“I hate Dryhope, he’s a smug bastard,” sang Davie softly.
“He cannae help it,” said Rab, “He wins a world-famous draw by cheatery, fails in his suicide attempt and gets praised by Geneva for standing up to his daddy, though he did exactly what the old man telt him. Do you hate him too, Colonel?”
“Aye, but I hate his wee brother worse. Cadet Dryhope!” yelled the Colonel, “Stop standing there like a replica of Michel-fucking-angelo’s David! In the days before the establishment of our democratic Utopia pretty wee soldiers who stood straight and cocky in front of crippled officers were given a hundred lashes. Slouch like your brother.”
“But the standard!” whispered the boy trying to slouch and plead frantically at the same time. “Clear out Sandy,” said Wat. Sandy left. As he opened and shut the door they heard a burst of hubbub from below pierced by the music of pipes playing a coronach.
“Colonel Wardlaw!” said Wat sharply, “Tell me now why grown men like the Henderlands and Foulshiels — men with no interest in warrior business — are waiting downstairs among a crowd of weans and lassies.”
“I don’t know,” muttered Wardlaw.
“Will I go down and find out?” asked Wat.
“The game’s a bogie, men,” said the colonel to the other players. He flung his cards on the table and turned his chair to face Wat. Davie dealt the cards again and went on playing with Rab.
In a low voice pitched for Wat’s ears only Colonel Wardlaw said, “Look at my face, Dryhope.”
Wat did so with frank pleasure because it took his attention away from the surgical corset holding the Colonel’s body together; then he saw that only a pale-blue left eye showed intelligence. The bloodshot right stared fixedly sideways from a pupil so big it blotted out the iris.
“Sorry, Tam,” said Wat quietly, “I thought only your lower parts were hurt.”
“No. The head has the worst damage and not where you see it. There’s a sore buzzing inside that I try to think isnae an insect. I wish you’d spent a month wandering the hills, Wattie, because I need peace. I said Here comes trouble when you arrived because you make us a quorum — the three officers and one colonel needed to dispatch urgent regimental business. Wattie, neither me nor Rab nor Davie could dispatch a paper aeroplane. We’re as queer and gruesome as a week with nine Mondays. I’m done with soldiering, Wattie. We’re all done with soldiering. The knocks we got from Northumbria are mainly why but that message from Geneva finished us. A spate of others marked urgent followed it. They’re in this pouch — ” (Tam clapped a satchel under the armrest of his chair) “ — I darena look at them.”
“Gie’s them,” said Wat, stretching out a hand,
“Jenny could have answered them but I’ll do it faster. I bet half can be ignored and the rest answered with Thanks for your friendly letter. And forget Geneva, Tam. It said the truth, but no honest soldier or kind woman will scorn us for obeying our elected commander.”
Wat put the wad of sheets on a nearby table and quickly sorted it into two piles, one of blue sheets from public eye companies, one of pink sheets meaning warrior business. Tam watched with an expression in which weariness, indifference and anxiety oddly blended. Two minutes later Wat lifted the blue pile and said, “These are from every big eye company there is, the nearest in the Lothians, the farthest in the satellite belt. We know they want to exploit public excitement about a battle which for us is past and done, so we answer them this way.” With a sharp wrench Wat tore that pile in two, laid the bits on a chair then sorted through the other, this time glancing at a line or two before laying each one aside. Once he paused and said, “Colonel Tam, why were our wee lads yattering about standards?”
“They want permission to fish our old pole out of the North Sea. They’re feart some of Dodds’s tykes will get it first and melt it intae the roots of a Northumbrian powerplant.”
Tam sipped his whisky. Wat finished reading then turned and said, “Cellini’s Cosmopolitan Cloud Circus remind you that tomorrow night they will pay homage to mankind’s most famous draw with a completely new spectacle called From the Big Bang to the Battle of the Ettrick Standard: a Creative Evolutionary Opera to be performed on the hills round Selkirk. The rest are congratulations from clan chiefs everywhere, some of them world champions. Many blame Geneva for what some call a nursemaid attitude to the noble art of war. And here’s one to cheer you — Shafto of Northumbria wishes us well and says he didn’t subscribe to Dodds’s protest against the draw. This other is the only one needing a careful answer. Border United — the chiefs of Eskdale, Teviotdale, Liddesdale and the Merse — regret our loss of folk fit to train the next generation of Ettrick fighters. They will lend us officers of their own, on a rotation basis, not to fight battles of course but to get our youngsters ready for them. What do you say to that?”
“Answer it yourself. Answer it how you like,” said Tam, “I telt the truth when I said I’m done with every game but cards.”
His haunted expression did not change but something like a smile twisted it. In a hollow, resounding voice which all in the mess turned to hear he announced: “As Colonel of the Ettrick Army met in a quorum of my fellow officers in the absence of our dearly deceased General Jardine Craig Douglas, I appoint YOU, Major Dryhope, my successor with full plenary powers to do what the hell you like until such time as you get yourself — or someone else — elected general in Jardine’s stead. Arise Colonel Dryhope, greatest of Ettrick’s sons! I also declare that I and Rab Gillkeeket and Davie Deuchar are henceforth a trio of clapped-out veterans fit for nothing but games our grannies taught us. Deal me a hand, lads.” He turned his chair back to the card table where Davie Deuchar, after slowly clapping his hands together twice, shuffled and dealt.
Wat had risen to his feet when the Colonel told him to. He now stood wondering why his new appointment did not surprise him, though he had certainly never expected it. The obvious answer was that only he was fit for it. He wished Colonel Wardlaw had passed on the job in kinder language. The veterans at the bar saluted him then raised and drained their glasses. He saluted back and was wondering what to do next when the major domo approached, bowed, murmured that the crowd downstairs had been long awaiting an announcement, and asked if Colonel Dryhope wished the decision the quorum had just expressed through Colonel Wardlaw to be made public.
“Verbatim?” said Wat, sharply.
“No sir: in a form suitably edited for the public ear,” said Jenny as reproachfully as if his intelligence had been questioned.
“Go ahead Jenny.”
Jenny left by a door behind the bar and Wat stood listening intently. He heard throbbings of a speaker then a swelling cheer which got louder until even here it was uncomfortably loud. It did not stop. Wat wondered why there was something soothing in the sound.
“Shut them up Dryhope!” yelled Tam, “Talk to them! The glaikit sumphs want their new sweetheart to simper audibly.”
Jenny approached again, bowed, put his moustache ticklingly close to Wat’s right ear and said, “Does Colonel Dryhope wish to respond to the ovation by loudspeaker, or will he prefer to personally address the Boys’ Brigade in the hall of the standards? In either case his words will be relayed to the crowd outside.”
Wat felt the moustache withdraw and saw Jenny’s large flat ear presented to his mouth. He said thoughtfully, “Tell them that in fifteen minutes I’ll speak from the roof of the eastern porch — that will give the Boy’s Brigade time to go outside. But first tell their captains to come here to the mess. And … and I must make a private call to Northumbria first. The speech will start in thirty minutes, not fifteen.” He went out with Jenny and the cheering stopped soon after.