Soldier of the Raj Read online

  What was behind it?

  Fettleworth had a devious mind. Had Preston given the order, Dornoch would still most likely have disagreed with it, but at least he would never have suspected the motives. But with Fettleworth...and all at once Dornoch remembered, and went cold at the very thought, that James Ogilvie had been one of a very small number of officers who had known — and none better than he, since he had been the prime mover in the affair — that Lieutenant-General Fettleworth had been in a fair way to losing Fort Gazai and the remnants of its garrison until the moment that the despised artillery had so surprisingly, and so shatteringly, opened from the flank and sent the native hordes flying in total disorder. As surprised as anyone else, Fettleworth had been sufficiently all there to turn the botched orders to good account, and had smugly accepted the lavished praise and honours as his due for a notable victory. But since then — this was no more than rumour, and quite possibly malicious rumour but at the same time entirely believable — Bloody Francis had harboured certain antagonisms against those officers who had known the truth. Rumour or not, there must always have been a nagging worry at the back of his mind that, one day, someone might let something slip. And it was a fact that his then Chief of Staff, Brigadier-General Forrestier, had since been promoted out of harm’s way — on Fettleworth’s glowing recommendation; he would keep his mouth well shut! Dornoch recoiled from the conclusion that his thoughts led to. No British General, surely, would sink so low! No...it was impossible, not to be thought of, a most scandalous slander on a brave officer. Nevertheless, he could not stop himself facing the undoubted fact that James Ogilvie was the one officer who, in a sense, was the living proof of Fettleworth’s mendacity, if ever he cared to speak. He would not speak, of course; but Fettle-worth could not be sure of this.

  His mind in a turmoil, Lord Dornoch cantered back to barracks. On arrival, he sent first of all for Captain Black; the arrangements for B Company had now to be reversed, and, before calling a meeting of his officers to give his orders for the action preparations, the Colonel wished to settle this rather alarming affair of Ogilvie.

  There being no reason why he should not, he informed the adjutant of all that Fettleworth had said, though naturally voiced none of his own suspicions at the hidden motives that might exist. He asked, ‘What’s your opinion, Andrew?’

  ‘I’ll be glad enough to keep MacKinlay in B Company,’ Black said at once.

  ‘I’ve nothing against MacKinlay whatever, though he’s going to be disappointed about Quetta. That, however, wasn’t quite what I asked you, Andrew.’ He paused. ‘Tell me frankly — you’ve never got along with Ogilvie, have you?’

  ‘I have not, Colonel.’ Black’s long, sallow face contrived to look at the same time disapproving and forgiving; also judicial. ‘Oh, I’ll not disguise that I’ll not miss him! I wish to be perfectly open about this, perfectly sincere, as it is my duty to be. He and I have not seen eye to eye — this has to be confessed, and I’ll not argue that some of the fault may have been mine. All this, however, I am able to set aside. And even when I have set it aside, I am bound to say...yes, I agree with the General. The experience, the very different experience, would be invaluable to any young officer. Invaluable. The Political Department is one that can lead to promotion for those lucky enough to be attached to it, Colonel.’

  ‘Yes, true. I don’t know about lucky, though. They’ve always struck me as a shifty lot, but I suppose that’s their job, after all.’ Dornoch sighed, and rubbed hard at his eyes, trying to dislodge the dust. ‘Well, you’d better make your arrangements accordingly. I’ll see MacKinlay later. Then I’ll want to see all officers and senior N.C.O.s. In the meantime, you’d better send Ogilvie along, Andrew.’

  ‘Very good, Colonel.’ The adjutant withdrew. Dornoch sat on behind his desk, reflecting that there was no reassurance in the fact that one other person who seemed to have, or fancied he had, cause to dislike James Ogilvie had not only been in favour of that young man’s new assignment but had — for him — leaned over backwards to be polite and fair and frankly honest about his dislike...almost disarmingly so! And he remembered, with more gnawing anxiety, that at the party last night in the Mess he had seen Andrew Black in some apparently earnest discussion with Bloody Francis.

  Dornoch’s anxious reverie was interrupted by Ogilvie himself. Bidden to enter, Ogilvie crashed to attention and gave a swinging salute. ‘You sent for me, Colonel?’

  ‘Yes, James.’ He motioned Ogilvie to a chair. “Sit down.” Too late, Dornoch remembered that a rebuke was to precede the intimation of new orders. Rebukes were best given with the victim standing at attention, but no matter now. In the circumstances as Dornoch saw them, the rebuke would be purely perfunctory. ‘James, the adjutant reports that you slept out of cantonments without permission last night. Do you dispute this?’

  ‘No, Colonel.’

  ‘Hm. What have you to say?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. It will not occur again. Next time, I shall ask permission.’

  There was a glint of humour in the Colonel’s eye. ‘With no assurance that it will be granted. James, had you been required for duty last night, even unexpectedly, I would have had to take a very different view, as well you know.’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘I think you have been lucky. Don’t abuse your luck, James. Now, on your apology and your assurances for the future, I’ll say no more. Except this: watch your tongue, especially with Captain Black. D’you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘All right, then. Now I’ve something else to say.’ He paused, leaning across his desk. ‘I’ve been talking to the General about you — or rather, he talked to me about you. I’m sorry, James, but for the time being you’re not getting your company.’

  ‘Not —?’

  ‘Now, don’t jump to conclusions. You’ll get your company later on, there’s no aspersions being cast at you, James, none at all. But you have another job to do first, on the General’s direct order. You’re to be seconded via the Staff to the Political Department.’ With many inward misgivings he told Ogilvie the facts as known to him, and with more misgiving saw that Ogilvie, in spite of an obviously keen disappointment that he was not yet to command a company on active service, was intrigued by the idea of the proposed mission. There had been plenty of lesser-scale action and many, many patrols since Fort Gazai and Dornoch supposed, with the hindsight of middle age, that to a young man eager for variety even fighting could in the end become boring...

  There was, however, one hope left. He, Ogilvie’s Colonel, could not prevent what he considered this miscarriage of an appointment, this ridiculous interruption of a regimental officer’s career — and Fettleworth must have plenty of young men in the Political Department who could do the job as well if not better, which was yet another disturbing thought — but there was someone who, if he should happen to see things in the same light, most certainly could: Ogilvie’s father. Fettleworth’s plans would need to be submitted to the General Officer Commanding in Murree — this indeed was why there was to be a delay in the notification of detailed orders — and Lieutenant-General Sir Iain Ogilvie, himself a former Colonel of the 114th Highlanders, might well nip them smartly in the bud.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A hundred miles away in Murree, headquarters of half of the sub-continent’s military forces, the General Officer Commanding, Northern Army Command, read next day the dispatch from the Commander of the First Division in Peshawar. He noted with approval that Lieutenant-General Fettleworth was reacting with commendable promptness to the early rumblings from Waziristan, rumbles whose echoes had also reached Murree and had in fact formed the subject of a confidential memo from Army Command to all divisions in the area.

  Sir Iain Ogilvie was frankly as worried as Fettleworth as to the implications of the rumours, and of the reports from the Political Officers attached to his headquarters; and though he paid little attention himself to the activities of the thief who had pe
netrated Fettleworth’s defences, giving the affair its due weight in his mind, he could well understand that in the circumstances Fettleworth should take the matter much to heart and react accordingly. After all, it was Fettleworth who had been caught with his trousers down — not him. And the thief could well have been after secret information as Fettleworth had suggested.

  Nevertheless, Sir Iain chuckled as he read the dispatch.

  ‘Poor old Fettleworth,’ he observed to his Chief of Staff. ‘Dammit, he’s not going to like being broken into! His office’ll be submerged in bumph from Calcutta after this — memo after memo from the damn Civilians about locking the back door after the cat’s been put out for the night. In fact I’ll be obliged myself to give him a formal warning about his sentries.’ He looked up. ‘See to that, Leith, if you please.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Tactfully. You know what Fettleworth is. I have to keep reminding myself he’s the same rank as myself now.’ His gaze went down again to the dispatch, reading on. Then he said, ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘He means to repay the Waziris in their own coin, Leith. Send in a spy — a thief to steal men’s thoughts!’

  ‘It’s been done before, sir.’

  ‘I know, I know, I’m not saying it isn’t necessary, but I detest the idea behind that sort of thing. Not straight-forward, not British, Leith.’

  ‘No, sir, I agree, but war is war.’

  Sir Iain rustled irritably. ‘I know that too, you fool. Dammit, man, you’re full of platitudes this morning!’ He jabbed at Fettleworth’s dispatch. ‘Point is, he wants to send my son in as his damned spy!’

  Leith was slightly jolted. ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘That’s what he says.’

  ‘Well, sir. It’s all new experience, and valuable experience too, for a young officer. There’s no way better of getting to know the native mind —’

  ‘Certainly — if you don’t die first.’ Having said that, Sir Iain instantly regretted it. He would much have liked to tell Fettleworth to find someone else to do his dirty work and leave his son to get on with soldiering; now, never mind all the other considerations that would be involved, he could scarcely do that. In the eyes of his Chief of Staff, any interference on his part with a subordinate commander’s decision would smack distinctly of an attempt to keep his own flesh and blood out of harm’s way. And such news would travel fast in India. The Army Commander scowled and snapped irritably, ‘My dear Leith, the next Chief of Staff I have is going to be a yes man. They’re much more comfortable to live with.’

  *

  It was a highly personal matter, so, before giving final approval to Fettleworth’s plans, Sir Iain took the step, unusual for him, of talking it over with his wife after luncheon. He placed the whole thing before her, calmly and unemotionally, and asked for her comments.

  Lady Ogilvie felt an icy grip around her heart; her husband’s action was so uncharacteristic that the mere fact of his confiding in her was thoroughly alarming. When James had been sent into action before, nothing specific had ever been so much as mentioned to her. But she fought to keep her anxiety under control and said. ‘Tell me one thing, Iain. Are you saying that you could stop this?’

  ‘Dammit, I’m the G.O.C., am I not? Of course I could!’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be a good thing.’

  ‘It would be a damn bad thing.’ Not for the first time, Sir Iain was grateful that Fiona was a soldier’s daughter as well as a soldier’s wife. She ‘understood’ in a very positive sense; but at the same time Sir Iain himself was wise enough to realize that his wife’s third position — that of being a soldier’s mother — was perhaps the hardest of all and certainly, in this case, the most relevant. In a way he was being unfair, he knew, in asking her to share the burden of decision, if there was any decision to be made in so delicate a matter, but he felt instinctively that she would prefer to know the facts on this occasion, so that, whatever the outcome, they as husband and wife, they as parents, would have given joint thought to what was really best for the boy — and even as he thought that, Ogilvie pulled himself up sharp. Why, really that was his answer: James was no longer a boy. He was a man, a full-blown Captain in a Highland regiment — the best of Highland regiments and one that had been commanded already by two generations of Ogilvies. He could make his own decisions, and probably had. Sir Iain repeated, ‘A bad thing, Fiona. But on the other hand, if you felt...’

  ‘Felt what?’

  Ogilvie looked down at his wife, lying on a long couch behind the shutters. Those shutters let in just a little of the afternoon sun, and the beams, falling irregularly on her cheek, showed her suddenly as she had looked when they had married, so many years ago. Young and defenceless, and a little apprehensive of her future, for in her father’s house she had led a fairly sheltered life, whilst the Ogilvies, whose clan she had now joined, were a rumbustious, full-blooded lot not much given to doing things by halves; and he had seen the apprehensive look again from time to time when she had held the young James, a baby in her arms, as though her mind was projecting for him through troubled years ahead. Possibly it was just a trick of the light today, but possibly — indeed almost certainly —it was more than that.

  Sir Iain cleared his throat gruffly and said, ‘I dare say I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but if you really feel I should, I’ll find a way of countermanding Fettleworth’s order. I admit I’d rather see James as a regimental soldier...taking his chance in open combat in the field.’

  ‘How dangerous is this mission going to be?’ she asked directly, watching his face.

  He shrugged; his tunic was open at the neck, and she saw the sag of his throat, the wrinkled flesh of many chins. Iain was no longer a young man, she thought sadly; he would not have much longer to go in the service, just a handful of years to close a chapter, and a very honourable one. He was, she knew, devoted in his soldierly, undemonstrative way to his son, and the last ambition left to him now was to see his son command the family regiment as a lieutenant-colonel; but even so, he must not be allowed to close his chapter of service with any suspicions of string-pulling or favours attaching to his name. It would be so obvious — so very much too obvious! He must know that in his heart.

  He answered her question carefully. ‘It would depend largely upon James himself, Fiona. It would depend upon how convincing he could make himself, and on his ability to assess situations as they arose and decide when the moment had come for him to withdraw in the knowledge that his usefulness was coming to an end. It would also depend on luck. I won’t disguise that it could be extremely dangerous, but on the other hand, it is an accepted practice of war on the North-West Frontier. That is to say — it has been done many times before. Successfully.’

  ‘Always successfully?’

  ‘No, Fiona. Not always.’

  ‘And when it is not?’

  He spread his hands, eloquent in his silence. She looked away; it had been a stupid question. She asked another: ‘How do you assess the chances, Iain?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty. That’s all I can say. Well, Fiona? I’m not asking you for a decision, you know. Only an opinion. The decision will be mine entirely.’

  She closed her eyes against the shutter-filtered sunlight, the hard sunlight of a savage land, an unfeeling land, even a sadistic one. For what seemed an age, she thought while her husband, waited patiently — which in itself was unusual for that impatient man. But she already knew what she must say; command decisions must not be interfered with on personal grounds — never! She believed that in fact Iain’s mind was already made up, and she would not weaken his resolve. Opening her eyes at last, and sitting up, she said, ‘It must be left as it is, Iain. If we were to interfere...we might very well regret it. Don’t you see that?’

  He did, and he nodded. Like many a Highland man or woman, Fiona Ogilvie had a fairly strong belief in fate. If harm should come, as come it always might, to James in the field, then she would
blame herself if that harm should come as a result of any interference with what had been decided for him. Sir Iain took a deep breath and said, ‘Very well, Fiona, I’ll formally approve Fettleworth’s plans. And I feel sure it’ll all turn out for the best. Have no worries, my dear.’

  She said, almost involuntarily, ‘I do think it might be better for him in many ways, to be away from Peshawar.’

  Their eyes met, and Sir Iain nodded again, and they knew that each of them was thinking of Mary Archdale. The G.O.C. left his wife and went back to his duties, working through the hot afternoon when he should have been taking his siesta, and next day confirmation of James Ogilvie’s temporary posting reached Lord Dornoch. When he read this Dornoch shook his head fretfully, still not liking the business. Naturally enough, he appreciated the enormous difficulty of a serving father, but he found it ironic and sad that that father should be the third in a chain of men who, for one reason or another, desired James Ogilvie’s departure from Peshawar. For Dornoch, of course, was by no means unaware of the situation in regard to Tom Archdale’s widow.

  Feeling that perhaps he should have taken decisive, if interfering, action much earlier in that direction, he sent for Captain Ogilvie with a heavy heart.

  *

  ‘I’ll give you the background first, Ogilvie,’ the Political. Officer said later that day. ‘It’s somewhat involved, like everything else in India.’ He giggled; Major O’Kelly, late of Skinner’s Horse where his sack-of-potatoes figure had made him more than a square peg in a round hole, was a giggly man with a high-pitched voice, irritating mannerisms, and a way of looking sideways instead of full face at people to whom he was talking. There was a curious greasiness about him, and an air approaching furtiveness that suggested to Ogilvie that he liked things to be involved. If involvement was his bread-and-butter, that was possibly quite natural; but Ogilvie fancied it went beyond that and that involvement was, as it were, his mistress too. It was a love affair with double dealing. Even this interview had its furtive side. It was being conducted, not in Major O’Kelly’s office at Division, but in his quarter. Here there was no wifely influence, for O’Kelly was a bachelor and a slovenly one at that, with no obvious ability to cope with his native servants. The room in which they sat was seedy and threadbare and on the table between them there was still the evidence of O’Kelly’s last meal: a loaf of bread on a white kitchen plate, and another plate with a remnant of smelly cheese and a crust. There was also a bottle of whisky that had been half emptied by the Political Officer himself, and there was a smell on the air of stale alcohol. On O’Kelly’s shoulder a tiny monkey perched, staring at Ogilvie from black beady eyes while one hand lethargically searched its body for fleas. Without in the least disturbing the monkey — Ogilvie fancied it was in fact a marmoset — O’Kelly slopped more whisky into his glass with a well-kept white hand, a small hand like a woman’s. Then he went on, ‘You’ll have heard of Nashkar Ali Khan, of course.’