So he was, with an admiring crowd round him in the middle of the barrack-room, applauding as he harangued them.
“It is a lie that the sepoy Pandy was drunk!” cries he. “A lie put about by the sahibs to dishonour a hero who will defend his caste to the death! He would not take the cartridge – and when they would have arrested him, he called to his brothers to beware, because the British are bringing fresh battalions of English soldiers to steal away our religion and make slaves of us. And the captain sahib at Barrackpore shot Pandy with his own hands, wounding him, and they keep him alive for torture, even now!”
He was working himself into a terrible froth over this – what surprised me was that no one – not even the Muslims – contradicted him, and Naik Kudrat Ali, who was a good soldier, was standing by chewing his lip, but doing nothing. Eventually, when Mangal had raved himself hoarse, I thought I’d take a hand, so I asked him why he didn’t go to the Colonel himself, and find out the truth, whatever it was, and ask for reassurance about the cartridge.
“Hear him!” cries he scornfully. “Ask a sahib for the truth? Hah! Only the gora-colonel’s lapdog would suggest it! Maybe I will speak to Carmik-al-Ismeet, though – in my own time!” He looked round at his cronies with a significant, ugly grin. “Yes, maybe I will … we shall see!”
Well, one swallow don’t make a summer, or one ill-natured agitator a revolt – no doubt what I’m telling you now about barrack-room discontent among the sepoys looks strong evidence of trouble brewing, but it didn’t seem so bad then. Of course there was discontent, and Ram Mangal played on it, and every rumour, for all he was worth – but you could go into any barracks in the world, you know, at any time, and find almost the same thing happening. No one did anything, just sullen talk; the parades went on, and the sepoys did their duty, and the British officers seemed content enough – anyway, I was only occasionally in the barracks myself, so I didn’t hear much of the grumbling. When the word came through that Sepoy Pandy had been hanged at Barrackpore for mutiny, I thought there might be some kind of stir among our men, but they never let cheep.
In the meantime, I had other things to claim my attention: Mrs Leslie of the red hair and lazy disposition had begun to take a closer interest in me. It started with little errands and tasks that put me in her company, then came her request to Duff Mason that I should ride escort on her and Miss Blanche when they drove out visiting (“it looks so much better to have Makarram Khan attending us than an ordinary syce”), and finally I found myself accompanying her when she went riding alone – the excuse was that it was convenient to her to have an attendant who spoke English, and could answer her questions about India, in which she professed a great interest.
I know what interests you, my girl, thinks I, but you’ll have to make the first move. I didn’t mind; she was a well-fleshed piece in her way. It was amusing, too, to see her plucking up her courage; I was a black servant to her, you see, and she was torn between a natural revulsion and a desire to have the big hairy Pathan set about her. On our rides, she would flirt a very little, in a hoity-toity way, and then think better of it; I maintained my correct and dignified noble animal pose, with just an occasional ardent smile, and a slight squeeze when I helped her dismount. I knew she was getting ready for the plunge when she said one day:
“You Pathans are not truly … Indian, are you? I mean … in some ways you look … well, almost … white.”
“We are not Indian at all, mem-sahib,” says I. “We are descended from the people of Ibrahim, Ishak and Yakub, who were led from the Khedive’s country by one Moses.”
“You mean – you’re Jewish?” says she. “Oh.” She rode in silence for a while. “I see. How strange.” She thought some more. “I … I have Jewish acquaintances … in England. Most respectable people. And quite white, of course.”
Well, the Pathans believe it, and it made her happy, so I hurried the matter along by suggesting next day that I show her the ruins at Aligaut, about six miles from the city; it’s a deserted temple, very overgrown, but what I hadn’t told her was that the inside walls were covered with most artistically-carved friezes depicting all the Hindoo methods of fornicating – you know the kind of thing: effeminate-looking lads performing incredible couplings with fat-titted females. She took one look and gasped; I stood behind with the horses and waited. I saw her eyes travel round from one impossible carving to the next, while she gulped and went crimson and pale by turns, not knowing whether to scream or giggle, so I stepped up behind her and said quietly that the forty-fifth position was much admired by the discriminating. She was shivering, with her back to me, and then she turned, and I saw that her eyes were wild and her lips trembling, so I gave my swarthy ravisher’s growl, swept her up in my arms, and then down on to the mossy floor. She gave a little frightened moan, opened her eyes wide, and whispered:
“You’re sure you’re Jewish … not … not Indian?”
“Han, mem-sahib,” says I, thrusting away respectfully, and she gave a contented little squeal and grappled me like a wrestler.
We rode to Aligaut quite frequently after that, studying Indian social customs, and if the forty-fifth position eluded us, it wasn’t for want of trying. She had a passion for knowledge, did Mrs Leslie, and I can think back affectionately to that cool, dim, musty interior, the plump white body among the ferns, and the thoughtful way she would gnaw her lower lip while she surveyed the friezes before pointing to the lesson for today. Pity for some chap she never re-married. Aye, and more of a pity for her she never got the chance.
For by now April had turned into May, the temperature was sweltering, and there was a hot wind blowing across the Meerut parade-ground and barracks that had nothing to do with the weather. You could feel the tension in the air like an electric cloud; the sepoys of the 3rd N.C. went about their drill like sullen automatons, the native officers stopped looking their men in the eye, the British officers were quiet and wary or explosively short-tempered, and there were more men on report than anyone could remember. There were ugly rumours and portents: the 34th N.I. – the executed Sepoy Pandy’s regiment – had been disbanded at Barrackpore, a mysterious fakir on an elephant had appeared in Meerut bazaar predicting that the wrath of Kali was about to fall on the British, chapattis were said to be passing in some barrack-rooms, the Plassey legend was circulated again. Out of all the grievances and mistrust that folk like Ram Mangal had been voicing, a great, discontented unease grew in those few weeks – and one thing suddenly became known throughout the Meerut garrison: without a word said, the certainty was there. When the new greased cartridge was issued, the 3rd Native Cavalry would refuse it.
Now, you may say, knowing what followed, something should have been done. I, with respect, will ask: what? The thing was, while everyone knew that feeling was rising by the hour, no one could foresee for a moment what was about to happen. It was unimaginable. The British officers couldn’t conceive that their beloved sepoys would be false to their salt – dammit, neither could the sepoys. If there’s one thing I will maintain, it is that not a soul – not even creatures like Ram Mangal – thought that the bitterness could explode in violence. Even if the cartridge was refused – well, the worst that could follow was disbandment, and even that was hard to contemplate. I didn’t dream of what lay ahead – not even with all my forewarning over months. And I was there – and no one can take fright faster than I. So when I heard that Carmichael-Smith had ordered a firing-parade, at which the skirmishers (of whom I was one) would demonstrate the new cartridge, I simply thought: well, this will settle it – either they’ll accept the new loads, and it’ll all blow over, or they won’t and Calcutta will have to think again.
Waterfield tried to smooth things beforehand, singling out the older skirmishers and reassuring them that the loads were not offensively greased, but they wouldn’t have it – they even pleaded with him not to ask them to take the cartridge. I think he tried to reason with Carmichael-Smith – but the word came out that the firing-parade wou
ld take place as ordered.
After Waterfield’s failure, this was really throwing down the gauntlet, if you like – I’d not have done it, if I’d been Carmichael-Smith, for one thing I’ve learned as an officer is never to give an order unless there’s a good chance of its being obeyed. And if you’d fallen in with the skirmishers that fine morning, having seen the sullen faces as they put on their belts and bandoliers and drew their Enfields from the armoury, you’d not have wagered a quid to a hundred on their taking the cartridge. But Carmichael-Smith, the ass, was determined, so there we stood, in extended line between the other squadrons of the regiment facing inwards, the native officers at ease before their respective troops, and the rissaldar calling us to attention as Carmichael-Smith, looking thunderous, rode up and saluted.
We waited, with our Enfields at our sides, while he rode along the extended rank, looking at us. There wasn’t a sound; we stood with the baking sun at our backs; every now and then a little puff of warm wind would drive a tiny dust-devil across the ground; Plowden’s horse kept shying as he cursed and tried to steady it. I watched the shadows of the rank swaying with the effort of standing rigid, and the sweat rivers were tickling my chest. Naik Kudrat Ali on my right was straight as a lance; on my other side old Sardul’s breathing was hoarse enough to be audible. Carmichael-Smith completed his slow inspection, and reined up almost in front of me; his red face under the service cap was as heavy as a statue’s. Then he snapped an order, and the havildar-major stepped forward, saluted, and marched to Carmichael-Smith’s side, where he turned to face us. Jack Waterfield, sitting a little in rear of the colonel, called out the orders from the platoon exercise manual.
“Prepare to load!” says he, adding quietly: “Rifle-at-full-extent-of-left-arm.” The havildar-major shoved out his rifle.
“Load!” cries Jack, adding again: “Cartridge-is-brought-to-the-left-hand-right-elbow-raised-tear-off-top-of-cartridge-with-fingers-by-dropping-elbow.”
This was the moment; you could feel the rank sway forward ever so little as the havildar-major, his bearded face intent, held up the little shiny brown cylinder, tore it across, and poured the powder into his barrel. A hundred and eighty eyes watched him do it; there was just a suspicion of a sigh from the rank as his ram-rod drove the charge home; then he came to attention again. Waterfield gave him the “present” and “fire”, and the single demonstration shot cracked across the great parade-ground. On either side, the rest of the regiment waited, watching us.
“Now,” says Carmichael-Smith, and although he didn’t raise his voice, it carried easily across the parade. “Now, you have seen the loading drill. You have seen the havildar-major, a soldier of high caste, take the cartridge. He knows the grease with which it is waxed is pure. I assure you again – nothing that could offend Hindoo or Muslim is being offered to you – I would not permit it. Carry on, havildar-major.”
What happened was that the havildar-major came along the rank, with two naiks carrying big bags of cartridges, of which he offered three to each skirmisher. I was looking straight to my front, sweating and wishing the back of my leg would stop itching; I couldn’t see what was happening along the rank, but I heard a repeated murmur as the havildar-major progressed – “Nahin, havildar-major sahib; nahin, havildar-major sahib.” Carmichael-Smith’s head was turned to watch; I could see his hand clenched white on his rein.
The havildar-major stopped opposite Kudrat Ali, and held out three cartridges. I could feel Kudrat stiffen – he was a big, rangy Punjabi Mussulman, a veteran of Aliwal and the frontier, proud as Lucifer of his stripes and himself, the kind of devoted ass who thinks his colonel is his father and even breaks wind by numbers. I stole a glance at him; his mouth was trembling under his heavy moustache as he muttered:
“Nahin, havildar-major sahib.”
Suddenly, Carmichael-Smith broke silence; his temper must have boiled higher with each refusal.
“What the devil do you mean?” His voice cracked hoarsely. “Don’t you recognise an order? D’you know what insubordination means?”
Kudrat started violently, but recovered. He swallowed with a gulp you could have heard in Poona, and then says:
“Colonel sahib – I cannot have a bad name!”
“Bad name, by God!” roars Smith. “D’you know a worse name than mutineer?” He sat there glowering and Kudrat trembled; then the havildar-major’s hand was thrust out to me, his blood-shot brown eyes glaring into mine; I looked at the three little brown cylinders, aware that Waterfield was watching me intently, and old Sardul was breathing like a walrus on my other side.
I took the cartridges – there was a sudden exclamation farther along the rank, but I stuffed two of them into my belt, and held up the third. As I glanced at it, I realised with a start that it wasn’t greased – it was waxed. I tore it across with a shaky hand, poured the powder into the barrel, stuffed the cartridge after it, and rammed it down.22 Then I returned to attention, waiting.
Old Sardul was crying. As the cartridges were held out to him he put up a shaking hand, but not to take them. He made a little, feeble gesture, and then sings out:
“Colonel sahib – it is not just! Never – never have I disobeyed – never have I been false to my salt! Sahib – do not ask this of me – ask anything – my life, even! But not my honour!” He dropped his Enfield, wringing his hands. “Sahib, I –”
“Fool!” shouts Carmichael-Smith. “D’you suppose I would ask you to hurt your honour? When did any man know me do such a thing? The cartridges are clean, I tell you! Look at the havildar-major – look at Makarram Khan! Are they men of no honour? No – and they’re not mutinous dogs, either!”
It wasn’t the most tactful thing to say, to that particular sepoy; I thought Sardul would go into a frenzy, the way he wept – but he wouldn’t touch the cartridges. So it went, along the line; when the end had been reached only four other men out of ninety had accepted the loads – four and that stalwart pillar of loyalty, Flashy Makarram Khan (he knew his duty, and which side his bread was buttered).
So there it was. Carmichael-Smith could hardly talk for sheer fury, but he cussed us something primitive, promising dire retribution, and then dismissed the parade. They went in silence – some stony-faced, others troubled, a number (like old Sardul) weeping openly, but mostly just sullen. For those of us who had taken the cartridges, by the way, there were no reproaches from the others – proper lot of long-suffering holy little Tom Browns they were.
That, of course, was something that Carmichael-Smith didn’t understand. He thought the refusal of the cartridges was pure pig-headedness by the sepoys, egged on by a few malcontents. So it was, but there was a genuine religious feeling behind it, and a distrust of the Sirkar. If he’d had his wits about him, he’d have seen that the thing to do now was to drop the cartridge for the moment, and badger Calcutta to issue a new one that the sepoys could grease themselves (as was done, I believe, in some garrisons). He might even have made an example of one or two of the older disobedients, but no, that wasn’t enough for him. He’d been defied by his own men, and by God, he wasn’t having that. So the whole eighty-five were court-martialled, and the court, composed entirely of native officers, gave them all ten years’ hard labour.
I can’t say I had much sympathy with ’em – anyone who’s fool enough to invite ten years on the rock-pile for his superstitions deserves all he gets, in my view. But I’m bound to say that once the sentence had been passed, it couldn’t have been worse carried out – instead of shipping the eighty-five quietly off to jail the buffoon Hewitt decided to let the world – and other sepoys especially – see what happened to mutineers, and so a great punishment parade was ordered for the following Saturday.
As it happened, I quite welcomed this myself, because I had to attend, and so was spared an excursion to Aligaut with Mrs Leslie – that woman’s appetite for experiment was increasing, and I’d had a wearing if pleasurable week of it. But from the official point of view, that parade was a stupid,
dangerous farce, and came near to costing us all India.
It was a red morning, oppressive and grim, with a heavy, overcast sky, and a hot wind driving the dust in stinging volleys across the maidan. The air was suffocatingly close, like the moment before thunder. The whole Meerut garrison was there – the Dragoon Guards with their sabres out; the Bengal Artillery, with their British gunners and native assistants in leather breeches standing by their guns; line on line of red-coated native infantry completing the hollow square, and in the middle Hewitt and his staff with Carmichael-Smith and the regimental officers, all mounted. And then the eighty-five were led out in double file, all in full uniform, but for one thing – they were in their bare feet.
I don’t know when I’ve seen a bleaker sight than those two grey ranks standing there hangdog, while someone bawled out the court’s findings and sentence, and then a drum began to roll, very slow, and the ceremony began.
Now I’ve been on more punishment parades than I care to remember, and quite enjoyed ’em, by and large. There’s a fascination about a hanging, or a good flogging, and the first time I saw a man shot from a gun – at Kabul, that was – I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I’ve noticed, too, that the most pious and humanitarian folk always make sure they get a good view, and while they look grim or pitying or shocked they take care to miss none of the best bits. Really, what happened at Meerut was tame enough – and yet it was different from any other drumming-out or execution I remember; usually there’s excitement, or fear, or even exultation, but here there was just a doomed depression that you could feel, hanging over the whole vast parade.
While the drum beat slowly, a havildar and two naiks went along the ranks of the prisoners, tearing the buttons off the uniform coats; they had been half cut off beforehand, to make the tearing easy, and soon in front of the long grey line there were little scattered piles of buttons, gleaming dully in the sultry light; the grey coats hung loose, like sacks, each with a dull black face above it.
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 270
