by John Masters
‘And the second factor is that Sir Meredith Sullivan has died, and Wallingford, the chairman of the Education Trust down in Bombay, has taken the opportunity to announce that he intends to proceed with the sale of St Thomas’s.’
At that point a faint unidentifiable glimmering of real understanding must have come to me, because I remember thinking, It’s really piling up on Taylor—and being sorry for him, and admiring him for fighting.
I asked Sammy what sort of man Wallingford was, besides being a Bombay box wallah, and Sammy said, ‘He gets a lakh a month. He is an elderly white gentleman, very white, and a pillar of the Yacht Club.’
I said, ‘I see,’ and I did.
Sammy went on, ‘The Anglo-Indians are extremely resentful. The community is in a worse temper than I ever remember knowing it. And it is leaderless, not only here but all over India, with Sullivan dead. And then Taylor went off—this was the day before yesterday, in the morning—and the next I heard was when Lanson told me he saw Tupper, the telegraphist, in the bazaar, brandishing a revolver at a shopkeeper who’d given him some back-chat.’
‘Was Tupper in uniform?’ I asked quickly.
Sammy said, ‘Yes.’
I told him he couldn’t stop a soldier in uniform from carrying arms if his officer ordered him to.
He said, ‘I know. But it’s obviously just a ruse. The point is that some of the Anglo-Indians—not all—now carry arms when they are not in proper military formation or under proper military command. Sooner or later there will be a thoroughly unpleasant incident. Someone will be shot—an innocent bystander, if Taylor is involved—and someone will be lynched.’
‘And K. P. Roy will be very happy,’ I said.
He said, ‘Yes. Did you give Taylor any such authority?’
I thought. Taylor had wanted to keep a guard over the armoured car while things were tense. He had talked about the difficulties of opening the rifle kote at odd hours, and the distance between the kote at the station and the armoured car in the Old Lines. I had suggested keeping the car in front of my quarter guard, and he was very insulted. So I told him his guards could keep their arms by them at night—chained to their bodies, the same as we do on the Frontier—until some fixed time every morning when the kote must be opened and the arms properly checked and returned. I told this to Sammy.
Sammy said, ‘H’m. He put a pretty wide interpretation on that.’
I said, ‘Why can’t people mind their own bloody business?’
Sammy said, ‘Running the trains? While you and I run the country? How you can smoke those cheroots at this time of the morning, I don’t know. I want to get those arms back into the kote, and I don’t want our A.F.I. here—or even Taylor—to get into bad odour with the Army or the railway. They’re on the dirty end of the stick—in the dirty middle, as a matter of fact. What do you think’s the best thing to do?’
The Collector’s pencils were soft BBs. They blunted in no time and smeared under Victoria’s hand as she wrote. She grimaced in the pause of our talk and stole another look at me. I’d have liked to know what she was thinking about. She may have been remembering I’d seduced her by filling her with whisky. I bet half a hundred old hags down there in the Old Lines had warned her of the vileness of such a trick. (Unlady-like behaviour will always get you into trouble, my dear. Fail to extend the little finger of the right hand when drinking a cup of tea, my dear, and you might just as well reserve your bed in the maternity ward.) Or she may have been thinking of Patrick’s new trouble.
‘I did discuss this with Dickson yesterday,’ Sammy said.
I said, ‘And he was willing to obey orders? He’s a good chap, though, Collector.’
‘A better fellow never stepped,’ Sammy said, the smile suddenly and startlingly splitting his black face in two.
I said, ‘Yes, but this needs the services of a four-letter man, and I know just the one.’
‘What are you proposing to do?’ he asked.
I said, ‘My God, haven’t you got the decency to pretend you don’t know who I mean? I propose to talk to them.’
He said, ‘Do you think that’ll work? Taylor is not an admirer of yours.’
He was wrong there. Taylor did admire me, for the wrong reasons. I said, thinking quickly, ‘I’d like you to write an urgent message to Taylor, telling him you fear there may be a big riot in the city to-day. Tell him to have all his A.F.I. fallen in, armed, at’—I glanced at my watch—‘ten o’clock. I’ll go down then.’
Sammy said, ‘My dear Rodney, you must tell me more than that. I am on the receiving end of a too efficient telephone connection to an efficient governor and his officious chief secretary.’
I said, ‘I’m going to tell them to put their arms back where they belong, and I’m going to explain that brickbats are a sign of affection in the Land of the Robin.’
‘The Land of the Robin?’ Sammy said.
I said, ‘You see, you don’t know everything about this country in spite of your correct coloration. The Indian robin carries his red breast on his bottom, Collector.’
He laughed and said, ‘Are you going alone?’
I said, ‘Yes. This is a melodrama, isn’t it?’
Then he said, suddenly quite harsh, ‘Very well. Don’t make a mess of it.’
I stood up. I heard the jeep come. I sent Victoria home in it and, after fixing a few things with Sammy, I walked over to the offices. I told Henry to get the battalion fallen in at ten for Internal Security action, placards and all. Then I went to my bungalow, bathed and shaved, and told my bearer to iron the uniform I was wearing.
A few minutes before ten I got out of the jeep, on the Pike, and began to walk down the long road toward the Railway Institute. I could see the A.F.I. fallen in on the tennis courts with the armoured car on their right flank and Patrick wandering up and down in front.
I also saw Victoria standing in the shade of the Institute verandah. She had changed into a skirt. I thought she had come to see me deal with a ticklish situation.
I heard someone shout, ‘Thee colonel is coming!’ That was Dunphy from the turret of the armoured car. I walked on, alone, down the middle of the road toward them, the sun in my face. Patrick tried to keep up a nonchalant flow of chatter with the men standing easy in the ranks, but they were watching me. I was the man who’d come to give them a chance to have a good crack at the Indians in the city. The silence grew until Patrick had to swing round and, like them, watch me. He was chewing his lip continually. He was working out in his mind what to say to the man he had seen naked in bed with his girl.
I reached their makeshift parade ground and stopped, my hands behind me. The jumbled houses of the city squatted on the rise of land across the line there, the roofs pulled down over their heads so that they seemed to be asleep under a sheet of dust. There was a smell of coal from an engine in the yards, and a drift of smoke tinged the wavering air above the railway lines.
I stood still, looking at Taylor. He came to his senses with a start, turned clumsily round on his heel, nearly overbalancing, and shouted, ‘Platoon, ’shun!’
He swung round again, saluted, and yelled, ‘Number three platoon, Third Battalion, the Delhi Deccan Railway Regiment, present and correct, sir!’
‘What is your parade state, Mr Taylor?’ I asked him, speaking very quietly.
He said, ‘Oh, the parade state. Mr Donoghue, what is the parade state?’
The sergeant said, ‘One officer, three sergeants, twenty-one rank and file, sir.’
Patrick said, ‘That’s it, sir. Oh, yes, and one armoured car.’
I said, ‘Stand easy, please.’
He swung round, remembered he had not saluted, swung round, saluted, swung round. He shouted, ‘Platoon, stand at ease! Stand—easy!’ Once more he swung round, then stood at ease, stood easy. Someone in the ranks tittered. The essence of my business was to transfer the hopes of the Anglo-Indians from Patrick to myself. He was certainly helping me.
I strolled forward, s
miling genially. I said, ‘We’ll have to get Mr Taylor a jab on the turntable, won’t we?’
Patrick flushed furiously, and I got a glimpse of Victoria’s white face. Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat. I thought she was trying to tell me that Patrick had a loaded pistol in his holster. Perhaps she thought she was. But the men were already much more relaxed. A voice from the rear rank said, ‘Some of those traffic graphs look as if that’s where he made them anyway, sir—on the turntable.’
I smiled and stopped. The tittering and talking stopped. I said, ‘Gentlemen, I’ve come here, first, to thank you for your work in the emergency last week. I haven’t had a chance to see you since then. I’m speaking for myself and all ranks of my battalion. Thank you. Now I will read you a telegram which has just arrived. It is from His Excellency the Governor. It says: “Please convey to Lieutenant Taylor and all ranks of Number Three Platoon, Third Battalion, the Delhi Deccan Railway Regiment, A.F.I., my appreciation of their steadiness in the recent emergency, and my thanks for the invaluable help they gave to the cause of law and order on that occasion.” Here, you’d better frame this in the drill-room.’ I folded up the telegram and gave it to Taylor. From the corners of my eyes I saw Victoria knotting and unknotting her fingers. The telegram had been sent less than half an hour ago, at my urgent request. Actually, the Governor had not been at all pleased with Number 3 Platoon, 3rd Battalion, the Delhi Deccan Railway Regiment, A.F.I., especially not with Patrick. His Excellency had heard about the shooting and the inkwell. I was the fellow he was pleased with.
I said, ‘So far, so good. But I think you will all realize that there are people, some of them not a thousand miles from here, who are not pleased with that telegram or the things it says. These people I am talking about do not like the A.F.I., and would welcome any chance to discredit it.’ I paused a long time, then added, ‘Although they don’t mind using it when they need it.’
I paused again. The men muttered to one another in the ranks. It was obvious that my hint could mean only Govindaswami. Patrick stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at my shoulder a couple of feet from him, and the sweat was pouring down his face.
‘One of the handles these people are trying to use against the A.F.I.,’ I went on, ‘is this business of arms being carried off parade. I authorized that.’ I suddenly turned my head a fraction and looked hard at Patrick. Again he flushed. I went on, ‘But when I did that, I hadn’t thought the matter out carefully enough. Nor did I realize how very anxious some people are to get the A.F.I. totally done away with. They do not like either the A.F.I. or the community which supports it. Such people will use any incidents in which members of the community are involved to harden their attitude. For instance, they will be able to use one single incident to finish off St Thomas’s for good.’
Taylor said loudly, ‘St Thomas’s is done for already. Sir Meredith Sullivan is dead, and the Trust are going to sell the school.’ A lot of men cried out in agreement with him.
Carefully I played my highest card. I said, ‘No, St Thomas’s is not done for—yet There is still hope. I will be happy to write to Mr Wallingford, backing you up, and trying to make him realize what an injustice it would be to sell the school—if one of you will go down in person and explain how strong your feelings are. You need a new leader. But,’ I went on quickly, ‘for your sakes, and for the sake of St Thomas’s, I am going to rescind the authorization I gave last week. All A.F.I. weapons will be kept in the kote. They will not be drawn out except by men who are going on a regular parade with an officer. Mr Taylor!’
Patrick started and said, ‘Sir?’
I said, ‘Some arms and ammunition are in the possession of men not now on parade. You will see that they are handed in to the kote by two p.m. to-day. Bring the kote corporal and his book up to my office at that time.’
Patrick stared straight in front of him but did not answer.
A man in the ranks spoke up uncertainly. ‘But sir——’ He stopped.
I said, ‘Yes?’
He said, ‘The Wogs are throwing stones at our womenfolk, sir. They’re doing dirty things in front of them and shouting filthy remarks. A lady isn’t safe outside her house here, and we’re not getting any protection from the authorities.’
A strong murmur rose from the ranks, Patrick shifted his position convulsively. His right hand kept straying to his pistol butt as though he needed reassurance that the weapon was still in its holster. He had half closed his eyes. Like that he could probably imagine me naked on the berth with Victoria, instead of armed with a star and crown on each shoulder.
‘I know what’s been happening,’ I said, ‘and I’m going to put a platoon of my regiment in the Old Lines here, as from tonight.’ I spoke quickly and a little louder than before, and didn’t give them a chance to speak again until I had finished. I said, ‘I’m going to have that platoon down here by tea-time—if it costs me my commission.’
Again I paused. Only one person in Bhowani could complain if a platoon of Gurkhas was used to give specific protection to the Anglo-Indian community. That person was good old black Sammy.
I said, ‘Now you all know what Gurkhas are, and I know how generous you are. But please, for heaven’s sake, don’t give them any rum, and damned little beer. That includes you, Tench.’
Tench was pure English, a gang supervisor. I’d met him at the Institute a couple of times. He’d been a regular private of British infantry, Ortheris-type, and gone to the railway with twenty-one years behind him and sixteen pages of red ink in his conduct sheet—all drunkenness. He joined in the laughter. I went on. ‘Now let’s get these arms back in the kote before Mr—well, someone—sends an alarmist telegram and has the Black Watch parachuting down to take them away from us.’
An old driver spoke, a man who looked ludicrously out of place in his lance corporal’s uniform. ‘Will we be able to get at the arms if we need them, sir?’
I said, ‘Of course. I told you. For any parade under an officer.’ I wondered for a second how I was able to stand there arguing with soldiers in the ranks. But I’m a hell of a clever fellow.
Private Tench spoke up. ‘Sir, is this the emergency what we were fell in for, then, sir?’
I grinned and said, ‘Yes.’
Tench said in a loud aside to the man next to him—hell, it’s no use trying to record what he said because no one except a soldier will understand that he was paying me a wry compliment.
‘Tench, there is a lady present,’ I said.
Tench shouted, ‘Sorry, Vicky. But ’e’s a proper one, ain’t ’e? Worse nor my old Sar’n’t-Major Sparrow in the Brummagems.’
I told them to be quiet. Then I said, ‘Let me see if the A.F.I. can act like real soldiers for a change. I know your jobs are much more difficult, much more valuable, and much more important than being a poor bloody infantryman like me, but——’ I hardened my voice, so obviously that it was like a semi-joke, a challenge. It would do them good to think of me as a proper red-necked colonel of infantry. I roared, ‘Let me see if you can pretend for five minutes to be soldiers. Mr Taylor, carry on!’
I turned away. I heard Patrick’s boots crunch on the crushed rubble of the tennis court. I, and every man on parade, and Victoria on the verandah, heard his mouthed, mutilated abuse. ‘You rotter, I’ll show you, I’ll … man to man.’
Victoria shrieked, ‘Rodney, look out!’
I turned slowly round, very slowly. I saw Tench, the old soldier, with the reflexes of seven thousand nights in edgy barrack rooms behind him, step forward and raise his rifle and aim at the middle of Taylor’s back. I heard the rapid click of his bolt, and his shout—‘Look out, sir!’
Taylor’s face was white in the shadow of his huge topi, and his lips were moving. His fingers jerked on the butt of the pistol, and his whole hand trembled. He had the muzzle unsteadily aimed at the pit of my stomach, and only five feet away. Tench kept up a steady soft blasphemy.
I looked Patrick in the eye. If I did
the right thing, he’d fire. As he was aiming at my stomach he’d probably hit my arm, or miss altogether. In another of those illuminating flashes, I felt that I ought to let him wound me, preferably quite badly. But my brain and the animal will to win were still too strong, and I was beginning to feel angry with this oaf who kept coming between me and Victoria. I wanted to finish him for good.
After a long wait I stretched out my hand and said, ‘I’ll take your pistol now, Mr Taylor.’ I stepped forward and took hold of the muzzle. For ten seconds both of us held the pistol—Patrick the butt, me the muzzle, which was pointing at my stomach.
I didn’t pull, but suddenly I felt the weight of the pistol in my hand, and Taylor was stumbling off the parade ground, and there was a long sibilant ssspheew of men breathing. I said, ‘Sergeant Donoghue, carry on with fifteen minutes of close-order drill, please.’
Donoghue quavered, ‘Yes, sir.’ I saw Victoria slump down in a chak and cover her face with her hands.
I went after Taylor and caught up with him as he was wandering about in the middle of Limit Road like a man with sunstroke. I hadn’t finished with him yet. There were a couple more inches of the knife to get in under his liver.
I went up to him and said, ‘Taylor.’
He stopped, looked at me, and mumbled, ‘Can’t you leave me alone?’
I gave him the pistol and said, ‘It’s still loaded. You are an officer, and you may keep it. But I want your promise that you will not fire it at anyone—except me.’ He looked at the pistol and at me, and gave up trying to understand. He said, ‘I will shoot myself.’
