clanking monster in the charge of a young man wearing a soft-crowned, peaked cap and a dark blue tunic, buttoned to the neck beneath a heavy greatcoat. The mechanical contrivance upon which this man attended was the centre of much attention from the railway station staff and the few passengers who had alighted with Ogilvie.

  ‘What the devil!’ Ogilvie said as his trunks were lifted into the back of the four-seater beneath the glare of gas lamps. Curiously, he walked round the motor-car; it was beautifully kept, with the brass lamps gleaming with much polishing and the paintwork spotless; it was not the first mechanical carriage he had seen, but he was surprised at his uncle having acquired such a thing. ‘What’s my uncle doing with a contrivance like this? Who’re you, by the way?’ he asked the object’s guardian.

  ‘MacNab, sir. The admiral’s chauffeur, sir. This...’ Mac-Nab patted the bonnet lovingly. ‘She’s a Panhard-Levassor, the very best, sir. Since the man with the red flag was done away with last year, the admiral’s made more use of her than he has of horses, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned! Does it really go?’

  ‘Indeed she does, sir, though with the weight of your trunks she’ll not make so much speed.’

  Ogilvie nodded, and, cautiously, climbed aboard the Panhard-Levassor. MacNab did something to the controls and they moved off, noisily and with a warm smell of oil. Ogilvie shook his head in wonderment. Uncle Rufus, fairly recently retired from the Navy as a rear-admiral and currently tenanting Corriecraig Castle in Sir Iain’s absence overseas, was not only his father’s younger brother, he was also an old shellback of an admiral who had detested, and most bitterly resented, the advent of steam propulsion in the Queen’s Navy and its attendant abortion, engineers. A dirty race of black devils, he had written to James Ogilvie’s father. Quite impossible people...God alone knows what the Service is coming to. Logically, James Ogilvie would have supposed, internal combustion would have ranked on a par with steam in the mind of a man hitherto accustomed, when ashore, to the saddle.

  *

  ‘You’re looking damn well, my boy, damn well,’ Rufus Ogilvie said over whiskies by a roaring fire in Sir Iain’s study. ‘India suits you—hey?’

  ‘Well enough, Uncle Rufus.’

  Blue eyes, sailor’s eyes, ran over him critically. ‘Plenty of action?’

  James nodded.

  ‘Wish to God I was still serving. Kicked me out, the buggers — I didn’t want to go! Age — that’s the trouble. I didn’t quite make vice-admiral in time, you see. They’ll have your father out soon, and what’ll that do to him? Break his heart, I shouldn’t wonder. Oh, the buggers!’ Rear-Admiral Rufus Ogilvie lifted his arms with his fists clenched, and waved them violently in the air, his round red face deepening in colour to a dangerous purple. He was standing up, while his nephew sat. He was standing very straight, very square; he was not a tall man like his brother and nephew, but he was robust and solid, the sort to face a gale like an abiding rock. James often wondered how his uncle had ever fathered a son such as cousin Hector the Civil Servant, largely desk-bound in Whitehall — ruling India by remote control, from a sea of paper and a tidal wave of regulations and minutes and semi-decisions arrived at by committees. Uncle Rufus would have a very short way with committees...

  ‘Why the petrol carriage, Uncle Rufus?’ James asked curiously after some moments of silence.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The petrol carriage — the, what’s it, Panhard. I always thought mechanical—’

  ‘Ah—yes, yes. Well now, my boy, call it a hobby. Oddly enough — your aunt’s hobby rather than mine. Call it unwomanly if you like, but that’s the truth.’ There was something in the Admiral’s expression that told James it wasn’t quite the truth : but it was a convenient enough face-saver for a sailing-navy man. ‘As for me, it gives me an engineer to bully—’

  ‘Chauffeur?’

  ‘Damn silly frog name! Engineer. I make him keep it spotless, even the tyres.’

  James grinned. ‘I don’t believe you really bully him, Uncle Rufus.’

  ‘Perhaps not, perhaps not.’ Rufus Ogilvie gave a sudden deep laugh. ‘Did I ever tell you what I did to my confounded fleet engineer once—’

  ‘Yes, you did—’

  ‘When he was slow to give me the speed I wanted—’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘I picked him up with own two ha
nds,’ the Admiral continued obstinately, for he was fond of this story, ‘and I threw him over the bridge rails, right into the sea. That cooled him and cleaned him, by God! I let him wallow before I sent away a boat.’ Suddenly, he sat down facing his nephew; in that moment he looked, Ogilvie thought, older and less sure of himself. He said, D’you know, James, I’ve thought from time to time since, that could have been why I wasn’t promoted. I still think it was worth it, though. One has to make one’s protest.’ He pulled a heavy gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, and looked at it with his head held back and eyes narrowed. ‘Dammit, it’s late, very late. Something I wanted to talk to you about, but it’s too late and it’ll do in the morning. Before your aunt’s up. You an early riser, my boy?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll have a bright and early spin in the Panhard. I’ll have you called at six bells...seven o’clock.’

  They went together up the great staircase and parted on the landing, after a warm handshake. James Ogilvie went to the room that had always been his since he had left the nursery. It was a room to come back to, a room that was full of memories, a room that was home, an anchorage in a somewhat nomadic life. Here there were no reminders of the regiment or of India, unless the silver-framed photograph of his father in his uniform, when he had, as a lieutenant-colonel, commanded the battalion, could be considered as such. The memories here were of childhood days, and schooldays, and Sandhurst days; he had not been home since just after he had been gazetted from Sandhurst to the 114th Highlanders as a second lieutenant. And so—moustached now, and tanned, and with a hardening line to his jaw and a very military bearing — he moved around the things of the past and felt a wrench of nostalgia as he did so. A tennis racket, a pair of ice skating boots, a cricket bat, some fishing tackle, a moth-eaten and useless set of bagpipes...all these had had their niche and they all brought back vivid scenes of what now, to Captain James Ogilvie, seemed the very long ago. So much had happened in between. India, the fighting outside Jalalabad in Afghanistan, the terrible march under Bloody Francis Fettleworth to the relief of Fort Gazai, his wanderings in the wild hills of Waziristan on attachment to the Political Service, the terrible death of Jones, the arms salesman from Birmingham. And Mary Archdale. Mary, who at that moment would be lonely, and thinking of him, in her quiet hotel in South Kensington. Mary who, James Ogilvie was certain, was to be the subject of the forthcoming early-morning talk with his uncle.

  Talk? Lecture, more like!

  Restlessly, suddenly ill-at-ease, Ogilvie swung away from the well-remembered cupboard into which he had been staring.

  His eyes was caught by a crudely coloured picture, framed, at his mother’s insistence, upon the wall: a childish painting executed, with immense pride, by his young sister years ago, a young sister that a mother could not bear to see hurt. James Ogilvie as a child had been cruelly critical of that lovingly done painting, furious at being made to hang it, ashamed of it before his friends. He had always been critical of his sister; now, he saw the picture through different eyes, saw it for what it was and had always been, a genuine expression of devotion. He moved away, subject to a little guilt, went towards a window and pulled aside the heavy curtain, and looked out over the courtyard of the castle and beyond the walls to the Scottish countryside, bathed in bright moonlight — unobscured moonlight was rare enough in Corriecraig and Ogilvie had the feeling the clouds had withdrawn to allow him a welcome home. Looking across towards distant mountains and hearing a faint sighing of the wind from the North Sea, he thought of India, and Murree, of his father currently commanding the Northern Army half a world away, his father and mother who belonged here and had scarcely seen their property in the last seven or eight years. Except when, as in the case of Uncle Rufus, a member of the clan took temporary possession, Corriecraig was left to his father’s agent to oversee and administer and maintain. That Sir Iain loved Corriecraig no one could ever doubt; but James guessed that he loved the regiment and the army more. He was a born soldier; the son, a little less so. There had been a time indeed when James Ogilvie had hated the army life; that time had passed, and with added years and responsibility and maturity he was content enough. But his first loyalty was to Corriecraig; and he could not understand how, when his grandfather had died, his father could have remained on in the army, rather than send in his papers and come home to Corriecraig to take upon his shoulders the mantle and duties of the laird. James Ogilvie had no doubts as to what he himself would do when the time came.

  *

  She hadn’t really wanted him to come north, though she had not precisely said so and certainly had not put any obstacles in his way. Still —he knew. Knew, regretted, but understood completely. She, the widow of an officer killed in action in India, was very much on her own in London and without an escort found her horizons sadly circumscribed : ladies did not go about unaccompanied, never rode alone in hansom cabs and, of course, could not possibly — no more could a gentleman, indeed — travel by omnibus.

  Ogilvie had suggested as companion a Mrs. Gleeson, also a widow, also young, also resident in Mary’s hotel; but this had led to a pout and a fiat and spirited rejection.

  ‘That silly woman! Oh, dear, James, no thank you! Besides, she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Mary laughed; they were in his rooms, and she nestled her head down against his chest. ‘My dear, you’re no more perceptive than most men. She disapproves of me. I see far too much of you. She’s as stuffy as a bath bun, James, and I hate her. I’ve always hated respectability, as you very well know. Letitia Gleeson, though in all conscience I wouldn’t dream of ever calling her anything but Mrs. Gleeson, is very respectable. Her husband was a barrister. Old, I’ve gathered — like my Tom. But at least Tom was a soldier, even if not a very good one.’ She laughed again. ‘Oh, James, do you remember his field lavatory, and the bum-havildar?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing one could never mention to Mrs. Gleeson. She’d choke. No, it’s no good, I represent Sin to her. She even hinted the other day that my Captain Ogilvie was very young...the inference was obvious enough.’ She brought her head up and looked into his eyes, searchingly. ‘James, I don’t look all that much older, do I? Please tell me truthfully. Seven years is a long time.’

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her, passionately. ‘Darling, I’ve told you so often, you don’t look it and it doesn’t matter anyway.’

  ‘It does to your parents...and the old trouts in Peshawar. Not all female trouts either.’

  ‘Well, don’t let it spoil things. Mrs. Gleeson’s not in the least important.’

  ‘How true! But don’t ever suggest her as a chaperon again, James dear. Don’t suggest anyone. There’s simply no one in what I suppose you could call my circle, which after years in India hasn’t much of a diameter, that I’ve the smallest thing in common with. India changes people, love. Changes them a great deal. It’s so narrow in some ways, so wide in others. Women like me are aliens in their own country. Just to mention one thing...I’ve become used to a chota peg at sundown. I shouldn’t, but I have. Even in Peshawar it wasn’t quite the done thing for a lady, but here in London...love, it would make Mrs. Gleeson give birth!’ She gave a sudden rather wicked gurgle and nestled into his chest again, her hands roving lightly. ‘Talking of that, love, since you’re off to the highlands so soon...’

  ‘Mary,’ he murmured into the soft hair. ‘Mary, my dearest.’ That had been in the afternoon, the respectable English afternoon, when the ladies of London were calling and leaving cards upon other ladies who sighed, but put a well-bred good face upon the intrusion, the entirely predictable intrusion, into their peace. That evening Ogilvie took Mary in a hansom cab to dine at the Cafe Royal and after that to a music hall — the Canterbury, in the Westminster Bridge Road. She much preferred that to a West End theatre. As they went in the newsboys were tearing out their lungs, shouting the late news, running with their flapping pos
ters beneath a chill drizzle: unusual, for late summer weather. There was something about India, and the Frontier, and a border flare-up. There was always a border flare-up, but Ogilvie bought a paper and when they were in their seats he read the reports. It was nothing much, but there was mention of the Division at Peshawar and Nowshera, and of its commander, Lieutenant-General Francis Fettleworth. Even in a London music hall, an officer on leave couldn’t remain unaware of Bloody Francis, Ogilvie thought with irritation.

  Mary’s hand touched his arm. ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Some patrols have been fired on and there’ve been some wounded. No...nothing much. All the same...’ He hesitated.

  ‘Well, love?’

  ‘We tend to be forgotten, in India...till something big is in the air. The home papers—’

  ‘Not tonight, James dear. Forget Peshawar, please!’

  He smiled, and pressed her fingers. ‘All right, Mary.’ It was not possible, however, entirely to forget; there were many uniforms in the audience — bluejackets, infantrymen, guardsmen in their scarlet tunics, riflemen in dark green; and there were plenty of patriotic songs : songs like ‘Soldiers of the Queen’, and ‘By Jingo If We do’. Ogilvie sang with the rest, and with a will, and thought inevitably of the Frontier.

  We don’t want to fight,

  But, by jingo, if we do,

  We’ve got the ships, we’ve got the men,

  We’ve got the money too!

  One way and another, it was an enjoyable last night in London. The memory of it was in Ogilvie’s mind as sleep came to him in his old room at Corriecraig, and his subsequent dreams were of Mary. But he woke refreshed and on the instant when, sharp on seven o’clock, there was a loud bang on his door and his uncle’s own servant came in with tea.

  ‘Good morning, sir. It’s a fair, bright day, sir. The Admiral’s up already.’

  ‘Thank you, Morrison, and good morning to you. What’s that you have there — apart from the tea, I mean?’