Then the fettering began. Groups of armourers, each under a British sergeant, went from man to man, fastening the heavy lengths of irons between their ankles; the fast clanging of the hammers and the drum-beat made the most uncanny noise, clink-clank-boom! clink-clank-clink-boom! and a thin wailing sounded from beyond the ranks of the native infantry.
“Keep those damned people quiet!” shouts someone, and there was barking of orders and the wailing died away into a few thin cries. But then it was taken up by the prisoners themselves; some of them stood, others squatted in their chains, crying; I saw old Sardul, kneeling, smearing dust on his head and hitting his fist on the ground; Kudrat Ali stood stiff at attention, looking straight ahead; my half-section, Pir Ali – who to my astonishment had refused the cartridge in the end – was jabbering angrily to the man next to him; Ram Mangal was actually shaking his fist and yelling something. A great babble of noise swelled up from the line, with the havildar-major scampering along the front, yelling “Chubbarao! Silence!” while the hammers clanged and the drum rolled – you never heard such an infernal din. Old Sardul seemed to be appealing to Carmichael-Smith, stretching out his hands; Ram Mangal was bawling the odds louder than ever; close beside where I was an English sergeant of the Bombay Artillery knocked out his pipe on the gun-wheel, spat, and says:
“There’s one black bastard I’d have spread over the muzzle o’ this gun, by Jesus! Scatter his guts far enough, eh, Paddy?”
“Aye,” says his mate, and paced about, scratching his head. “’Tis a bad business, though, Mike, right enough. Dam’ niggers! Bad business!”
“Oughter be a bleedin’ sight worse,” says Mike. “Pampered sods – lissen ’em squeal! If they ’ad floggin’ in the nigger army, they’d ’ave summat to whine about – touch o’ the cat’d ’ave them bitin’ each other’s arses, never mind cartridges. But all they get’s the chokey, an’ put in irons. That’s what riles me – Englishmen get flogged fast enough, an’ these black pigs can stand by grinnin’ at it, but somebody pulls their buttons off an’ they yelp like bleedin’ kids!”23
“Ah-h,” says the other. “Disgustin’. An’ pitiful, pitiful.”
I suppose it was, if you’re the pitying kind – those pathetic-looking creatures in their shapeless coats, with the irons on their feet, some yelling, some pleading, some indifferent, some silently weeping, but mostly just sunk in shame – and out in front Hewitt and Carmichael-Smith and the rest sat their horses and watched, unblinking. I’m not soft, but I had an uneasy feeling just then – you’re making a mistake, Hewitt, thinks I, you’re doing more harm than good. He didn’t seem to know it, but he was trampling on their pride (I may not have much myself, but I recognise it in others, and it’s a chancy thing to tamper with). And yet he could have seen the danger, in the sullen stare of the watching native infantry; they were feeling the shame, too, as those fetters went on, and the prisoners wept and clamoured, and old Sardul grovelled in the dust for one of his fallen buttons, and clenched it against his chest, with the tears streaming down his face.
He was one, I confess, that I felt a mite sorry for, when the fettering was done, and the band had struck up “The Rogues March”, and they shuffled off, dragging their irons as they were herded away to the New Jail beyond the Grand Trunk Road. He kept turning and crying out to Carmichael-Smith – it reminded me somehow of how my old guv’nor had wept and pleaded when I saw him off for the last time to the blue-devil factory in the country where he died bawling with delirium tremens. Damned depressing – and as I walked my pony off with the four other loyal skirmishers, and glanced at their smug black faces, I thought, well, you bloody toadies – after all, they were Hindoos; I wasn’t.
However, I soon worked off my glums back at Duff Mason’s bungalow, by lashing the backside off one of the bearers who’d lost his oil-funnel. And then I had to be on hand for the dinner that was being given for Carmichael-Smith that night (doubtless to celebrate the decimation of his regiment), and Mrs Leslie, dressed up to the nines for the occasion, was murmuring with a meaning look that she intended to have a long ride in the country next day, so I must see picnic prepared, and there were the mateys to chase, and the kitchen-staff to swear at, and little Miss Langley, the riding-master’s daughter, to chivvy respectfully away – she was a pretty wee thing, seven years old, and a favourite of Miss Blanche’s, but she was the damnedest nuisance when she came round the back verandah in the evenings to play, keeping the servants from their work and being given sugar cakes.
With all this, I’d soon forgotten about the punishment parade, until after dinner, when Duff Mason and Carmichael-Smith and Archdale Wilson had taken their pegs and cheroots on to the verandah, and I heard Smith’s voice suddenly raised unusually loud. I stopped a matey who was taking out a tray to them, and took it myself, so I was just in time to hear Smith saying:
“… of all the damned rubbish I ever heard! Who is this havildar, then?”
“Imtiaz Ahmed – and he’s a good man, sir.” It was young Gough, mighty red in the face, and carrying his crop, for all he was in dinner kit.
“Damned good croaker, you mean!” snaps Smith, angrily. “And you stand there and tell me that he has given you this cock-and-bull about the cavalry plotting to march on the jail and set the prisoners free? Utter stuff – and you’re a fool for listening to –”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Gough, “but I’ve been to the jail – and it looks ugly. And I’ve been to barracks; the men are in a bad way, and –”
“Now, now, now,” says Wilson, “easy there, young fellow. You don’t know ’em, perhaps, as well as we do. Of course they’re in a bad way – what, they’ve seen their comrades marched off in irons, and they’re upset. They’re like that – they’ll cry their eyes out, half of ’em … All right, Makarram Khan,” says he, spotting me at the buffet, “you can go.” So that was all I heard, for what it was worth, and since nothing happened that night, it didn’t seem to be worth too much.24
Next morning Mrs Leslie wanted to make an early start, so I fortified myself against what was sure to be a taxing day with half a dozen raw eggs beaten up in a pint of stout, and we rode out again to Aligaut. She was in the cheeriest spirits, curse her, climbing all over me as soon as we reached the temple, and by the end of the afternoon I was beginning to wonder how much more Hindoo culture I could endure, delightful though it was. I was a sore and weary native orderly by the time we set off back, and dozing pleasantly in my saddle as we passed through the little village which lies about a mile east of the British town – indeed, I could just hear the distant chiming of the church bell for evening service – when Mrs Leslie gave an exclamation and reined in her pony.
“What’s that?” says she, and as I came up beside her, she hushed me and sat listening. Sure enough, there was another sound – a distant, indistinct murmur, like the sea on a far shore. I couldn’t place it, so we rode quickly forward to where the trees ended, and looked across the plain. Straight ahead in the distance were the bungalows at the end of the Mall, all serene; far to the left, there was the outline of the Jail, and beyond it the huge mass of Meerut city – nothing out of the way there. And then beyond the Jail, I saw it as I peered at the red horizon – where the native cavalry and infantry lines lay, dark clouds of smoke were rising against the orange of the sky, and flickers of flame showed in the dusk. Buildings were burning, and the distant murmur was resolving itself into a thousand voices shouting, louder and ever louder. I sat staring, with a horrid suspicion growing in my mind, half-aware that Mrs Leslie was tugging at my sleeve, demanding to know what was happening. I couldn’t tell her, because I didn’t know; nobody knew, in that first moment, on a peaceful, warm May evening when the great Indian Mutiny began.
* * *
a Son of a owl.
b Cot.
c Corporal.
d Cooking-place, camp oven of clay.
e Green sweetmeat containing bhang.
f Under-officer.
g Native bu
tter, cooking-fat.
h A highly offensive term.
i Flour.
j Teacher.
k “Lawrence” – any one of the famous Lawrence brothers who served on the frontier, and later in the Mutiny.
l Farmer.
m Strong drink.
n Tent-pegging with a lance.
o Books.
p Regiment.
q Native officer.
r Permit.
s Butler.
t Waiters.
u Lit. “little breakfast” – early morning tea.
v “Darwazaband”, not at home. Presumably the salver used for calling-cards.
w Holy war.
x Preachers.
y Artillery commander.
Chapter 7
If I’d had my wits about me, or more than an inkling of what was happening, I’d have turned our ponies north and ridden for the safety of the British infantry lines a mile away. But my first thought was: Gough was right, some crazy bastards are rioting and trying to break the prisoners loose – and of course they’ll fail, because Hewitt’ll have British troops marching down to the scene at once; maybe they’re there already, cutting up the niggers. I was right – and wrong, you see, but above all I was curious, once my first qualms had settled. So it wasn’t in any spirit of chivalry that I sang out to Mrs Leslie:
“Ride to the bungalow directly, mem-sahib! Hold tight, now!” and cut her mare hard across the rump. She squealed as it leaped forward, and called to me, but I was already wheeling away down towards the distant Jail – I wanted to see the fun, whatever it was, and I had a good horse under me to cut out at the first sign of danger. Her plaintive commands echoed after me, but I was putting my pony to a bank, and clattering off towards the out-lying buildings of the native city bazaar, skirting south so that I’d pass the Jail at a distance and see what was happening.
At first there didn’t seem to be much; this side of the bazaar was strangely empty, but in the gathering dark I could hear rather than see confused activity going on between the Jail and the Grand Trunk – shouting and the rush of hurrying feet, and sounds of smashing timber. I wheeled into the bazaar, following the confusion of noise ahead; the whole of the sky to my front beyond the bazaar was glowing orange now, whether with fire or sundown you couldn’t tell, but the smoke was hanging in a great pall beyond the city – it’s a hell of a fine fire, thinks I, and forged on into the bazaar, between booths where dim figures seemed to be trying to get their goods away, or darting about in the shadows, chattering and wailing. I bawled to a fat vendor, who was staring down the street, asking what was up, but he just waddled swiftly into his shop, slamming his shutters – try to get sense out of an excited Indian, if you like. Then I reined up, with a chicoa scampering almost under my hooves, and the mother after it, crouching and shrieking, and before I knew it there was a swarm of folk in the street, all wailing and running in panic; stumbling into my pony, while I cursed and lashed out with my quirt; behind them the sounds of riot were suddenly closer – hoarse yelling and chanting, and the sudden crack of a shot, and then another.
Time to withdraw to a safer distance, thinks I, and wheeled my pony through the press into a side-alley. Someone went down beneath my hooves, they scattered like sheep – and then down the alley ahead of me, running pell-mell for his life, was a man in the unmistakable stable kit of the Dragoon Guards, bare-headed and wild-eyed, and behind him, like hounds in full cry, a screaming mob of niggers.
He saw me ahead, and yelled with despair – of course, what he saw was a great hairy native villain blocking his way. He darted for a doorway, and stumbled, and in an instant they were on him, a clawing, animal mob, tearing at him while he lashed out, yelling obscenities. For an instant he broke free, blood pouring from a wound in his neck, and actually scrambled under my pony; the mob was round us in a trice, dragging him out bodily while I struggled to keep my seat – there was no question of helping him, even if I’d been fool enough to try. They bore him up, everyone shrieking like madmen, and smashed him down on the table of a pop-shop, holding his limbs while others broke the pop-bottles and slashed and stabbed at him with the shards.
It was a nightmare. I could only clutch my reins and stare at that screaming, thrashing figure, half-covered in the pop foam, as those glittering glass knives rose and fell. In seconds he was just a hideous bloody shape, and then someone got a rope round him, and they swung him up to a beam, with his life pouring out of him.25 In panic I drove my heels into the pony, blundered to the corner, and rode for dear life.
It was the shocking unexpectedness of it that had unmanned me – to see a white man torn to pieces by natives. Perhaps you can’t imagine what that meant in India; it was something you could not believe, even when you saw it. For a few moments I must have ridden blind, for the next thing I knew I was reining up on the edge of the Grand Trunk where it comes north out of Meerut city, gazing at a huge rabble pouring up towards the British town; to my amazement half of them were sepoys, some of them just in their jackets, others in full fig down to the cross-belts, brandishing muskets and bayonets, and yelling in unison: “Mat Karo! Mat Karo!b Sipahi Jai!” and the like – slogans of death and rebellion. There was one rascal on a cart, brandishing ankle-irons above his head, and a heaving mass of sepoys and bazaar-wallahs pushing his vehicle along, yelling like drunkards.
Beyond the road the native cavalry barracks were in full flame; even as I watched I saw one roof cave in with an explosion of sparks. Behind me there were buildings burning in the bazaar, and even as I turned to look I saw a gang of ruffians hurling an oil-lamp into a booth, while others were steadily thrashing with clubs at the fallen body of the owner; finally they picked him up and tossed him into the blaze, dancing and yelling as he tried vainly to struggle out; he was a human torch, his mouth opening and closing in unheard screams, and then he fell back in the burning ruin.
I don’t know how long I sat there, staring at these incredible things, but I know it was dark, with flames leaping up everywhere, and an acrid reek pervading the air, before I came to my senses enough to realise that the sooner I lit out the better – of course, I was safe enough in that I was to all outward appearance a native, and a big, ugly one at that, but it made no sense to linger; any moment there must be the sound of bugles up the road, heralding a British detachment, and I didn’t want to be caught up in the ensuing brawl. So I put my pony’s nose north, and trotted along the edge of the road, with that stream of mad humanity surging in the same direction at my elbow.
Even then I hadn’t determined what it all meant, but any doubts I might have had were resolved as I came level with the Jail, and there was a huge crowd, clamouring and applauding round a bonfire, and forming up, in their prison dhotis,c but with their ankles freed, were some of the prisoners – I recognised Gobinda, and one or two others, and a sepoy whom I didn’t know was standing on a cart, haranguing the mob, although you could hardly hear him for the din:
“It is done! … Death to the gora-log!d … sahibs are already running away … see the broken chains! … On, brothers, kill! kill! To the white town!”
The whole mob screamed as one man, leaping up and down, and then bore the prisoners shoulder-high, streaming out on to the Grand Trunk towards the distant Mall – God, I could see flames up there already, out towards the eastern end. There must be bungalows burning on this side of the Mall, beyond the Nullah.
There was only one way for me to go. Behind was Meerut city and the bazaar, which was being smashed up and looted by the sound of things; to my left lay the burning native barracks; ahead, between me and the British Town, the road was jammed with thousands of crazy fanatics, bent on blood and destruction. I waited till the press thinned a little, and swung right, heading for the Nullah north of the Jail; I would cross the east bridge, and make a long circle north past the Mall to come to the British camp lines.
The first part was easy enough; I crossed the Nullah, and skirted the east end of the British Town, riding care
fully in the half-dark, for the moon wasn’t up yet. It was quiet here, in the groves of trees; the tumult was far off to my left, but now and then I saw little groups of natives – servant-women, probably, scurrying among the bushes, and one ominous sign that some of the killers had come this way – an old chowkidar, with his broken staff beside him, lying with his skull beaten in. Were they butchering anyone, then – even their own folk? Of course – any natives suspected of loyalty would be fair game – including the gora-colonel’s lapdog, as Ram Mangal had charmingly called me. I pressed on quickly; not far behind me, I could hear chanting voices, and see torch-light among the trees. The sooner I …
“Help! Help! In God’s name, help us!”
It came from my right; a little bungalow, behind a white gate, and as I stopped, uncertain, another voice cried:
“Shut up, Tommy! God knows who it is … see the lights yonder!”
“But Mary’s dead!” cries the first voice, and it would have made your hair stand up. “She’s dead, I tell you – they’ve –”
They were English, anyway, and without thinking I slipped from the saddle, vaulted the gate, and cried: “It’s a friend! Who are you?”
“Oh, thank God!” cries the first voice. “Quickly – they’ve killed Mary … Mary!”
I glanced back; the torches were still two hundred yards away among the trees. If I could get the occupants of the bungalow moving quickly, they might get away. I strode up the verandah steps, looked through the space where a chick had been torn down, and saw a wrecked room, with an oil-lamp burning feebly, and a white man, his left leg soaked in blood, lying against the wall, a sabre in his hand, staring at me with feverish eyes.
“Are you …?” he began, and then yelled. “Christ – it’s a mutineer – 3rd Cavalry! Jim!”
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 271
