Lieutenant of the Line Read online

  ‘That’s hardly the point’

  ‘No, my Mr. Ogilvie, it isn’t, is it! What a bitch. But don’t worry too much, James—that’s Simla. Everyone’s talking hard about everyone else. Let’s forget Mrs. Bates.’ But it spoiled the afternoon all the same; Mary clearly had the incident on her mind, and as for Ogilvie, taken in conjunction with Hector’s impertinent remarks that morning, it worried him badly. In a sense he was almost thankful when, on his arrival back at the bungalow just before dinner, his mother told him a telegram had come for him and, on opening it, he found he had been recalled urgently to Peshawar to re-join his regiment.

  He told his mother the news and she did not appear surprised. He said, ‘I wonder what’s in the wind, mother.’

  ‘There’s some trouble with the tribes. Your father’s already started back for Murree.’ Lady Ogilvie’s tone was severe. ‘We had no idea where to look for you. He would have wished to say goodbye before he left. You may be going into action.’

  He muttered an apology and asked, ‘did father say anything about this trouble, before he went?’

  ‘Very little. I did gather the tribes north of Peshawar, between there and Chitral, were thought likely to rise against us. That’s—’

  ‘Is this to do with—’

  ‘I don’t know any more than that, dear boy. Your father would say no more. I’m sure you’ll be told when you reach Peshawar.’ She hesitated. ‘James, where were you this afternoon?’

  ‘I went to Annandale,’ he said, fidgeting. ‘To the races, mother.’

  ‘I see. I think you could have told us. It’s not very fair.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything was going to blow up like this, mother. I had no idea father would have to leave so suddenly.’

  ‘No, I realize that, but still.’ She was very put out. ‘Well, James, I’m not going to ask any more questions. We have little time left together now. Your father’s arranged transport for you—you’ll be collected from here at nine o’clock this evening and entrain at Kalka for Peshawar. So don’t let us spoil things now, darling.’

  Just then dinner was announced by the Indian servant and, telling her son not to bother to change, Lady Ogilvie linked her arm in his and they went into the dining room. Ogilvie picked at his food; he was worried and anxious, his mind split in half. He knew that in a sense this was deliverance from temptation and from a special kind of danger, but he would miss Mary very badly. On the other hand he felt a thrill of real excitement at the recall, at knowing he was wanted to meet a threat of trouble. Deep down—or perhaps not so deep down—there was still the heady feeling of being a Royal Strathspey and he was thankful now that he had not resigned his commission. He couldn’t quite make this out; in all the circumstances of his disillusion it was odd that he should welcome action, since action had been the root of his recent troubles. But the period in Simla had helped him more than he fully realized, which was what Lord Dornoch had intended it should do, and he knew that only in further action could he eradicate an unfortunate incident and put himself firmly back on the right road in the esteem of his peers and his own eyes also. And now here was the chance. But first, there was something to be cleared up. He could not run out of Simla and leave Mary to face the gossip alone, the gossip that was bound to result once Mrs. Colonel Bates had loosed her tongue in a few of the homes—which for a certainty she would have done already.

  That had to be put right here and now.

  ‘Mother, there’s something I really should tell you,’ he said when the servant was out of the room. ‘I wasn’t alone at Annandale this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lady Ogilvie looked down at the table, fiddled with some silver.

  He plunged ‘I took Mrs. Archdale.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I happened to meet her. She has a dull time without her husband.’

  ‘Really? I must say I’m surprised at that. An attractive young woman...alone in Simla? She needn’t lack distractions, James.’

  ‘No.’ He felt himself colouring. ‘She has standards of behaviour, mother.’

  She crumbled a piece of bread suddenly. ‘So I should hope. I hope you have, too. You’ve been well brought up.’

  ‘Of course. Yes, I have standards.’ Under cover of the table, his hands balled into fists. Why should he have to explain like a child? ‘I’m sorry, mother. But I thought I ought to tell you...for her sake, you see. In case of gossip. That’s all?’

  His mother gave a short laugh. ‘You mean you were seen, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. There was nothing clandestine about it, anyway.’

  ‘Except that you didn’t see fit to tell your father or me.’ She looked at him very directly; her fine dark eyes were troubled; she was much upset and hurt. ‘Who saw you, James?’

  ‘I dare say, any number of people. I told you—’

  ‘Yes, but who in particular?’

  He said, ‘Oh, a Mrs. Bates, an S. and T. wife.’

  ‘Who cannot be simply dismissed as an S. and T. wife. She’s just about the worst woman in all Simla to have seen you,’ Lady Ogilvie said crisply. ‘Oh, yes, James, you did right to tell me! I would have heard by luncheon tomorrow in any event, though, and it’s already too late to put matters right.’ She reached out to him, across the table. ‘You really mustn’t worry, however. I’ll put Mrs. Bates in her place when the time comes.’

  ‘Mother,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I hope you’ll think of Mrs. Archdale. It’s not just me.’

  ‘But,’ she reminded him, ‘it is you who must come first with me. Any kind of scandal—yes, however baseless in fact—can do only harm to a young man’s career. Believe me, James, I know. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve been an Indian wife long before now! It’s worse than at home. Colchester, Portsmouth, Aldershot, Invermore itself, Fort William—oh, dear me! They’re nothing compared with Simla and Peshawar and Murree and Ootacamund. You must leave this all to me, James, and you must trust me too. Will you?’

  Miserably he said, ‘of course, mother.’

  She looked at him for a while then said gently. ‘Have you any messages? You won’t have time to say good-bye, you know.’

  He said, ‘it’s awfully good of you, mother. Will you just say I’m sorry not to say goodbye?’

  She nodded; no more was said about Mary Archdale. Immediately after dinner Ogilvie changed his clothes and packed, and sharp at nine the servant announced the arrival of the bullock-cart for Kalka railway station. As the primitive vehicle rumbled uncomfortably out of Simla and down the terrible mountain road leading south, Ogilvie’s thoughts were bitter ones. At twenty-one he found no good reason why he should have virtually to account for all his movements to his parents. But his parents were like that, or at any rate his mother was. All the MacGregor women were the same; he remembered his mother’s elder sisters, Aunts Catherine and Emily. When staying with them every moment of the day was ruled, supervised, catalogued and commented upon, dissected and perused. No initiative was allowed to youth. Aunt Emily was a spinster, like Aunt Agnes on his father’s side of the family; and Aunt Catherine, ostensibly a widow, had lived with her from the time her husband had vanished from the scene after five years of marriage. Uncle Claude had never been mentioned since, word being allowed to drop into youthful ears that he had met with an accident whilst holidaying in Naples. In point of fact he had left her flat, being unable to stand any more of her—this news had emerged via Sir Iain one day, when he had been beside himself with rage over some remark of his wife’s. He had referred to the MacGregor family, collectively, as a lot of damn battle-axes—not to his wife but to his son; and had released the truth about Aunt Catherine’s husband. He had then remembered the veil of secrecy and had impressed upon his son that he was not to mention his indiscretion to his mother. James, who had been very close to his mother at that time, and had been deeply shocked as well, hadn’t wanted to hurt her and had kept his father’s confidence. Now the memory tickled him; the MacGregors kept their honour bright by never talking of the
ones who fell by the wayside!

  ***

  Reaching Peshawar three days later Ogilvie found the cantonments placid enough. There were movements in progress on the parade ground, and he heard the shouts of the drill sergeants, but this was mere routine; there seemed to be nothing beyond the ordinary. His boxes were carried to his quarters and he sought out the adjutant to report his return.

  Black was busy, and made him wait. After a long delay Black said, ‘so you’ve come back, James.’

  ‘As instructed—yes.’

  ‘You’ve taken your time.’

  ‘It’s a long trip. I came as quickly as I could.’

  ‘I do not like to be answered back, James, as you well know.’ Black’s sallow face creased into a frown, and the eyes glittered; he saw affront in everything. ‘Now, the Colonel is away to Murree for the time being, so you will follow my orders. You may sit down.’

  Ogilvie sat in a chair facing Black’s desk. Black, whose breath smelt strongly of whisky, lit a short cigar and lay back in his own chair. He said, ‘you’ll recall that patrol, of course. Well now, it seems there may be repercussions. It is a sorry business, a sorry business indeed.’

  ‘What sort of repercussions?’

  ‘Use your imagination, James. I’m sure you have plenty.’ There was a sneer in the tone.

  ‘Reprisals?’ This was exactly what he had feared.

  ‘Precisely.’ Black sat forward with a jerk, folding his arms on his desk. ‘I myself foresaw this at the time. Now it appears likely to come about. The political Officer from Brigade reports that tribesmen, chiefly Pathans from Afghanistan, are assembling in certain villages on this side of the Frontier—namely, in Sikat, Dera and Mundari. These villages, as no doubt you know, are all situated to the north of us, towards Chitral—in Bajaur.’

  ‘And their intentions?’

  Black shrugged. ‘Currently not known for certain, but the inference, I would say, of such assemblies, is fairly obvious! They are likely to form the nucleus of a mob that could well try to mount an attack on Peshawar or Nowshera. You will remember, no doubt, that it is not long since the British Agent himself was besieged in Chitral city.’

  Ogilvie nodded; he remembered well enough. It had happened in February last, and he had had enviously to watch the column from Nowshera leaving on its march north for Chitral. On 1st January the Mehtar, Nizam-ul-Malik, recognized by the British Raj, had been murdered; and when Lieutenant Gurdon, Agent in Chitral, had failed to extend recognition to the new Mehtar on behalf of her Majesty, the Mehtar, self-proclaimed, had persuaded Umra Khan, ruler in neighbouring Jandul, to invade Chitral; whereupon Gurdon’s superior, Surgeon Major Robertson, joined him from Gilghit and, at the beginning of March, was put under siege by the Chitralis and Jandulis. The British had reacted speedily and the 1st Division of the 1st Army had been mobilized at Nowshera, and , a supporting column was made ready to leave Gilghit. The outcome had been brilliantly successful; the siege had been lifted and Chitral garrisoned. The Raj was intact; and that had been that—or so it had been thought. In fact, there had been a residue of much bitterness.

  Ogilvie asked, ‘is there a link between what’s happening in these villages and the Chitral business, Andrew?’

  ‘According to the Political people, there could be, but it’s doubtful. That is, in my view.’ He probably, Ogilvie thought, wished to pin the blame firmly on that patrol. ‘No one can say at this moment what is in the wind, except that it is likely to be serious. General Fettleworth is greatly worried, it appears. He is not, however, meaning to mobilize the Frontier for the present. Instead, he has given orders that a token show of strength will be mounted to impress the tribesmen. This show of strength will take the form of a full-scale review of all troops in the district, to be held outside Peshawar at a date yet to be decided. There will be a full muster of all arms—cavalry, infantry, artillery, sappers. We shall, I trust, put on a noteworthy show, James—but you will likely not be present.’

  ‘Oh?’ Ogilvie felt a sudden chill, wondering if that wretched patrol was still being held against him. ‘What am I to do, then?’

  Black said smoothly, ‘you will be leading a patrol, James, another patrol...and you will make an investigatory probe towards the villages. You will try not to engage the tribes in fighting, you will merely observe, and then return and report upon the whole situation. You will be allowed a maximum of fourteen days in which to bring your patrol back to cantonments. Much will depend on what you report. General Fettleworth will await your return with great interest. You will take twenty men including a piper and a drummer, plus a corporal, and a colour-sergeant. You will enter the villages openly, but, as I have already said, you will avoid any engagements with the tribesmen. This is not to be quite a spying expedition, James, but merely a probe to test the reactions of . the tribes to British soldiers. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think I do,’ Ogilvie answered. ‘May I choose which men I take?’

  Black shook his head; there was a vaguely furtive look about him now. ‘No, I’m sorry. The men are already detailed and you will find them as experienced a bunch as possible—’

  ‘Isn’t this unusual? Surely it’s normal for an officer to pick his men?’

  ‘This may be so, but I’ll thank you not to question my orders and arrangements. I consider it impertinent. Your corporal will be Corporal Phillips, and—’

  ‘Colour-Sergeant Barr?’

  Black nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Must I take Barr?’

  ‘You have objections?’

  The query was too bland and Ogilvie hesitated, considering his reply very carefully. Black, naturally, knew the score; he was intentionally making things awkward—taking advantage, obviously, of the Colonel’s temporary absence in Murree. Meanwhile Ogilvie could scarcely make particular accusations against Barr, who was a perfectly efficient N.C.O. by current standards, without being able to substantiate them to the hilt and beyond. So all he said, in answer to his adjutant’s question, was, ‘no, I have no objections.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that, James. As I recall, General Fettleworth made the particular point that you were to continue in B Company with Barr as your Colour-Sergeant.’ Black fiddled with some papers on his desk, not meeting Ogilvie’s eye. ‘Well—that’s all, James. You will be ready to leave with your patrol at first light tomorrow, and this afternoon you will report to Brigade for briefing by the Political Officer.’

  ‘Very well.’ Ogilvie hesitated. ‘Andrew, may I ask why I’m being given this patrol?’

  Black smiled. ‘Again I ask—you have objections?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He said no more; he couldn’t bring himself to explain to Black. He got to his feet and moved to the door; as he reached it Black said suddenly, ‘One more word, James. You will, I trust, make a success of this patrol.’

  ‘I will,’ Ogilvie answered shortly, and went out. There had been a very clear threat in Black’s tone.

  The briefing by Major Wingate, the Political Officer, which Ogilvie attended with his whole patrol as detailed, was short and to the point and added little to what Black had already told him. He was to make a careful note of all he saw in the villages and the surrounding country—not easy country for a patrol to live and march in—and he was to note the behaviour of the men of the hills and how well they appeared to be armed and supplied. He was to note the condition of the crops. In a sense he was to trail his coat and report the results. The Political people, Wingate said in answer to his question on the point, would deal with the undercover side, the infiltration of spies; and he merely shrugged off the matter when Ogilvie went on to suggest that an efficient infiltration might well have rendered the patrol unnecessary in the first place. Wingate said, ‘I feel you’ve not quite grasped the situation, Ogilvie. Your task is simply to see what comes to a head when you’re seen.’

  ‘To act as an irritant, Sir?’

  ‘If you care to put it that way, yes. The grain of sand in the oyster that produces
the pearl.’

  Pearls for adjutants—and Divisional Commanders. That night after dinner in the Mess Ogilvie refused a game of cards, somewhat moodily, with MacKinlay, his company commander, and sat alone over a glass of port and an old Illustrated London News. He was joined after a while by another subaltern, Roderick Gray of C Company. Gray dropped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Brooding, James—and drinking alone?’

  ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Not if you like it. It’s a bad habit, though.’ Gray sat down. ‘Worried about this patrol you’re taking out?’

  Ogilvie laid the Illustrated London News aside. He said, ‘Well, I think it’s a trifle absurd, really. It’s not going to serve much purpose.’

  ‘Have you told the adj that?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  Gray smiled and yawned. ‘A little bird’s been spreading the news you cut up a bit rough about going out again with. Barr. I don’t blame you...but it doesn’t help to get a reputation for querying orders, you know.’

  ‘When you’ve been out here a little longer, Roddy, somebody may ask for your advice. Just at the moment, I’m not in need of it.’

  ‘All right, no need to get hot under the collar.’ Gray was a plump young man, easy-going and un-ruffleable. He smiled again, comfortably, and said, ‘don’t bash your head against too many brick walls. I have been in the army a little longer than you, James my boy, after all. Things didn’t run smoothly all the time, you know. Did you hear about young Bruce, by the way?’

  Ogilvie shook his head. Bruce was one of the second lieutenants who had only fairly recently joined the regiment from Sandhurst, and Ogilvie had no great opinion of his abilities. Gray said, ‘he took a patrol out while you were in Simla, just a routine job, with Corporal Simmons. Between them, they made a balls of the commissariat and there wasn’t half enough water. They all came back with their tongues hanging out, just about at their last gasp. Bruce made a report that one of the privates had abused him over it. Well, of course, one can’t condone insubordination, but damn it, the man was half mad with thirst and young Bruce had only his own bloody silly incompetence to blame.’