by Ruskin Bond
He looked down at his shoes, then gave a little shrug and turned away.
'In the circumstances,' he said, 'it seemed the only decent thing to do.'
I'll say this for Uncle Bill: he was always the perfect gentleman.
Hanging at the Mango-Tope
RUSKIN BOND
The two captive policemen, inspector Hukam Singh and Sub-Inspector Guler Singh, were being pushed unceremoniously along the dusty, deserted, sun-drenched road. The people of the village had made themselves scarce. They would reappear only when the dacoits went away.
The leader of the dacoit gang was Mangal Singh Bundela, great-grandson of a Pindari adventurer who had been a thorn in the side of the British. Mangal was doing his best to be a thorn in the flesh of his own Government. The local police force had been strengthened recently but it was still inadequate for dealing with the dacoits who knew the ravines better than any surveyor. The dacoit Mangal had made a fortune out of ransom: his chief victims were the sons of wealthy industrialists, moneylenders or landowners. But today he had captured two police officials; of no value as far as ransom went, but prestigious prisoners who could be put to other uses….
Mangal Singh wanted to show off in front of the police. He would kill at least one of them—his reputation demanded it—but he would let the other go, in order that his legendary power and ruthlessness be given a maximum publicity. A legend is always a help!
His red and green turban was tied rakishly to one side. His dhoti extended right down to his ankles. His slippers were embroidered with gold and silver thread. His weapon was no ancient matchlock, but a well-greased 303 rifle. Two of his men had similar rifles. Some had revolvers. Only the smaller fry carried swords or country-made pistols. Mangal Singh's gang, though traditional in many ways, was up-to-date in the matter of weapons. Right now they had the policemen's guns too.
'Come along, Inspector sahib,' said Mangal Singh, in tones of police barbarity, tugging at the rope that encircled the stout Inspector's midriff. 'Had you captured me today, you would have been a hero. You would have taken all the credit, even though you could not keep up with your men in the ravines. Too bad you chose to remain sitting in your jeep with the Sub-Inspector. The jeep will be useful to us, you will not. But I would like you to be a hero all the same—and there is none better than a dead hero!'
Mangal Singh's followers doubled up with laughter. They loved their leader's cruel sense of humour.
'As for you, Guler Singh,' he continued, giving his attention to the Sub-Inspector, 'You are a man from my own village. You should have joined me long ago. But you were never to be trusted. You thought there would be better pickings in the police, didn't you?'
Guler Singh said nothing, simply hung his head and wondered what his fate would be. He felt certain that Mangal Singh would devise some diabolical and fiendish method of dealing with his captives. Guler Singh's only hope was Constable Ghanshyam, who hadn't been caught by the dacoits because, at the time of the ambush, he had been in the bushes relieving himself.
'To the mango-tope!' said Mangal Singh, prodding the policemen forward.
'Listen to me, Mangal,' said the perspiring Inspector, who was ready to try anything to get out of his predicament. 'Let me go, and I give you my word there'll be no trouble for you in this area as long as I am posted here. What could be more convenient than that?'
'Nothing,' said Mangal Singh. 'But your word isn't good. My word is different. I have told my men that I will hang you at the mango-tope, and I mean to keep my word. But I believe in fair-play—I like a little sport! You may yet go free if your friend here, Sub-Inspector Guler Singh, has his wits about him.'
The Inspector and his subordinate exchanged doubtful puzzled looks. They were not to remain puzzled for long. On reaching the mango-tope, the dacoits produced a good strong hempen rope, one end looped into a slip-knot. Many a garland of marigolds had the Inspector received during his mediocre career. Now, for the first time, he was being garlanded with a hangman's noose. He had seen hangings; he had rather enjoyed them; but he had no stomach for his own. The Inspector begged for mercy. Who wouldn't have in his position?
'Be quiet,' commanded Mangal Singh. 'I do not want to know about your wife and your children and the manner in which they will starve. You shot my son last year.'
'Not I!' cried the Inspector. 'It was some other.'
'You led the party. But now, just to show you that I'm a sporting fellow, I am going to have you strung up from this tree, and then I am going to give Guler Singh six shots with a rifle and if he can sever the rope that suspends you before you are dead, well then, you can remain alive and I will let you go! For your sake, I hope the Sub-Inspector's aim is good. He will have to shoot fast. My man Phambiri, who has made this noose, was once executioner in a city jail. He guarantees that you won't last more than fifteen seconds at the end of his rope.'
Guler Singh was taken to a spot about forty yards. A rifle was thrust into his hands. Two dacoits clambered into the branches of the mango tree. The Inspector, his hands tied behind, could only gaze at them in horror. His mouth opened and shut as though he already had need of more air. And then, suddenly, the rope went taut, up went the Inspector, his throat caught in a vice, while the branch of the tree shook and mango-blossoms fluttered to the ground. The Inspector dangled from the rope, his feet about three feet about the ground.
'You can shoot,' said Mangal Singh, nodding to the Sub-Inspector.
And Guler-Singh, his hands trembling a little, raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired three shots in rapid succession. But the rope was swinging violently and the Inspector's body was jerking about like a fish on a hook. The bullets went wide.
Guler Singh found the magazine empty. He reloaded, wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes, raised the rifle again, took more careful aim. His hands were steadier now. He rested the sights on the upper portion of the rope, where there was less motion. Normally he was a good shot, but he had never been asked to demonstrate his skill in circumstances such as these.
The Inspector still gyrated at the end of his rope. There was life in him yet. His face was purple. The world, in those choking moments, was a medley of upside-down roofs and a red sun spinning slowly towards him.
Guler Singh's rifle cracked again. An inch or two wide this time. But the fifth shot found its mark, sending small tuffs of rope winging into the air.
The shot did not sever the rope; it was only a nick.
Guler Singh had one shot left. He was quite calm. The rifle-sight followed the rope's swing, less agitated now that the Inspector's convulsions were lessening. Guler Singh felt sure he could sever the rope this time.
And then, as his finger touched the trigger, an odd, disturbing thought slipped into his mind, hung there, throbbing: 'Whose life are you trying to save? Hukam Singh has stood in the way of your promotion more than once. He had you charge-sheeted for accepting fifty rupees from an unlicensed rickshaw-puller. He makes you do all the dirty work, blames you when things go wrong, takes the credit when there is credit to be taken. But for him, you'd be an Inspector!'
The rope swayed slightly to the right. The rifle moved just a fraction to the left. The last shot rang out, clipping a sliver of bark from the mango tree.
The Inspector was dead when they cut him down.
'Bad luck,' said Mangal Singh Bundela. 'You nearly saved him. But the next time I catch up with you, Guler Singh, it will be your turn to hang from the mango tree. So keep well away! You know that I am a man of my word. I keep it now, by giving you your freedom.'
A few minutes later the party of dacoits had melted away into the late afternoon shadows of the scrub forest. There was the sound of a jeep starting up. Then silence—a silence so profound that it seemed to be shouting in Guler Singh's ears.
As the village people began to trickle out of their houses, Constable Ghanshyam appeared as if from nowhere, swearing that he had lost his way in the jungle. Several people had seen the incident from their windows; they were unanimous in
praising the Sub-Inspector for his brave attempt to save his superior's life. He had done his best.
'It is true,' thought Guler Singh. 'I did my best.'
That moment of hesitation before the last shot, the question that had suddenly reared up in the darkness of his mind, had already gone from his memory. We remember only what we want to remember.
'I did my best,' he told everyone.
And so he had.
Helping Mummy
NORAH C. JAMES
It was so hot in the cabin that it was difficult to breathe. Tommy, who was seven, sat watching his mother washing Baby. He looked round the cabin for the hundredth time. There was hardly a thing left that he wasn't tired of looking at. Of course, there was still the electric fan. It was fun to watch it whirling round and round so fast that it looked like a film of water. The porthole too, that was interesting, because he hadn't found out what the two big screws at each side were for. The porthole was wide open this morning, and the sky outside a burning blue.
Tommy began to fidget as he sat on the edge of his berth. He'd been a good boy this morning and dressed himself quickly when Mummy had told him to. He'd been sitting still for ages and ages and he was tired of it.
'Mayn't I go on deck now, Mummy?' he asked.
'No, darling. Wait till I've given Baby his bottle.'
Ruth, who was Tommy's younger sister, looked up from her picture book.
'Mayn't we go now, Mummy? I'm so hot.'
'Not yet, Ruth. You heard me just tell Tommy to wait till Baby's ready.'
Mrs Rogers was terribly tired. First there had been the heavy nursing of her husband through his long illness and then this nightmare of a voyage. It was worse even than she had anticipated, bringing three small children back from the Philippines alone. The shock of her husband's death was passing a little and she was beginning to realise her loss. It would have been quite different if he had been with them. He was so good with the children. Anyway, it was better not to think about him or she'd only start crying and that was upsetting for the children. She wondered what was wrong with Baby, he was awfully fretful. Half the night crying and crying. It must be maddening for the people in the next cabin, but she couldn't do anything about it. She'd walked up and down till she could have dropped with weariness.
Tommy was watching his mother. She wasn't smiling or anything. It was a horrid morning. It was mean of Ruth not to let him look at her picture book. There wasn't a thing he could do to amuse himself. Why didn't Baby stop crying? The noise began to irritate him. He put his hands over both his ears and began to clap them rapidly. The sound of the baby's screams changed in quality then. It became a queer up-and-down broken sound, something like the sea breaking on the shore. It was quite a change to hear it that way.
'Ruth,' he called. His sister looked up and stared at him.
'Do what I'm doing and hear how funny Baby sounds.' Ruth imitated him and both the children sat there with their hands clapping their ears.
Mrs Rogers felt almost distracted.
'Oh, whatever is the matter? If you don't stop crying I'll put you through the porthole. There, there, Mummy's own, there.' She got up and began to walk up and down the narrow space between the berths, rocking the baby as she did so. Once she nearly tripped over Tommy's legs which were sticking out straight as he sat on the berth. She saw his wide blue eyes staring at her, and she smiled.
'Darling, I think I'd better go and ask Mrs Green if she'll watch Baby for me just while I get his bottle ready.'
'Can't I fetch her, Mummy?' asked Tommy.
'No, be a good boy and wait here. I don't like you going down those stairs. They're so steep.'
She put the baby down, who was now quiet, and went out of the room. As soon as she had gone it began to scream again.
'Shall I pick him up?' said Ruth.
'No, I don't think you'd better,' Tommy answered.
'Why does he go on crying and crying?' his sister asked.
'I don't know. Ruth?'
'Yes.'
'Did you hear Mummy say that if he didn't stop she'd put him through the porthole?'
'Yes. He mightn't like it!'
'Oh, I don't suppose he'd mind or Mummy wouldn't have told him she'd do it.'
He got off his berth and went over to the cot where the baby lay. Its little red face was crumpled up as it yelled. Tommy made up his mind suddenly.
'Help me lift him,' he said to Ruth.
A little doubtfully she did what he said and they carried him over to the trunk that stood beneath the porthole.
'Hold him carefully, while I climb up,' he said to Ruth. When he was on top of the trunk he said:
'Now give him to me.' His sister stretched her arms until Tommy was able to take the baby from her. Then he stood upright. The porthole was on a level with his eyes. He rested the bundle on the edge for a second.
While he stood there the ship rolled slightly, and he lost his balance and let go of the baby. When he was upright again he saw that it had disappeared.
There was a blessed stillness in the cabin. He got off the trunk and went and sat down again on his berth.
Mrs Rogers came back into the room. She went over to the empty cot.
'Where's Baby?' she said. It was the tone of her voice that prevented Tommy from answering. Ruth said:
'He wouldn't stop crying, Mummy, so Tommy did what you said.'
'Did what I said? What d'you mean? Tell me?' Her voice rose and she shook the little girl. Tommy answered then:
'I put him through the porthole, Mummy.'
Really Was a Bluetit
E.H.W. MEYERSTEIN
'He was not fooling Schindler,' the young man in flannels asserted hotly, pacing up and down the glaring white of the aia, the large platform of cement specially built for agrarian rites, while the host, his disputant, in a vermilion blaze, spread out the newly picked tomatoes on wicker tables to dry in the fierce Ligurian sun; 'I won't have that. I know it's said by almost everyone, but it's flat nonsense.'
'You cannot get away from the fact that the song of the yellow-hammer cannot be twisted into an arpeggio.'
'I don't try to. It is not the intervals but the rhythm that is in point, and that arpeggio' (whistling) 'is quite near enough a little bit of bread and cheese to satisfy any normal person's hankering for programme.'
'What does it matter,' came a happy languid voice from the dense protecting foliage of a fig tree, 'what was intended anywhere in the "Pastoral Symphony"? Beethoven only meant you to enjoy it, and nobody will ever be able to prove whether he was fooling his biographer about the yellow-hammers in the Andante or not; so why get warm?'
Lucia Carpa, the speaker, was a Spanish Jewess who had married an Italian naval officer with a perfect knowledge of English and a penchant for gardening and the Georgics on his leaves. She had no offspring, and to her race's gift for discerning talent when it has got its head just above the water she added a genuine strain of pity, more indigenous to Ireland than Israel, for young people with childlike minds. No one could class Denzil Straker's mind among these. His latest symphonic poem, Budgerigars, had been given with circumstance and praise at the first week of the Promenades, and, sure of his ground, he had flown to Nervi for rest and inspiration. The prospect of an early vendemmia had set a theme already in his brain, and he was in the throes of argument for argument's sake, which is the surest sign that a creative mind is not fatigued.
'No one agrees about the songs of birds,' she went on. 'Some people will tell you my vivacious little unmelodious friend the bluetit, or billy-biter, as a Lancashire man I met once called him, says chica chica chee chee; others are equally emphatic that his message is zit zit tzitee, or tsee tsee tsirr; and somebody, I forget who, told me once it was some Latin words. It wasn't you, Hippolito, and I have forgotten what the words were, but certainly not in the least like the other versions.'
'Give me the gannet,' said her husband, flicking a wasp off a tomato with supreme unconcern; 'he is the only bird w
ho can pronounce the name of a Roman emperor—Caracalla.'
'You seem to know a lot about birds, Signora Carpa. Is it true that at Verona I shall see little live owls chained to posts in the market-place looking down on heaps of dead becaficos?'
'Quite true! Don't remind me! I always try to avoid the Piazza dell' Erbe, but it is so hard. I hate the sight of a dead bird. Why, as a child, a great oval pas telle of a dead dove had regularly to be taken down from the room I used to have when I stayed with my grandmother in Prince's Gate. No, I don't know a lot about birds, but the bluetit comes into my life in a curious way. Shall I tell him now, Hippolito, or wait till the evening? In this golden sunlight it will seem less nightmarish.'
'It is always that, my dear. He won't enjoy his coffee, if you tell it later, and I shall have to listen. Now I can get the tomatoes laid out. Tell him now.'
'I can't imagine anything nightmarish about a bluetit,' said the young man, squatting on the bright cemented space.
'No more could I, at your age.'
'Neither can I now,' said the naval man, 'but Lucia has a Semitic morbidezza all her own. Don't let her infect you!'
'Isn't that like a man? To queer one's pitch at starting! Well, if you promise not to interrupt, either of you—Hippolito won't; he's done his worst—you shall hear.'
'I promise I won't interrupt,' Straker exclaimed boyishly.
'Well, when I was a young woman I had a great and sudden disappointment, which I can't go into; it was many years before I met Hippolito, and for a time it completely embittered me. All the joy went out of people and of everything I did or looked at. I suppose it was what you call disillusionment. A writer we know here tells me it is the sort of phase hard-working creative people go through about forty, and you'll find something not unlike it in John Stuart Mill's Autobiography. Anyhow it took me very badly, and it was more than eighteen months before I regained—what would you say?—poise. That began to come through the events I am telling you. My people had tried everything short of getting me certified. I didn't talk wildly; I was completely listless. Books and papers would be offered to me, and I would just take them up and drop them again. One morning at breakfast my father pushed the paper towards me with the illustrated page uppermost. There was no particular news that day, so far as he was concerned, but my eye fell on the photograph of a young man in a trilby hat, and something stirred in me. I looked at it again and read the caption. Then I turned to one of the inner sheets, and knew there was something I must do. It was nine o'clock. After the meal I went upstairs, put on my hat, and walked to Marylebone Police Court.
