An Honourable Death Read online

  AN HONOURABLE DEATH

  IAIN CRICHTON SMITH

  This eBook edition published in 2015 by

  Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd

  West Newington House

  Associated companies throughout the world

  10 Newington Road

  Edinburgh

  EH9 1QS

  www.polygonbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Iain Crichton Smith, 1992

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  eBook ISBN: 9780857907264

  Version 1.0

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  Also Available From Polygon

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Some of the books I have consulted are as follows:

  Campbell, David, Major-General Hector A. Macdonald, CB, DSO, LLD, London: Hood, Douglas and Howard, and Andrew Melrose, E.C, 1899.

  Chevenix-Trench, Charles, Charley Gordon, the Eminent Victorian Re-assessed, London: Allen Lane, 1978.

  Coates, Thomas E. G., Hector Macdonald or the Private who became a General, London: S.W. Partridge and Co., 1900.

  Daiches, David (ed.), Edinburgh, a Travellers’ Companion, London: Constable, 1986.

  Elton, Lord (ed.), General Gordon’s Khartoum Journal, London: William Kimber, 1961.

  Fraser, Duncan, Edinburgh in Olden Times, Montrose: Standard Press, 1976.

  Friseal, Ailean, Eachunn nan Cath, Glasgow: Gairm Publications, 1979.

  Johnson, Peter, Gordon of Khartoum, London: Patrick Stephen, 1985.

  Keppel-Jones, A., South Africa, London: Hutchinson University Library, 1949.

  Macleod, Kenneth I. E., The Ranker: published by the author, (1976).

  A Victim of Fate: published by the author, (1978).

  Magnus, Philip, Kitchener, a Portrait of an Imperialist, London: John Murray, 1958.

  Minto, C. S., Victorian and Edwardian Edinburgh from Old Photographs, London: Batsford, 1973.

  Montgomery, John, Toll for the Brave, London: Max Parrish, 1963.

  Nutting, Antony, Gordon, Martyr and Misfit, London: Constable, 1966.

  Royle, Trevor, Death before Dishonour, the True Story of Fighting Mac, Edinburgh: Mainstream, 1982.

  The Kitchener Enigma, London: Michael Joseph, 1985.

  Warner, Philip, Kitchener: The Man Behind the Legend, London: Hamish Hamilton, 1985.

  Ceylon – Zeylanicus, London: Elek Books, 1970.

  I would also like to thank the staff of the Queen Mother Library, Aberdeen, for being most helpful and kind and patient with me during the time I was researching the story. I was staggered by their efficiency.

  I would like to stress that although I have done much reading for this book, it is still a novel, and I have used my imagination particularly in delineating the relationship between Christine and Hector in Edinburgh, and in elaborating on Hector’s thoughts, though within the parameters of his character as I understand it.

  1

  THE man walked along the corridor to Room 105, opened the door and put down his case. There was a wardrobe, a wash-basin, a chair: it was a simple, anonymous room, exactly what he wanted.

  He sat down on the bed and stretched out his legs: one of them seemed to be giving him pain. He looked almost too large for the room. He was a sturdy, compact man with an extensive moustache which drooped in a curve round his mouth; his hair was cut short and formed a V on his forehead; he had big ears which projected prominently from his head. He smiled in an ironical way as he considered himself sitting in a room in a hotel in Paris. He, the son of a crofter from the Highlands of Scotland! That mirror, for instance, in which he saw himself, looked heavy and rich and imperial. Then he thought of what was happening to him, what was about to happen, and his smile faded. Lines like plough-lines furrowed his forehead.

  He seemed restless, uncertain what he should do. Now and again he would get up and look down through the window on to the Tuileries Gardens. Then he would turn back again into the room, which seemed more and more like a cell. Should he stay in, should he go out? Would he be recognised, even in civilian clothes? He had seen a thin, well-dressed woman in the lounge; she had said ‘Good evening’ to him in English. She might have recognised him – his picture had been in the newspapers often enough – though he had registered himself without his full title. Women, however, were very quick, very perceptive, though in his spartan life he had not been of much use to them. Apart from one, of course …

  He went to the window again and returned to the centre of the room. He felt the energy of Paris but he seemed like a prisoner. Perhaps at that very moment people were entering theatres in their cloaks and dresses. Such a romantic city, Paris, with its perfumes, sparkling lights, cafés, gardens, palaces. And its legendary freedom. The hotel itself with its lovely façade looked down on to the Tuileries.

  His eyes roamed his cell again. He would have felt more comfortable in his uniform, but then he would have been easily recognised. His uniform, however, was his defence against the civilian world. Now, dressed as a civilian, it was as if he had entered a world too disordered, too loose. On the other hand his uniform hadn’t saved him in the military world either. He had expected more from Roberts, more understanding, more charity, perhaps. The memory of those icy, uncomprehending eyes bothered him.

  He looked at the writing-table. He went over to it as if he wished to write some letters, but then decided against it. His wife – he had seen her recently – no, there was little point in writing to her. As for his brother, how could he bring himself to tell him? He smiled at the heading on the writing-paper. Hotel Regina. As if it were Queen Victoria, dead now, but the mistress he had served in heat and cold. Different from the King with his stupid hard-boiled eyes. Again he felt restless, like a huge clumsy animal in this small room. It was hard to explain what had happened to him, the sudden ruin. His past counted for nothing now. And if they heard about it in the Highlands, why …

  The thought of his predicament was unbearable. He could no longer stay in the room, he had to move about. He walked along the corridor until he came to Reception. Then, leaving his key behind him, he strode about the streets; he wished to walk and walk, to keep himself from thinking, to outwalk his mind. He had no idea where he was going. His mind was burning with the puzzle that tormented him, in a Paris burning with lights.

  2

  BEHIND the counter of the shop in Inverness, called the Royal Clan Tartan and Tweed Warehouse, stood a tall young man in black clothes who looked more like a farmer than a shop assistant. His hands were large and red, and the sleeves of his jacket rather short. He seemed healthy, raw and large. Round him were the varicoloured tweeds, tartans. He was alone in the shop.

  Suddenly he left the counter (after first looking around him) and began to march up and down in a military manner, barking out commands to himself: ‘Attention, right turn!’ His feet clicked on the wooden floor. He saw himself surrounded by soldiers all in tartan. He imagined himself being called in front of the commander, a tall handsome man with a moustache, who said to him in tones of quiet reverence, ‘You have done well, Macdonald, without you we wouldn’t have taken that hill.’ He flushed, trying however to feel humble and obedient.

  The commander rose to his feet, put his hand on Hector
’s shoulder, looked deep into his eyes, and said, ‘Very well indeed.’ Then he pinned a medal on him. In the background there was a burst of cheering which might have been coming from the rolls of tartan all around him in the darkness.

  Suddenly he heard the door opening, and turned from his dream. A smallish man with a bald head was standing at the counter. Hector smoothed down his black suit, emerging from the darkness.

  ‘Sir,’ he said.

  ‘I was wondering,’ said the small man hesitantly, ‘that is to say, my wife … I would like to order a kilt.’

  ‘Which tartan, sir?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Which tartan, sir?’ said Hector patiently, while at the same time a wolf was shouting insults inside his head.

  ‘As to that, I’m not sure, you understand it’s my wife’s idea, to tell you the truth, something in green; I like green. I’m sure you have green tartans. My wife’s favourite colour is red but I would like, I think, green.’

  The man straightened for a moment. His bald head is like a cannon-ball with veins in it, thought Hector. The wolf inside his head was saying, What will this small bald man look like in a kilt?

  ‘Excuse me a moment, sir,’ said Hector, ‘I’ve got to go next door.’ And he left the shop.

  He walked quickly down the street past other shops. On the opposite side of the street he saw a beggar with red blisters on his face. They looked raw and pitiful but it was said that beggars rubbed stuff on them to make them appear worse. On his breast the beggar had a large sheet of paper written for him. There were scribes who did that sort of thing for ex-soldiers, as this beggar appeared to be. From a bar he heard singing and shouting.

  Then he saw the sergeant, who was standing as usual at the corner of the street, proud and strong in his Highland regalia.

  ‘I want to join the army, Sir,’ said Hector.

  ‘How old are you?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Seventeen, Sir,’ said Hector.

  ‘Too young, son. Come back in a year’s time. Sorry.’

  ‘Everyone says I’m tall for my age,’ Hector insisted. No, he couldn’t go back to that shop.

  ‘I’m almost eighteen, Sir,’ he said.

  The sergeant looked at him. Yes, he did seem tall for his age. Maybe …

  ‘All right, son, come with me.’

  And Hector went with him and accepted the Queen’s shilling.

  ‘By the way,’ said the sergeant, ‘don’t call me “sir”. “Sir” is for officers.’ No smell of beer came from his breath, though around them in the bar there was drunken singing, and soldiers in kilts. This sergeant, however, seemed very proud, glamorous, military.

  ‘Here is a warrant,’ he said, ‘that you will take to Aberdeen. You will report there at Castle Hill barracks. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sergeant.’ Already he was standing at attention. His heart was leaping with joy. He looked down at his black suit with contempt. It was as if his life up to this point had been a funeral.

  He took his warrant and walked to the railway station. He had completely forgotten the small bald man he had left in the shop. He marched like a soldier, his back ramrod-straight.

  The beggar, who had a dirty cloth round his head, put out his hand to him. Hector caught a glimpse of the word ‘India’ on the litany of the man’s battle honours. Was he blind or pretending to be blind? Hector stared into his eyes but could see no glimmer of life. The man stared ahead of him, his hand held out, as if he were a wax figure in a shop.

  For a moment Hector felt a chill, as of death itself, then he thrust a shilling into the blind man’s hand.

  ‘Now we’re quits,’ he said, and headed for the train.

  That too was an adventure. Steam blossomed around him; other uniformed men were there, looking busy and pompous. He opened the carriage door and entered. When the train was leaving he didn’t go to the window and look back at Inverness.

  When he arrived at the camp he was booked in. Afterwards he was stripped naked in front of a doctor who wore a monocle. This was to make sure that he had no lice or fleas. His nakedness made him feel vulnerable and ashamed.

  ‘You’re a tall fellow,’ said the doctor. Hector looked around him: most of the men were smaller than he but had larger dicks. Nor did they seem to feel vulnerable, in fact they were joking with each other, their bodies white as worms. One of them had a galaxy of spots on his chest. To be naked, however, was to be defenceless, shameful. I hate this, he thought, I can’t wait to be dressed in my uniform. The monocle glared at him, the single eye of an indifferent monster, and then he was past it on his way to the stores for his clothes and blankets.

  He had to parcel up his suit and send it home to his parents. This was a decisive moment, it was as if he was saying, Goodbye, I’m setting off for another world, I’m no longer the son you knew. The days of the farm are over, the days of the shop are finished. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I was going to do but I know you wouldn’t have approved. Like everyone else you think the army consists of drunken rogues and vagabonds. This is my good black suit I’m sending to you: it is a sign of the good moral world that you approve of, the tight black world that you said was the best. First I was naked, then I was clothed, then I was unclothed again. Let the dead bury their dead. I am risen again from your world into a new world. I did this on impulse and I do not regret it. My destiny is here.

  Since some of the recruits were illiterate, he had to write their addresses for them.

  That night he lay on a hard, uncomfortable bed staring out at the hard, brilliant moon, not at all like the autumn moon of the harvest but colder, firmer, harder, like a coin spinning through the clouds.

  He was wakened at half past five in the morning by the brisk bugle. He heard mutterings, oaths, splashings of water. He made his iron bed as the others did, placing the blankets on top, tied together, then finally he folded it.

  There was a smell of sweat in the barrack-room, and as he stood there shivering he saw a mountainous blanket ahead of him and realised that one of the soldiers was masturbating.

  They went out on to the square where the corporal was waiting for them. The next two hours were a fury of commands. He had to learn to stand at attention, to march.

  The corporal was a small man with a moustache. He seemed hostile, enraged.

  ‘I’m standing on your hair!’ he shouted at one man. ‘Get it cut!’

  And to another, ‘You’re marching like a penguin. Swing those arms!’

  There were obscene references to mothers, sisters, girlfriends. Hector hated this, he hated it in his deepest being. The corporal, stiff as a poker, had a face red as a cockerel on which his moustache quivered with a life of its own. His head seemed square, the colour of his hair was like that of a hedgehog Hector had once seen. He had been provided with this formless mass: always he had to begin again. Its formlessness offended him as his obscenities offended Hector.

  Legs, arms, bodies lacked harmony. Men could not keep in step: they had the clumsiness of the civilian. They had the loose, hateful freedom of the civilian deep within them. The corporal’s job was to drive out that scent, that alien perfume which was almost feminine. The men must become as firm as bayonets, they must learn the firm masculinity of machines.

  The men reacted slowly to commands. They belonged to the unstructured world outside the gates with its continual crazy motions, its accidental strayings. They were dogs with devoted, beseeching looks. In their lack of harmony they were stupid.

  ‘When I’m finished with you, your mothers won’t know you,’ the corporal shouted in his frenzied anger, himself brisk and compact and fearsome.

  Here nothing was sacred. All must be subordinated to orders, law, tidiness. You were converted to a number: you had no gifts, talents, character of your own. It was your number that was on a charge and if there was a bureaucratic error then it was not you at all, and your charge would be dismissed.

  Rage infected the air in which the men lived, rage that there
wasn’t a perfect, orderly world, that always somehow or other a little of the ego was left and refused to be destroyed. Rage was like the raw sunrise that inflamed the sky in the morning. The sky itself was a raw wound festering. It was a rage against disorder, and a rage of boredom.

  By the left, by the left … The harsh, viperish voice followed them, would not leave them alone, as they tried to do their best at marching. It would be there for ever, floating out of the red dawn, raucous as a red bird. They were like sheepdogs answering their master’s whistle, thought Hector, who enjoyed the marching, as he had practised marching before, often, with a Volunteer Company in Inverness. He had an army manual and studied it behind the counter in the shop in Inverness. He was not frightened; this was what he was born to do.

  This was the new world in which he was to be shaped and formed, sharpened, made an instrument. The harsh voice came out of the red sunrise, in the cold of the morning, among the chilling red clouds, the working factory of the sky.

  Breakfast at eight o’clock consisted of tea and bread and butter and porridge. The tables were put away, the floor swept, and there was an interval of rest until the bugle blew again for more training.

  The screams were hideous, unearthly, as if men had been let loose from a madhouse. The straw man swayed as the steel pierced him.

  Screaming, they came at the straw man, demented tribesmen, shrieking with hatred, nerves, fear, released anger. Some thought of the straw man as the corporal himself, some saw it as the embodiment of their deprived lives. The straw man endured it all, rape, pillage, aggression. The bayonets quivered in him, were retracted. The swaying straw man, heavy and sluggish, was burst here and there.

  The furious recruits attacked him with heavy grunts, but he still remained, stubborn, blank, ironic, unyielding. It was the senseless nature of their lives.

  A lieutenant with a stick under his arm paused and looked at them.

  ‘How are they doing, corporal?’ he said in a languid voice.

  The corporal sprang quickly to attention and shouted, eyes staring straight ahead of him, ‘Improving, SAH!’