The Ravi Lancers

by John Masters

  ‘If they are to stay in the open, we ought to let them grow their coats,’ Major Bholanath said in Hindi.

  ‘Uncle,’ Krishna said, ‘how often must I remind you that it is forbidden for officers to speak Hindi among themselves?’

  ‘I am sorry, highness,’ the old man said in his halting English, ‘but for me ... is not being easy.’

  ‘I know, but you must try ... About the coats, I shall speak to the CO.’

  ‘He is a wise man,’ Bholanath said, ‘but general-sahib may not liking.’

  Krishna reached the end of the squadron’s lines and Bholanath saluted. ‘Very good,’ Krishna said, ‘except that a lot of your horses are overdue for shoeing. See to it, please.’

  ‘Jee-han ... Very good, sah.’

  Krishna walked along the edge of the wood to A Squadron, where Young Ishar Lall greeted him with a huge salute. He began the inspection, while Ishar Lall walked at his side. Opposite one horse Krishna stopped and said, ‘This horse has been curry-combed.’

  ‘Currycombed? You mean, he’s put the currycomb direct on to the horse, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Look.’

  Krishna kept his face stern while the 2nd Lieutenant examined the horse thoroughly, the sowar standing stiffly at attention in stable dress--boots, puttees, breeches with braces hanging loose, and shirt sleeves--no spurs, tunic, or turban.

  ‘I can’t see any trace, sir.’

  ‘Look at the brisket, nearside ... There.’

  ‘You’re right, sir. But how . . . ?’

  Krishna allowed himself a small smile. ‘You forget that I commanded this squadron for some years. That sowar always uses a currycomb. He’d have been a lance-dafadar long since if he wasn’t so lazy.’ He turned sharply on the squadron rissaldar, Shamsher Singh. ‘And you, sahib, you knew of that man’s habits. It’s your duty to tell the squadron commander all you know.’

  ‘Bahut achcha, sahib,’ the old man said; but his face showed that he had no intention of passing on to the young officer what it had taken him so many years to learn, and what was a major source of his power and influence.

  Krishna moved on to B Squadron, whose stable lines were the other side of the village, with D’s. Himat Singh wore a new authority these days, since the charge of the German guns at Poucelle. His squadron was fast beginning to show it and where the horses were once measurably less good than A’s, and the men measurably less proud and smart than C’s, now they were as good as both. Krishna congratulated the squadron commander, but he could tell that Himat Singh wished the CO had taken Stables in person. It was for Warren Bateman that Himat worked now, and it was admiration of and respect for Warren Bateman that had superseded his old nervousness and self-doubting. Only Warren Bateman’s regard or disfavour mattered to him now.

  Krishna walked over to D Squadron as B’s trumpeter blew the Stand Down. Sher Singh was another admirer of Warren Bateman, but here Krishna did not feel so sure of the man. He was a handsome fellow, but ... He was intelligent, but ... The trouble was that Warren Bateman had never met someone like Sher Singh at such close quarters before, for British officers had few contacts with rich Indian merchants and their self-indulgent sons; and what they had would extend only to, ‘Yes’, or ‘No’, or ‘How much?’ A special problem with Sher Singh was that he preferred young boys to women, and that was an abnormality the British had an absolute horror of. Krishna wondered whether Major Bateman had any suspicion of it: probably, for he had an amazing peripheral vision, being able to notice things out of the corner of his eye while apparently looking only straight ahead.

  Regimental Headquarters was composed of such oddments as the Signal Section, the Machine Gun Section, the Regimental Aid Post, clerks, farriers and orderlies, and Krishna could not summon up any real interest in it. The horses of the Signal Section were not in good shape and he told Lieutenant Flaherty so. The big man took the rebuke with a sullen frown and a clenching of his fists, but no more.

  Krishna glanced at his watch and hurried the rest of the inspection. In twenty minutes he was due at the funeral of Dafadar Shiv Mall of A Squadron, killed by a motor lorry while he was crossing the village street without looking. He dismissed the salutes and walked away with the rissaldar-major.

  ‘Well, sahib,’ he asked, ‘have you any points you wish to raise?’

  The RM said, ‘I want to move Rissaldar Ram Lall from B Squadron to the Machine Guns, and Chuni Ram from the Machine Guns to B.’

  Krishna nodded. He understood, without the RM having to explain in detail, that Rissaldar Ram Lall had been a tower of strength in B while Himat Singh had yet to find his confidence; but now that he had, Ram Lall, who had been the real commander of the squadron, resented his loss of power. A young rissaldar would be best now in B, and a tough old one to run the machine gun section, which increased in importance with every day’s experience of modern war.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Major Bholanath is right about growing the coats, sahib ... And the sowars of A Squadron are not as well dressed as they should be. Boots not clean. Puttees ill-tied.’

  Krishna nodded again. ‘I will speak to the lieutenant,’ he said. ‘He is young yet. As to the other matters, I’ll put them to Bateman-sahib.’

  ‘Thank you, sahib ... We have set up the burning ghat by the stream, sahib. This way.’

  Krishna Ram walked at the rissaldar-major’s side towards the little stream that crossed the main road at the foot of the village. There, a hundred yards beyond the last house, a pyre of logs stood on the grass. It was eight feet long by four feet wide and four feet high. A few men were already squatted round it, smoking bidis through cupped hands. The Brahmin was there, a short cavalry greatcoat of coarse khaki over his dhoti and kurta, his feet bare on the cold grass. Other sowars of A Squadron were coming, their Stables over. They had put on tunics and turbans now and some wore their greatcoats as well. It was not as cold here as it would have been in most of Ravi on this date, but there the air was fresh and dry and a man could see far and breathe deep. Here there was a dampness in the air, a clutch at the throat, as of drowning, and the air itself often so thick that a man could not see the spire in the next village.

  The Brahmin made namasti to Krishna, the rissaldar-major, and Ishar Lall, as they sat at the head of the pyre. Four sowars came from the house that was the Regimental Aid Post, where the dafadar’s body had lain since the accident last night. It was wrapped in an army blanket, and under that, revealed as the bearers laid the body on the pyre, a white sheet, from which the bare feet stuck out at one end and the battered head at the other. The bearers removed and carefully folded the blanket.

  The Brahmin began chanting the funeral hymn from the Rigveda as a couple of men beat on the little hand drums that Quartermaster Sohan Singh had managed to smuggle into the regimental baggage, together with half a hundred sets of ceremonial nautch clothes and costumes for the great Hindu festivals of Dussehra, Holi, and Dewali.

  Him who has passed away along the mighty steps, and has spied out the path for many, him the son of Vivaswati, the assembler of people, Yama, the king, do thou present with oblation . . .

  Two bandsmen played softly on clarinets. The gathered sowars chanted the name of Rama and the sacred formula Rama Naam Sat Hai.

  Unite with the fathers, unite with Yama, with the reward of thy sacrifices and good works in highest heaven! Leaving blemish behind go back to thy home, unite with the body, full of vigour!

  Only the Brahmin wore his caste marks, Krishna noticed. He himself felt awkward, to be seated cross-legged at a burning without the presiding Brahmin having pressed grains of rice on to his marked forehead, and murmured a word of blessing.

  As the dead man had no son in the regiment or within reach, the youngest sowar in his troop acted as his son and performed a son’s sacred duty of setting fire to his father’s pyre. The sowar was barely seventeen, and looked unnaturally solemn as he took the lighted taper from the Brahmin’s hand. The Brahmin and others poured melted gh
i over the corpse and the piled wood. Then the young sowar thrust the taper deep into the pyre. Smoke began to curl out. The chanting grew louder.

  Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, the Christians said. This was the same, but more literally. The flames were tinged with gold from the ghi now, and the smoke rose black. The sheet burned through, baring the dead dafadar’s chest. His arms slowly rose. Then the fire began to burn with an intensity that scorched Krishna’s face. The voices grew louder yet, the beat of the Himalayan drums more pronounced. A smell of burning incense and oil blew over him as the wind shifted, and in it, the smell of roasting flesh. He had always hated that before, when he went to a funeral, but this time ... it was not a sacrilege, nor a barbarism. It was his people’s way. It was. He bowed his head and began to murmur the Sanskrit hymn with the Brahmin, while the flames towered higher on the bank of the Yevre.

  He walked back to his billet, the flames still bright before his eyes, put on his belt and sabre and hurried to the school house at the other end of town, which had been taken over for the regimental offices. He was a few minutes later than the appointed hour and as he marched into the CO’s office he said, ‘I’m sorry I’m late sir. It was ...’

  ‘I don’t want to hear what it was,’ Warren Bateman said sharply. ‘Lateness is never excusable in the army.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Krishna said formally.

  Warren’s voice softened and he half-smiled, ‘Unless it’s a matter of life or death.’

  But a burning, the passing of a man’s earthly cloak, is a matter of life and death, Krishna thought. Ah, that was the answer: life-and-death, not life-or-death. That did not matter so much, to a Hindu.

  The rissaldar-major marched in, saluting and said, ‘Prisoner and escort ready, sahib.’

  Warren turned to Captain Himat Singh who was already there, standing beside his chair. ‘This fellow Manraj. Is he a good man, otherwise?’

  ‘Very good, sir. I saw him kill a German gunner at Poucelle just as the man was going to fire his gun into the troop.’

  ‘All right. March him in.’

  Krishna Ram stood at attention while the rissaldar-major had the escort march the prisoner in. He was a burly young man, fair skinned, eyes blue-green, face placid.

  Warren Bateman read the charge in Hindi: ‘Conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline, that is, contracting venereal disease ... The Doctor-sahib says you have gonorrhoea. How did you get it?’

  ‘A week ago, sahib, when I had a day’s pass. I spent the day helping a man plough his land two miles down the road, for I saw he could not do it by himself. When we finished he fed me and then it was dark. Coming back through his village a woman came up to me and pulled my arm. I thought she needed help in some manner, for why else should an Angrezi woman ...’

  ‘Not Angrezi [English],’ Warren corrected him--’Fransezi [French], There is a difference.’

  ‘... a white Fransezi woman call upon a desi [native] man? But inside she pulled up her skirt and held out her hand and said, “Ek rupaiya” in our tongue. I knew then that she was a loose woman such as they have, it is said, in the Hira Mandi of Lahore, even Angrezi ..

  ‘Not Angrezi,’ Warren said, ‘half castes, perhaps.’

  ‘Very good, sahib ... I am a man. It is a long time since I enjoyed my wife. I had a rupee in my pocket.’

  He ended. Warren said, ‘So you had intercourse with her?’

  ‘Yes, sahib. Then, a week later ...’

  ‘I know ... What does the doctor say, Himat Singh?’

  ‘He’s curing him with Vedic medicines, sir, at his request. He says he will be fit for duty in another week.’

  Krishna looked at the sowar curiously. He had had carnal knowledge of a white woman--he, a peasant from the foothills--while he, himself, a Son of the Sun, could not imagine doing so.

  Warren Bateman drummed his fingers on the table and finally said, ‘You have done a disgraceful thing. You might have infected your brothers in arms with this foulness. These women are destroyers of manhood, understand? If we were called to the front now, you would not be able to fight with your squadron. You would stay behind, like a woman or child.’

  ‘Yes, sahib.’

  ‘Do you plead guilty, or not guilty, to the charge?’

  The man looked puzzled, ‘Why, guilty, of course, sahib. I have just said ...’

  Twenty-eight days’ rigorous imprisonment, to be served with his squadron as soon as he is fit. No confinement or special duties.’ The RM barked orders, boots thumped, sabres glittered, spurs jingled and clashed. Krishna Ram said, ‘Anything more for me, sir?’ He felt warm and respectful towards the CO. He had expected him to give the man a heavier punishment; but the effect of the twenty-eight days’ RI ordered was simply that the man would lose twenty-eight days’ pay--there would be no humiliating imprisonment or extra punishment.

  Major Bateman said, ‘Yes. Sit down ... First, your appointment as acting second-in-command has been made permanent. Congratulations.’

  Krishna said formally, Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best to support you in whatever way you want me to.’ Privately he thought, I wish they’d appoint another major and let me stay with A Squadron. Second-in-command was a hard job to handle, being always in the shadow of the CO, never expected or indeed able to give commands on your own--for you commanded nothing, not even a single sowar, except your orderlies and trumpeter.

  Warren said, ‘What do you think of the men’s morale?’

  ‘It’s good, sir,’ Krishna said without hesitation. The fatigues up the line are the worst thing. The men are getting barely one night in bed, and it’s very exhausting work.’

  ‘I know,’ Warren said, ‘but I don’t know what we can do about it. The stuff has to be carried up the line somehow. We’re no worse off than any other regiment.’

  ‘Yes, sir ... There are some things they would like to have changed, I believe, but...’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Permission to wear caste marks when off duty would mean a lot to some of them ... As this Manraj case shows, I think they’re going to miss women soon. In Basohli the bachelors used to go to brothels, but most of the men are married. They lived with their families in the city. They’re not used to separation.’

  ‘They’ll have to get used to it, like the rest of us,’ Major Bateman said grimly. ‘I’d like to let them wear tilaks, myself, but neither General Glover nor General Rogers will permit it, as you know. About the women ... the problem is these damned French whores. Or loose women. Their husbands are away at the war and they make hay . . .’

  ‘I suppose some of them are short of money,’ Krishna said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Warren said grudgingly, ‘but that doesn’t help us. I’ve talked privately with some of the COs of Indian infantry battalions in the division, and we are all worried about it. It’s not a good situation, but no one knows what to do, except restrict the men still more when they’re out of the line, and that’s not right.’ Krishna thought, no, it’s not a good situation. In India where there were so few British, and they the rulers, it was as much as an Indian’s life was worth to make the smallest advance to an Englishwoman. The lesson had been learned in the Mutiny, when the rape of a white woman, without other violence, would result in the slaughter of whole villages--men, women, and babies--and a wave of oppression that might last six months, with Indians forced to crawl on their stomachs past any English person. Then the English would agree to forget and all was smiles and offhand politeness again. But, then, surely someone in authority should have seen the danger of taking Indian soldiers to France, where there was nothing but white women, some of them naturally of a class that most sowars had never met and probably did not believe to exist. But now they were here, and they did need women, and willing women were obviously to be found, so ... He was about to make a suggestion but Major Bateman’s manner discouraged him. He’d wait till he had had time to think it out more fully.

  Major Bateman said, ‘My wif
e’s lost another relative. A cousin gone down in a destroyer. This war’s hitting some of us very hard ... That’s all, Krishna, except one thing.’ He stood up, smiling. ‘We’re being inspected by the King-Emperor tomorrow.’

  ‘King George?’ Krishna gasped. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. I believe the Queen was going to come but she got influenza and His Majesty insisted on coming in her place. We’ll have everyone in the BEF on our necks, from Sir John French down, so let’s put on a good show. I’m going to work something out with the adjutant and the RM now, and will issue orders here at four. Durbar at five.’

  Krishna Ram saluted and went out. The King-Emperor! He never thought he would see him more closely than he had at the Delhi Durbar of 1911, when, as heir-presumptive to the gaddi of a rather small state, he had been one of the mass of young princes who had sat at the foot of the throne during the imperial coronation. The great Durbar had awed him, but his memories of it were less clear than of expeditions into the warrens of Delhi with a couple of other princes, considerably more profligate than himself, and of spending a great deal more money than he had been allotted. He remembered that his return to Basohli had felt unexpectedly like a first seeing, everything new and exciting, the air fresh, the trees extending bare arms along the river, the Himalayas a giant slash of white across the northern sky, wood-smoke, moving shapes in the dark temple, the sound of music from the city.

  This time he would see the King differently, as the leader of his people, the figurehead and unifying soul for millions of every colour, religion, caste, and race. He called Hanuman and told him the news, adding, ‘Tomorrow my boots and belt must shine more brightly than the sun.’

  ‘Why not? It is the Son of the Sun who wears them,’ the orderly replied matter-of-factly. ‘The King-Emperor will be dazzled.’

  The regimental durbar took place at the edge of the wood beyond A Squadron’s horse lines, the CO and officers standing under the trees and the sowars squatting in a packed semicircle on the grass. When the men had settled themselves comfortably, Warren Bateman said, ‘Lads, we will all stand for durbar ... It is a protection against those who would wish to hold our ears while our hair turns grey.’