by John Masters
When he’d finished he slipped into the driving seat of the jeep and told me to follow with Mrs Dickson in the six-by-six. He revved up his engine, and the jeep began to move. Birkhe was sitting upright alone in the back seat. Molly and I scrambled into the front of the six-by-six alongside the driver. The body of the truck was full of Gurkhas, dogs, luggage, children, and Ayah.
Molly watched the jeep moving slowly along in front of us and said, ‘Is that man in love with you?’
‘Colonel Savage?’ I said, very surprised. ‘Good heavens no. The opposite, rather, from the way he behaves.’
Molly said, ‘That doesn’t mean a thing. Rodney has complexes where other people have manners. Don’t you think he’s got it, though? Not that he’s ever shown it to me.’ She laughed abstractedly. Molly always talked like that, and usually about that.
A stone smashed into the windscreen directly in front of our driver. He swerved sharply and pressed his horn button, and Ayah screamed in the back. Savage swung round in the jeep and must have seen the scarred glass. The street was bare and the houses on both sides bolted and barred. Savage slowed and shouted back, ‘Any damage?’ I answered, ‘No, sir.’ He raised his hand and increased speed.
Molly said crossly, ‘He takes it very calmly. We might have had our eyes put out. What d’you call him “sir” for? You’re out of the WAC (I) now, aren’t you? What are you doing here, anyway?’
Watching the jeep ahead, and thinking of answers for Molly, I saw Birkhe’s head jerk sideways; then he clapped his hands over his eyes and rolled forward in the seat. The jeep stopped with a jerk. We were on the Pike then, where there were bare patches and scrubby small fields between the separate shacks and huts and hovels. The Sudder Savoy restaurant was just ahead on the left. Savage shouted an order, and the Gurkhas tumbled out of the back of our six-by-six. Little Birkhe rocked backward and forward, his head in his hands. Savage bent back to take a a quick look at him.
Molly muttered, ‘My God, what’s happened now?’
Savage threw the jeep into gear and flung it across the shallow ditch to the left. The searching headlights jumped on to three Indian youths of about fifteen or sixteen hurrying along the line of a low wall. The jeep shot forward, and its lights pinned the boys like moths against the wall. They stopped running and stood, blinded, their faces suddenly vacant with terror. The Gurkhas ran forward, and by the time they arrived Savage was out of the jeep and walking slowly into the brilliant light. He stood in front of the boys and must have been speaking to them, though I could not hear. The Gurkhas stood around in a half-circle, the tommy-guns levelled and a bayonet point weaving from left to right.
When Savage turned his back and walked to the jeep, three of the Gurkhas put down their arms and advanced on the boys. The boys shrieked and yelled for mercy, but the Gurkhas knocked them down and began to kick them with their big boots, and leaned down and punched them in the face. I heard their boots thudding for a moment or two, and then Savage started up the jeep, and the lights swung away, leaving the boys and the Gurkhas in darkness, as Savage slowly brought the jeep back on to the Pike.
He came over to us and said, ‘Are you all right?’ His voice was stiff and harsh.
Molly said, ‘Yes, after a fashion. What have you been doing to those poor boys, Rodney? You are a bully, really.’
He said, ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch,’ and got back into the jeep. He was always murderously angry and profane when a Gurkha had been hurt or insulted or even misunderstood. By our lights I saw him put his arms quickly round Birkhe in a sort of hugging pat, and one of the other Gurkhas got in to hold Birkhe up in the seat; then we drove on.
Molly said, ‘He hasn’t got any right to speak to me like that. If it wasn’t for what Henry would do to me, I’d report him, and then he’d be in trouble.’ She fumbled for a handkerchief in her bag and blew her nose.
Major Dickson wasn’t there, of course, when we reached the bungalow, but the bearer had food and baths and drinks ready, and, looking at Molly’s white face and her eyes that were always anxious, I did not want to stay and be talked with. I made excuses and drove away in the six-by-six as soon as it was empty. I found Savage waiting in the road outside the offices. Birkhe had gone.
He said, ‘Four-thirty, here, Miss Jones.’
I thought I had not heard him properly. I said, ‘Four-thirty in the morning, sir?’
He said, ‘Yes, for Christ’s sake. With your shoes laced up and a notebook and pencil and——’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said quickly. I was really sorry for him, and asked, ‘How badly is Birkhe hurt?’
He said, ‘He got a bottle or a stone on the side of his head. Like Surabhai. It came within a quarter of an inch of putting his eye out. I’m going to the hospital now. I think he’ll be all right, as a matter of fact.’ He glanced at me and said shortly, ‘It’s sensible of you to ask. Look, I’m going to apologize to Taylor for what happened this evening as soon as I get a chance. I suppose you think I’m gloating because I’ve made him look a bloody fool again. Well, I’m not. Taylor’s a better man than his luck lets him show. It wasn’t anybody’s fault tonight. With Taylor it never is. And I’m going to apologize to Molly for calling her a bitch. And to you for——’ He stared at me, and said, very low, ‘No, not to you.’
He smiled, and I saw he was absolutely exhausted. He said, ‘Yes, four-thirty. You know, I nearly killed those boys, and what good would that have done Birkhe?’
TWENTY-SIX
It was a lonely time of day, a few minutes before half-past four next morning, as I bicycled to the battalion offices, and not only because the Pike was dark and empty, and the houses silent. It was lonely even when I passed the long column of trucks and jeeps, their lights out, but full of men, drawn up on the approach road and on the hard grass outside the offices. Major Dickson must have returned with the detachment that he had taken to Shahpur. There were no lights in the Kutcherry as I passed, but I thought the police bus was there, and I thought it too was full of men.
Savage was waiting in his jeep, and radio and escort jeeps were drawn up behind. As soon as I parked my bicycle he called me, and I got in beside him, and we drove to the Collector’s bungalow.
The sweeping lights showed two tongas standing in front of the main steps, and Lanson’s Chevrolet and the Collector’s Austin. In that still hotness the smell of the tonga ponies’ dung was rich and strong, and it was mixed with petrol fumes and flowers and the watered lawn and the laid dust to make an Indian hot-weather night. In the distance I heard motor engines humming and knew that the convoy of Gurkha trucks was on the move, going south toward the city.
The curtains were drawn in Govindaswami’s study, and the lights seemed harsh to me, coming in out of the soft night. Mr Surabhai was there with his two pleader friends, and the Sirdarni-sahiba, and Ranjit, and a Moslem gentleman, and Mr Lanson, and the Collector.
The Collector was writing at his desk. The others sat in silence, waiting. Savage said, ‘Good morning, Collector. We’re on the move.’
Govindaswami got up, nodded, and turned round. He sat down on the edge of his desk, his feet on the seat of the swivel chair, and his shiny black hands locked below one gleaming white knee. He said, ‘Good. I have asked you all to come here because in one way or another you are the leading citizens, official and non-official, of Bhowani. As you know, we have been trying for some time now to find K. P. Roy and a lot of explosives and ammunition that he stole. We have not received the co-operation we ought to get. So to-day we are searching the city. All the Gurkhas and all the police will be engaged. The A.F.I. will keep order in the streets. But before we cause a lot of trouble to everybody, I want to ask you all, for the last time, if you can give me any information. Mr Surabhai?’
Mr Surabhai’s eyes popped, and he said, ‘Your fellows are commencing already to turn our city upside down, hugger mugger, enter every dwelling-house, affrighten one and all, the lady in her seclusion and the old man in his hour of rest, and all
without hint of authorization or precept?’
‘I have authority, Mr Surabhai,’ Govindaswami said.
Mr Surabhai cried, ‘Merely the authorization of this so-called pseudo-government. What balderdash! At all events I shall not lift one little finger to help in the location of MrK. P. Roy. He is nothing but a patriot of the first water. He has proved it by the acid test: he has been to jail.’
The Collector said, ‘Mr Surabhai, K. P. Roy’s group threw the stones that started your trouble with the Moslems the other day. K. P. Roy murdered the Hindu girl. K. P. Roy derailed the troop train and killed two Indian firemen and an Indian driver. K. P. Roy probably murdered a British officer here and certainly hung a sign round his neck which implied that Congress had been responsible. K. P. Roy set fire to Maslan and ruined twenty poor people. And you want to help him? You think that is true patriotism?’
Mr Surabhai’s eyes had grown bigger and bigger during the Collector’s recital. Now he fidgeted unhappily on the edge of his chair and said, ‘You indicate that Mr K. P. Roy has committed these offences. How do I know you are not merely hoodwinking me? Give me proof, mister.’
Govindaswami said, ‘I can’t. We just know he’s done them all—he and his group.’
Mr Surabhai shrugged violently and said, ‘Then why should I help you? Hearsay is no jolly damned good at all. Besides, I have not seen or heard rumours of Mr Roy.’
The Collector sighed and turned to the other two, at Surabhai’s right and left. They knew nothing. The Moslem gentleman knew nothing. Then he asked the Sirdarni-sahiba.
She said in Hindustani, ‘I don’t understand English.’
The Collector replied sharply, ‘That is a lie, Sirdarni-sahiba. Where is K. P. Roy? When did you last see him?’
She said, ‘I don’t understand English.’
Savage said, ‘This is the lady who was urging the Congress men to charge my fellows in the Street of Suttees that day. The one who wanted to cause another Jallianwala Bagh.’
The Jallianwala Bagh is the name of a place in Amritsar where there was a terrible massacre in 1919. Some people said General Dyer’s soldiers had meant to kill all the civilians; others said the massacre happened because there was a panic.
‘I was at the Jallianwala Bagh,’ the Sirdarni said unexpectedly in English.
‘Were you responsible for that too, Beji?’ Savage asked in Hindustani.
The Sirdarni shot him a hard look, said, ‘I don’t understand English,’ and pressed her lips together.
Savage laughed cheerfully, bowed, and said, ‘Touché.’
The Collector waited patiently, his head bent, while this exchange went on. Then he turned to Ranjit. ‘And you? Have you heard anything since I last saw you?’
‘No,’ Ranjit muttered.
‘Miss Jones?’ he asked me.
I pretended not to hear so that I could have a second or two in which to think. It might come out all right. They’d get K. P. Roy if they were going to. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t. They thought he had killed Macaulay, so, unless they caught him, they’d go on thinking it. The Collector was giving me a long time. He must know. Then why did he say that Roy had killed Macaulay? Anyway——
‘Miss Jones?’ he repeated.
‘I’ve heard nothing, sir,’ I said.
He said, ‘Very well. That is all. The search will begin at once. A head constable is waiting outside to escort you to your homes.’
Colonel Savage made no move to go out with the group of Indians, so I waited. I tried to catch Ranjit’s eye as he passed me, but he wouldn’t look at me.
When they were gone Lanson and Govindaswami talked briefly in a corner. Savage turned to me and said, ‘Now, your job. I’m setting up my headquarters in the station yard—in the lorries. You’ll find the maps for this operation in the office lorry. The whole battalion’s here, but if a trainman notices that there are no guards on the various bridges, tell him there are, that they’re just out of sight.’
I wrote in my notebook. He must have got his company down from Lalkot and perhaps even borrowed back the other, the one he’d left in Cawnpore. Henry Dickson’s move to Shahpur was a blind. The tents would probably still be standing down there in some secluded place, with a sentry or two left to keep anyone from finding out that the soldiers in them had gone away.
I could hardly write, the feeling of guilty despair was growing so strong in me. Ranjit’s mother was lying. Every moment that I held my tongue tied me more closely to lawlessness and violence. Any acrion I took or word that I spoke to break free would cut me off from the new India that I was so close to finding.
Savage said, ‘The search is beginning in the western segment of the city, nearest the railway line, and working east and south. Stay at headquarters. The field mess is open there now. You may be wanted at any time for interpreting, or to help us get into zenana apartments. That’s all.’
When I looked up I saw that Lanson had gone. Govindaswami said suddenly, ‘When are you going to be initiated into the Sikh religion, Miss Jones?’
The question nearly brought my panic into the open, for it burst like a searchlight on the other part of my position—my way ahead. The talk of derailments and murders and K. P. Roy had focused my despair on the problems of becoming an Indian in these circumstances. The Collector’s question gave bright outlines and black, black shadows to the goal itself. Could I become an Indian? What was the Sikh religion, which I was so lightly proposing to enter as a kind of haven where Savage and Patrick couldn’t get at me?
Slowly I answered the Collector’s question, I said, ‘Monday next.’
The Collector smiled and patted my shoulder. He said, ‘Don’t sound so worried. I’m sure you are doing the right thing. Ranjit’s one of the nicest young men there are, but he needs his religion. It ought to be a tie between you, and between the two of you and the things in India that are older and better than this.’ He waved his hand, perhaps at the sound of motor engines in the distance, perhaps at the atmosphere of squabbling and mistrust hanging about in the room, perhaps at the portrait of Queen Victoria over his desk. But I was worried all the same, and, with the other things, more than worried.
Govindaswami asked me when the marriage was to be. I told him, ‘July the first.’ He hoped that Colonel Savage was giving me plenty of leave for it. Savage said, ‘She’ll be out of the Army before then. I’ve written to G.H.Q. Unless you want to keep me hanging around any more, Collector, I’ve got some work to do.’
Govindaswami glanced at him, but his calm black face and his steady voice showed no anger or remonstrance at Savage’s sharp tone. He said, ‘No, Savage. You’d better be off.’
Savage strode off. In the doorway he turned, hesitated, and said, ‘You may rely on me.’
Govindaswami’s face broke into a smile and he rose and clasped Savage’s hand. Their old joke again. ‘The scoundrels must be made to suffer for the wrongs they have inflicted, Savage. Society demands it,’ he said.
‘No—society must be protected,’ Savage said. He went out, got into his jeep, and waited, frowning to himself, while I adjusted my sari and climbed in after him.
When we reached the station yard he left me there and drove away. I climbed up into the office three-tonner, looked at the maps, and tried to work out when the search would reach the Sirdarni’s house—late in the afternoon, probably.
Light came, the sun rose, and a Gurkha brought me tea, bread, and bacon and eggs. The A.F.I. armoured car came back from a patrol, and I saw that the crew had been changed. Men in the A.F.I. did their railway duties, then hurried to this, then went off again. Obviously they couldn’t keep it up for long. I understood then why they had been called out. The trouble last night hadn’t really been bad. Govindaswami had used it as a heaven-sent excuse to call out the A.F.I. so that all the Gurkhas and police would be free for the house-to-house search of the city.
Twice we got messages on the walkie-talkies that sent me to houses where Moslem ladies, their men away, wer
e entrenched in the zenanas and refusing to admit the Gurkhas. I found the Gurkhas were working in groups of about six or a dozen, each group accompanied by a single constable. The Moslem ladies were delighted when I came. They whispered to ask me how much of the secret Hindu store of ammunition had been found. As for themselves, of course they hadn’t got any. They adjusted their veils and cheerfully showed me and the grinning Gurkhas all over their houses.
Then Patrick came into the yard on his motor-bicycle to resume command of the armoured car. He had put on clean uniform, his head was professionally bandaged, and his big military topi sat on top of it.
I walked over to him, but he turned his back on me. I said, ‘Patrick,’ but he did not answer.
I said, ‘Patrick, are you all right?’
No answer.
I said, ‘Patrick, Colonel Savage didn’t want to hurt you. He had to. He did it to save you from getting into awful trouble. I saw it all.’
Patrick wheeled round on me, his pale eyes blazing and his face red. He said, ‘He was trying to make a fool of me, like all of them are trying to make fools of all of us now. You are a—a traitor!’ He turned his back again.
Perhaps he was waiting for me to put my arms round him and beg for forgiveness. But I couldn’t do that. I could only try to find words to make him understand that I knew how he felt Anything I said would have to flick the really sore place, the ridicule that was the heart of the matter, the ludicrous wound under the splendid bandage.
I climbed slowly up the stairs to the Traffic Office. Ranjit was working there alone, as I had hoped. I said, ‘Ranjit, do you think any of that explosive is hidden in your mother’s house?’
He put down his pen and looked at me sadly. He was always sad. I would have to stop him from thinking of these things all the time. He ought to smile when he saw me. There was always something that might be love in his face, but it was always blended with melancholy, so I could not be sure.
