by John Masters
‘Yes, there are!’ the rissaldar snapped.
The captain spurred forward, saying, ‘Don’t argue, please! Come. Gather here.’
Warren thought, there’s a man with no confidence in himself. If the rest of the officers were like that, the regiment wouldn’t be much use. George Johnson relit his pipe, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘How would you like to command that lot, Bateman?’
Warren said, ‘Not a bit ... but there’d be compensations.’
‘Women,’ Johnson said, grinning. ‘Baksheesh. Perks. Five rupees for every promotion to lance dafadar, twenty to dafadar, and as for jemadar ...’
Warren said seriously, ‘I meant, one would be part of an India that only exists in the Native States nowadays--the India that our forefathers knew.’
‘You can have it,’ Johnson said. ‘Y’know, I believe I’m on to a better way to treating bog-spavin in the early stages. What I say is ...’
They walked on towards the mess tent and the immaculate mess dafadar saluting outside. Warren remembered that he hadn’t seen the Yuvraj of Ravi arrive with his regiment. Well, you couldn’t expect a prince to suffer the boredom of a route march, could you?
As his horse trotted in under the shade of the trees by the well, Warren eased it back to a walk, then to a halt. George Johnson was already there, sitting on the brick surround of the well munching on a sandwich, his orderly holding the two horses, watched by a knot of naked children. Warren slipped to the ground, gave his reins to his orderly, Narayan Singh, and sat down at Johnson’s side. He pulled out his own sandwich, peered into it, muttered, ‘Cold mutton. Can’t that bloody khansamah think of anything else? ... They’ve got quite a bold plan, George. It could end in a disaster--a real one--but that’s their business.’
‘What are they going to do?’ Johnson asked, his mouth full.
‘Send two squadrons to swim the Ravi behind your right rear and probe in from that side, while the other two squadrons hold you in front.’
Johnson munched, shaking his head. ‘That’ll give Rainbow fits. He thinks the river is protecting his flank.’
Warren passed on more details of the Ravi Lancers’ plan as they ate. Round the right sleeves of their khaki drill tunics both men were wearing the white armband of an umpire. Johnson was the chief umpire with the infantry brigade which, with one squadron of cavalry, was advancing into ‘enemy’ territory in a small exercise; the Ravi Lancers were the ‘enemy’ who were trying to stop them. The village well at this tiny hamlet ten miles north of Ratanwala Camp was the prearranged rendezvous where the umpires met and exchanged plans so that each would know where to place himself and what information to give the commanders as the action unfolded.
An hour later Warren rejoined the Ravi Lancers in their bivouac to the north, arriving at the same time as a large open car, covered with dust, drove in from the opposite direction. As he dismounted near where Colonel Hanbury was sitting on a folding camp chair, the Yuvraj Krishna Ram leaped out of the car, saluted the colonel, and said, ‘I’m sorry I’m late, sir, but the Privy Council wasn’t held till this morning. Have I missed anything?’ He was wearing a perfectly cut drill uniform with a single long yellow and white medal ribbon on his left breast, and immaculate field boots, gleaming like the sun. He noticed Warren then, and saluted again with a smile, ‘Hullo, sir.’
Colonel Hanbury said, ‘You haven’t missed anything, but you’re just in time for an interesting job which I was going to give to Major Bholanath ... if you feel up to some swimming.’ He smiled a frosty little smile at Warren--’I am putting the Yuvraj in command of the flanking force.’
The prince saluted and turned to hurry off, but the colonel said, ‘Wait a minute. You’re not moving off for two hours yet. Get something to eat and then come back here and I’ll give you the details ... Would you care for a bottle of beer, Bateman?’
‘No, thanks, sir. I think I’ll have a nap, though.’
Two hours later the flanking force set out. The two squadrons allotted for the task were C and D. Old Major Bholanath, the polo player, who was a younger brother of the Rajah, commanded C, and a fair-skinned, handsome Captain Sher Singh--the one holding hands with a sowar as they rode into camp--commanded D. The two hundred lancers headed south-east towards the Ravi River across a scrub-covered plain dotted with patches of cultivation, dun-coloured villages, and isolated trees. A column of dust traced their movement as they marched at the alternating walk then trot, walk then trot, of cavalry. Warren wondered whether the British force would see the dust and note its direction. But they were at least ten miles away, and the air was thick from the steady cold weather wind blowing off the thin topsoil. They would see nothing.
An hour before dark the force reached the right bank of the Ravi. The river was half a mile wide, flowing in two or three channels: it was hard to tell whether there were one or two long, low sand islands in the middle of the river. The near bank was a steep sand slope, the far one a low beach littered with bushes and tree trunks stranded from the floods of last monsoon. The squadron commanders gathered round the prince, and he said, speaking in Hindi, ‘Let us cross at once. You go first, uncle. I’ll follow with Sher Singh.’
Major Bholanath said, ‘It would be best to give men and horses a little breathing space, Highness. And to look to the girths.’
‘Very well, uncle,’ the Yuvraj said, ‘fifteen minutes.’
Warren dismounted and walked to the bank. The horses would enter the river almost at a jump, the bank was so steep, though barely six feet high. The water swirled deep and fast here. Anyone who was unseated in that first scramble might be swept away and drowned. It was the sort of risk that would obviously be taken in war, but in peace time manoeuvres? ... A British officer commanding regular troops would think twice in this situation. Was it worth the risk to men’s lives? And, if anything happened, he might be reprimanded, or worse. Obviously such considerations didn’t worry Krishna Ram or the two squadron commanders. They might drown twenty men, and their Rajah wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.
When C squadron entered the old major went first, easing his horse down the steep bank to a final plunge, then he was out, the horse swimming strongly, his white hair gleaming under his turban. By then his leading troops were in the water, three abreast, all swimming, the sowars leaving the reins loose, holding to the horses’ manes with one hand. At Warren’s side the prince watched them go, smiling. ‘My uncle’s a wonderful man. He’s my great-uncle, actually ... He doesn’t hold his rank because he’s the Rajah’s brother, you know. He’s the best officer we’ve got.’
Warren nodded--’One of the old school. And a terrific polo player--rides as hard as anyone I’ve ever seen.’
Bholanath’s horse was kicking up out of the water, the major turning in the saddle, his arm waving in the twilight.
‘Here we go,’ Krishna Ram said. He edged his horse, a beautifully paced hunter, towards the bank. His orderly, a squat sturdy dark-skinned ape-like man, rode behind him, and two sowars who carried sabres instead of lances rode close, one on each side. Warren followed close, with his orderly, and almost together they all plunged into the river. The current carried them downstream and they reached the sandbank at the same place as C Squadron had; but by then C was entering the second channel, wider but shallower, where every now and then the horses’ flailing hoofs found bottom. Behind, D Squadron were coining across, the horses’ teeth bared in apparent snarls, as their powerful legs thrashed the water.
The prince and his group followed C Squadron into the second channel. There were no others, Warren was relieved to see, for some of the horses were stumbling as they struggled out on to the far bank. They looked tired--and the force was going to cross the river again, back to the right bank, ten miles farther downstream. As the rissaldar at the tail of D Squadron urged his horse up the bank and reported, ‘All across, sahib,’ the Yuvraj said, ‘We’ll rest here an hour, and take the evening meal.’
Warren dismounted. No cookers were accompan
ying the force so the men would be eating cold chupattis and dal from their mess tins. He himself would be eating the same, for when Colonel Hanbury had offered him mutton sandwiches he had decided to take the sowars’ food instead.
The Yuvraj came towards him, holding a bottle, ‘Whisky, Captain Bateman?’
Warren said, ‘What about you?’
‘I don’t drink. I had my bodyguards bring it for you.’
Warren took the bottle. ‘Well, that’s very thoughtful of you. Wouldn’t Sher Singh and your uncle like a drop?’
‘They have their own.’ He sat down beside Warren on a dried tree trunk half-buried in the sand. ‘Do you think we did that all right?’
‘Very good,’ Warren said. ‘You may have a little more trouble at the next crossing, but... no regiment could have done it better.’
’Thank you ... We’re really good, you know. Not like most States Forces.’
‘So I can see,’ Warren agreed. One of the prince’s bodyguards handed him a collapsible silver cup and poured some whisky into it. ‘Hanuman, pani,’ the prince said, and the ape-like orderly poured water from a large silver flask into the whisky.
Warren raised the cup. ‘Your good health.’ He drank appreciatively. He had half expected to be served the whisky brewed in the Simla hills, but this was genuine Scotch, and a good one.
‘I am really so sorry that you and your sister cannot come to visit us in Basohli,’ the Yuvraj said, ‘and Mrs. Bateman, of course.’
‘So am I,’ Warren said.
‘I told my grandfather about you. He said he hopes you can come another year. Your regiment will still be in Lahore when you return from furlough, will it not?’
‘Probably not,’ Warren said. ‘We’ve spent three years here, earmarked for divisional troops of an infantry division, and the powers-that-be think it’s time we were put into a cavalry brigade--probably Secunderabad. But I’ll remember your kind invitation.’
‘Please! ‘
The twilight thickened to a cool smoky dusk. Warren drank, refusing a second whisky. They knew how to look after themselves, he thought. The silver flask and cup and whisky were nothing special: he knew some regiments of Indian cavalry where a table would have been set up long since, the officers sprawled in camp chairs, and mess orderlies in full regalia serving cold champagne; but the atmosphere here wasn’t like that of regular Indian cavalry. The men offering him more whisky were not soldiers dedicated to their regiment, but personal servants dedicated to protect the Yuvraj’s life with their own. Krishna Ram did not command by experience or rank, but by divine right, and all this gave the gathering in the dusk at the river’s bank a mysteriously feudal atmosphere ... but he was glad to note that he had misjudged the young man, in at least one respect. It wasn’t idleness but his responsibilities as heir apparent that had prevented him riding down to Ratanwala Camp with his regiment.
It was full dark when the force moved on, riding now down a dusty track that led south half a mile east of the river. They rode through a village where dimly seen women ran for the huts as they heard the hoofs, and here and there a man stood in a doorway, silhouetted by the dim oil lamp behind him, peering out as the horsemen passed. Near midnight they turned right and again headed for the river. The half moon, just risen, shone on a broad expanse of water. Warren involuntarily shivered. It was a long way, and here there were no islands to break the passage. They would have to swim it all in one.
‘As before, fifteen minutes, and then we go,’ the Yuvraj said. Soon, ‘We are ready, Highness,’ old Bholanath said, and the Yuvraj said, ‘Go then, uncle,’ and the old man called, ‘Come, children! ... The far bank will come no closer by looking at it.’
He walked his horse into the water. Warren thought, he’s right; but to plunge into a crossing like this without knowing what the other bank was like--it was a darker line of shadow, nothing more, barely distinguishable--that was risky. Still, this was the cavalry spirit that everyone was supposed to strive for, so who should complain? Krishna Ram and his bodyguards were going in and Narayan Singh was waiting at his side, Warren walked his horse into the river.
Ten minutes later, after a crossing when twice he thought he would be swept away, both times the horse finding ground underfoot in time, he reached the far side. Now the force was once more on the right bank, the side up which the British brigade was advancing. Unless they had misread their maps they were about five miles behind the right rear of the enemy. Now the prince could either advance at once and occupy the ground before the British knew he was anywhere near, or wait till light. As he turned to Major Bholanath, Captain Sher Singh loomed up out of the moonlight. ‘Highness,’ he said, ‘we have a sowar missing. Mangla Ram.’
‘What about his horse?’ the Yuvraj asked.
‘That’s here. He must have slipped off somehow during the crossing. No one saw him.’
This was what he had been afraid of, Warren reflected. At that, they were lucky not to have lost more. And Sowar Mangla Ram could probably have been saved with better discipline and supervision in the ranks.
The Yuvraj said, ‘Leave a jemadar here with a section--and Mangla Ram’s horse. Tell them to search down this bank the rest of the night--send some men over the bridge at Harian at dawn and search the other bank, too--and get a boat and search the islands. If they don’t find him or his body by dusk tonight, to go back to camp.’
The captain saluted and disappeared. The Yuvraj turned to Bholanath and said, ‘We’ll wait here till first light, uncle. At night it’s too easy to seize the wrong hill. Put out picquets and rest till five-thirty.’
Warren prepared himself to sleep. So much for Sowar Mangla Ram, drowned that the Ravi Lancers might show to good advantage on manoeuvres.
After three hours’ shivering and fitful sleep, inadequately protected against the frost in his greatcoat, Warren got up and spent an hour walking up and down the river bank. Then the advance continued. For an hour the squadrons rode across country in column. Then, as the first light spread in the east, they halted. The officers gathered round and unfolded their maps on their saddles. ‘I think we’re here,’ Krishna said, pointing at a spot on his map. ‘That village there--you can just see some smoke rising from it--is Amarganj. The enemy will be somewhere the other side of the rise of land there.’ He pointed at a low ridge a mile to the west.
‘Then we ought to take that,’ Major Bholanath said, brushing up his moustaches.
‘I was going to order the squadrons forward in line, well separated,’ Krishna said, ‘until we made contact.’
‘I think we’d do best to seize that ground first, Highness,’ the old major said.
Krishna Ram hesitated. He had done very well so far, Warren thought; now would he accept Bholanath’s suggestion--which was tactically the correct one--or insist on having his own way?
Krishna said, ‘Very well. Take your squadron forward and capture it. But don’t show yourselves on top, uncle. I don’t want to let the enemy know we are here until we are ready.’
A moment later C Squadron trotted out in extended order across the ploughed fields, now half hidden by tendrils of morning mist, towards the ridge. Soon the leading troops dismounted, took their rifles, and ran on up to the crest on foot. There they lay down. The reserve troop and the horseholders waited in cover a hundred yards back among scattered thorn bushes and low trees. Krishna Ram, Captain Sher Singh and Warren rode forward. Below the ridge crest Bholanath met them. Everyone dismounted, got out their field glasses, and peered west.
Dust was rising two miles to the south-west, and from the dust an occasional flash showed steel reflecting back the morning light. ‘Infantry,’ Bholanath muttered. ‘Where’s their cavalry?’
‘They’ll be ahead,’ Krishna said.
Warren, scanning the undulating plain through his binoculars, and knowing the British plan, realised that he was looking at the two reserve battalions of the brigade, which were advancing in column of route, protected, they thought, by the other two
battalions spread out on a wide front ahead of them. But they were not; they were very vulnerable, provided the Ravi Lancers got closer.
The Yuvraj said, ‘We’re almost out of range ... Do you see those two low hillocks ahead there--beyond the village? We can get there without being seen.’
‘Good, I’ll go,’ Bholanath said.
‘No, uncle. It’s Sher Singh’s turn ... Take your squadron that way, keep them behind this ridge until you reach the village, then ride up the hills from behind. C here will move to the village, where I’ll hold it in reserve until we see what the enemy do. We may be able to charge them in flank, as they deploy. Or get at their transport.’
Sher Singh hurried back to his waiting squadron. Warren thought, I’d better be getting over to tell George Johnson what’s going to happen. He took a last look through his binoculars at the hills which were the Ravi Lancers’ objective. The shape of a building on the left hillock caught his eyes, and he said, ‘Wait a minute, Yuvraj ... that’s a shrine.’
‘Not a temple, sahib,’ Bholanath said, peering under a shading hand.
‘No,’ Warren said, ‘I can see from the architecture that it’s Muslim.’
These people are Hindus, he thought. In Ravi a Muslim would have no rights against a Hindu ... would probably be imprisoned and tortured, as was the rule in Kashmir, if he were found slaughtering a cow--even his own cow; but this was British India. He said, ‘I think you’d better not occupy that left hill, Yuvraj. I’ll tell the other umpire why not.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’d never thought of that,’ the prince said. He’s very young really, Warren thought as he rode away. The uniforms and rank badges and manoeuvrings were a sort of grown-up Boy Scouting to him, and in that world he was efficient and almost mature; but force him out of the make-believe, bring up something real, like a people’s religious susceptibilities, and he showed how naive he really was. He was a nice young man, a lot in him, and willing to learn. One could only hope that increasing age, wealth, idleness and lack of responsibility would not turn his eager energy towards profligacy and self-indulgence.
