Chapter 1
The look on Andrews face as he came through the door, said it all for him.
Removing his hat, he sat down and poured out a drink from the scotch bottle on the table by the side of the bed. He drank it in one swallow, his face lined with suppressed anger.
"The bastards have blocked any introduction other than the charge of disobeying an order. The Colonel at least had the decency to look embarrassed, but it seems the only charge is that you willfully disobeyed the order. No mitigating circumstances will be allowed into evidence. Word has come down from higher up, and you know from where."
David swung his legs down from the cot and poured himself a drink. He tried to smother his own feeling of rage with cold reasoning, "Well it's only what I expected, they have to cover up it up for the sake of the family honour."
Andrew hesitated before continuing, "The old man has suggested that you could resign your commission rather than face a general court martial, that way you would keep your name intact."
David looked at him.
Poor old Andrew had been given the hopeless task of representing him, but his hands had been tied from the beginning.
The charge was simple: Had he refused to carry out an order? Yes, he had, so on that charge he was guilty as charged.
"David, the old man is going out on a limb for you in this. He will accept your resignation - to take effect immediately - if you decide to take that route. Barton wants the court martial to continue, that way you will be found guilty and the inference will be, that Willaby and those men died through you not carrying out an order. What the order was will never be disclosed."
David knew that Major Barton, who had been dispatched from the General Area Headquarters of General Sir Reginald Fitzroy to carry out the prosecution, was a member of the General's staff. As such, he had a vested interest in keeping the General's son's name out of any proceedings.
"Well it looks like I have very little choice Andrew," he said. Moving to the desk and taking out a sheet of paper, he began to write.
"At least this way," Andrew murmured, "questions may be raised. Every man in the regiment knows what happened, so there is a chance the truth will get out one day."
Andrew took the letter, as David was still officially confined to his room.
He began to pack his few possessions. "Not much to show for nine years in the army," he thought ruefully as he closed the Gladstone bag.
His service uniforms, mess uniform and sword he would leave for Andrew to sell, with instructions that the money go into the fund for the widows of the enlisted.
He sat back down and contemplated what he would do.
At twenty-eight, he was out of a job. The army had been his career and he had loved it, having a natural affinity for the Ghurkha troops under his command. He thought he had won their respect in numerous engagements along the North West Frontier, rising from Cornet to Lieutenant. Having no sponsorship from well-connected family or friends, the fact that he had risen in rank at all was down to ability alone.
Andrew returned two hours later bearing his discharge papers and a bag with twenty guineas in it.
"You was due five guineas back pay, but the old man put up the other fifteen. He wished you luck, David, and thanked you for your service to the regiment. I think the old boy was really cut up at the way you have been treated."
David smiled, "He was a good commanding officer. Having Fitzroy's brat imposed on him, must have made his life hell."
He explained about his uniforms to Andrew and then had a look around his room for the last time.
"Don't come with me to the gate, I'll walk out alone," he murmured shaking hands with his friend.
As he walked slowly across the parade ground to the gate Ghurkha Riflemen came to attention and saluted him, even though he was dressed now in civilian clothes. Word had obviously got around and their actions brought a lump to his throat.
He caught a horse-drawn buggy outside of the gate and gave directions to a small boarding house on the outskirts of the town.
*****
For a week, he hardly left his room, just trying to decide what to do. There was nothing for him back in England. His parents had died when he was twelve. His only other relation, an Uncle, had died three years ago. The uncle had raised him, sending him first to boarding school and later university, before finally securing him a commission in the 2nd Ghurkha Rifles.
"India is the place to be my boy," he had said, "A man can carve a future out there, either in the army or The Right Honourable East India Company."
Although The Company had ceased to exist on paper, powerful businessmen, both in India and London still, maintained a grip on the country, dictating its development.
He smiled to himself remembering.
He had soon learned that nepotism and corruption were the norm in both John Company, as it was called, and the army, and felt sympathy for the Indians who had to bow to the wishes of John Company in its greed-driven efforts - backed by the army - to subjugate the various principalities to their control. It was little wonder there had been so much unrest and revolt, and it was left to the common soldier to rectify matters when the kettle boiled over.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. On opening it he found Mrs. Brown, the owner of the boarding house, standing there.
"I'm sorry to disturb you Mr. Ramage, but there's a gentleman down stairs who would like to have a word with you," she said.
Mrs. Brown had started the boarding house after her husband, Sergeant Brown, had been killed in a clash with the Pathans ten years ago. She was an ex-army brat, her father being army, and had lived all her life in India.
"Thank you Mrs. Brown," he murmured, "would you show the gentleman up please."
She smiled and left.
Word had soon got around that he no longer held a commission. The fact that she had called him mister as opposed to Lieutenant, he noticed with a pang.
On opening the door to the knock he found a portly gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties standing there, a briefcase in one hand and a fan and hat in the other. His white linen suit appeared somewhat rumpled; his stiff bat-winged collar adding to the visible discomfort David observed in the sweat on his brow.
"Do I have the honour of addressing Mr. David Ramage," he asked in a very cultured voice.
