The Far Pavilions - Mary Margaret Kaye [643]
The end was a foregone conclusion, and he realized now that he must have recognized that long ago, and unconsciously based all his actions upon it.
If they must die, then at least let them die in a manner that would redound to the credit of the Guides and the traditions they upheld. Let them go down fighting, and by doing so add lustre to their Corps and become a legend and an inspiration to future generations of Guides. That was the only thing they could do.
He knew that there was very little time left, and that little was running out fast; but for a brief space he stood silent, staring into space and thinking of many things… Of Inistioge and his parents and brothers; of his mother's face as she kissed him goodbye; of Ash and Wigram and all the splendid fellows in the Guides… He had had a good life – a wonderful life. Even now he would not have exchanged it for anyone else's.
A host of foolish memories passed in procession before his mind's eye, all of them clear-cut and bright. Birds‘-nesting with his brothers on Wimbledon Common. A ball at the Military Academy. The long voyage to Bombay and his first sight of India. The happy days in the bungalow in Rawalpindi and later on in Mardan, and those carefree holidays that he and Ash had spent together… The work and the play, the talk and the laughter and the fun. All the pretty girls he had fallen in love with – gay ones, demure ones, shy ones, flirtatious ones… their faces merged into one face – Anjuli's, and he smiled at it and thought how lucky he was to have known her.
He would never marry now, and perhaps that was no bad thing; it would have been hard to find anyone who could live up to the ideal she had set: and he would also be spared the sadness of discovering that love does not last and that time, which destroys beauty and youth and strength, can also corrode many things of far greater value. He would never know disillusionment, or failure either, or live to see the gods of his idolatry brought down and shown to have feet of clay…
This was the end of the road for him, yet he had no regrets – not even for the loss of that imaginary figure, Field Marshal Lord Hamilton of Inistioge, for had he not won the most coveted award of all, the Victoria Cross? That alone was enough glory to make up for anything: and besides, the Guides would remember him. Perhaps one day, if he could leave an unsullied name, his sword would hang in the Mess at Mardan and men of the Corps yet unborn would finger it and listen to an old story from by-gone history. The story of how once, long ago, seventy-seven men of the Guides under the command of one Walter Hamilton, V.C., had been besieged in the British Residency at Kabul and held it against overwhelming odds for the best part of a day – and died to the last man…
‘Stat sua cuique dies, breve tempus – Omnibus est vitae; sed famam extendere factis – Hoc virtutis opus,’ murmured Wally under his breath. It was an odd time to remember a Latin tag from the Aeneid, and he thought how Ash would laugh if he knew. But it fitted the occasion: ‘Everyone has his allotted day. Short and irrecoverable is the lifetime of all; but to extend our fame by deeds, this is the task of greatness.’
Today it had been his task to help extend the fame of the Guides, and Ash would understand that. It was good to know that Ash was close by and would see and approve – would realize that he had done his best, and be with him in spirit. He could not have asked for a better friend, and he knew that it was not Ash's fault that help had not come. If he could…
The boy collected his wandering thoughts with an effort and looked about him at the tattered, blood-stained, smoke-begrimed scarecrows who were all that were now left of the more than three score and ten whom he could have mustered that morning. He had no idea how long he had been standing there silent and thinking of other things, or what the hour was, for now that the sun had left the compound the barracks were full of shadows. The daylight seemed to be fading,