The Ravi Lancers

by John Masters

  She looked at him with her deliberate cow-like placidity, and said, ‘I don’t know. If I felt the same about you as I do now, I wouldn’t care.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but would you feel the same? Could you?’

  She had thought a moment before replying, ‘It would be more difficult, because I feel that very black people must think differently from us. You think like an Englishman.’

  He said nothing. It had been true once. At least, he had done his best to make it true. But it wasn’t true now, and never would be again. But what was the use of telling her that? She would find out for herself in time.

  ‘Tell me about the schools,’ she said now. ‘What sort of schools are there in Ravi? Who are the teachers? What subjects are taught? What is the compulsory school age?’

  She was very like Warren, he thought, asking how many men were on parade, how many NCOs trained as small arms instructors, how many stretcher bearers, how are the gas masks cleaned.

  But that night, on the wide bed, with the window open and Paris humming like a mighty animal all around, and the light on, though she had whispered, ‘Turn it off,’ he mounted between her upraised thighs, and when she gasped, ‘The FL, darling!’ he had said ‘No!’ and entered her with powerful determination, and held his seed until she moaned in transport far beyond the therapeutic exercises of the early times, and writhed and bit him like the animal he had at last succeeded in making her, neither English nor Indian, brown nor white, only female. ‘There ... there ... there! ‘ he cried at last, the words forced out of him with each spurt of his seed. ‘There! ‘

  Let Vishnu decide, for His hands were upon their loins, and upon their fates.

  August 1915

  The train clattered out on to an iron bridge and for a moment, between the girders, Warren looked down a curving reach of the river, where the dome of St. Paul’s rode high above the teeming chimneys and myriad spires of the city. The train slowed, rode in under a glass arch: Charing Cross. Now at last, in London, he felt that he was home again. But he saw, as he stepped out on to the platform, that the trains had brought the war with them from France. A score of the officers getting out of the first class compartments, and as many of the soldiers pouring out of the third class, were lightly bandaged, or limped, or carried one arm in a sling. And these were only the ‘walking wounded’, already discharged from hospitals or, like himself, not sick enough to go to one at all. The train at the next platform was a hospital train, come up from Folkestone with the seriously wounded evacuated from the field hospitals in France. Few of these would ever again be fit to fight. He stood, feeling cold in the muggy heat of the day, looking down into shattered faces obscured by layers of bandage, on to bodies on stretchers, the coverings not concealing that the body ended at the trunk, at faces already grey with the pallor of death, at faces without eyes, at eyes glaring out over the abyss of a vanished face and jaw. Here and there gracious ladies moved among the stretchers handing out flowers bought from the cockney flower girls in the station yard, where hospital orderlies were loading the wounded into ambulances for transport to their next, last but one, resting place.

  Warren turned away, trembling. Narayan Singh had his valise and suitcase out of the compartment and was waiting, the baggage hefted on his shoulder. The air felt stifling and oppressive. Warren thought he would suffocate inside one of those smelly boxes on wheels called taxis. Telling Narayan Singh that he had decided to walk, he beckoned a taxi, and said to the driver, ‘Take this man and the bags to Paddington, please. Drop them at the booking office. Give him the change from the fare out of this, after you’ve taken a shilling tip for yourself!’

  ‘Bob’s your uncle, guv,’ the driver said. ‘

  ‘Ere, chalo, ‘op in, mate.’

  The taxi chugged out into the Strand and vanished in the swirling traffic of Trafalgar Square. Warren stayed in the station yard until all the wounded had been loaded into ambulances. The ladies spoke to the wounded, as they waited, and the wounded smiled politely, when they were physically able to do so. The flower girls joked with them and they tried to laugh, if they had anything to laugh with. All the while able-bodied men passed in and out of the station, up and down the Strand, outside the iron railings. Some were in uniform, but most were not. Hulking stevedores from Covent Garden; clerks--mousy, but fit enough to carry and aim a rifle; youths flirting with the flower girls when they should have been in the trenches; older men, but still not forty, paunchy from sitting at desks, when they could have been driving lorries or issuing stores for the Service Corps ... all these people, guzzling, soaking, guarding their worthless hides while the flower of England, the volunteers, lay in windrows in Artois and Flanders, mown by the Spandaus.

  He started walking, taut with anger. ‘Come, Shikari,’ he ordered. ‘Keep to heel.’ But then he realized that Shikari was back in France, and he was alone. A passing woman looked at him curiously, and he flushed; she must have heard his call to the non-existent dog.

  The Admiralty Arch opened up the long vista down to Buckingham Palace between banks of flowers. Pelicans patrolled the sward of St. James’s Park, and flotillas of ducks and geese swam on the tranquil waters. He strode on, his swagger stick swinging. His head had begun to ache again. He’d be all right as soon as he was tucked up in his bed in the Old Vicarage for a good night’s sleep. It was funny waking up two--or was it three?--nights ago and finding Narayan Singh standing guard over him as though he were a prisoner, or a would-be suicide. Narayan told him, when he was really awake, that there was a letter in his pocket. Had all that really happened, that Krishna had written? He could faintly recall some of it. Still, the brigadier-general’s signature on his leave pass was clear enough. And the doctor’s brief note; over-work, need to avoid a complete breakdown--the only cure was rest, away from all responsibility.

  But how could anyone rest while England lay in mortal danger? Look at this man coming down the Mall, arms swinging, fit as a fiddle--but not in uniform. And there, two more lying on the grass with shop girls, canoodling, while the corpses rotted outside Ypres. And here, a woman in a tilted hat with a wide brim, eyeing him, smiling, inviting. ‘

  ‘Ullo, dearie.’

  ‘Go away,’ he snarled at her. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’ Sentries stamping on the ground outside the Palace. Buttons in threes, Scots Guards, in khaki. Good boys, they’d be in France soon enough. Every man was needed, every single one, to overcome the Hun. No exceptions, no excuses, no mercy. Up Constitution Hill, the couples rolling together like mating animals in Green Park, the grass stretching away under the heavy-leafed trees to Piccadilly. Apsley House, the Iron Duke on Copenhagen, flanked by his Highlanders and Riflemen and Dragoons. The building of England stood, the banks and palaces and mansions; the trees of England stood, the oaks and elms and chestnuts ... but the people, these people scurrying, lying grinning, were like termites gnawing at the foundations. Undermined by selfishness, self indulgence, failure to uphold the honourable and the good--how long could England stand?

  They were looking strangely at him now as he strode up the edge of Hyde Park. They were easing away from him as he passed. He glared back, seeing the evil and the weakness in each, however carefully they tried to hide it. The men to France ... every one of them! The women ... God, for the women, what? There was a man with a red tie at Hyde Park Corner, shouting, and waving his arms, a hundred people gathered, some listening, some talking. Scum! He shook his fist at the speaker and went on. The Edgware Road, Sussex Gardens, denser crowds, the smell of bodies, barrows of flowers, fish on trollies, Jews selling underwear, even a Sikh selling shirts from a barrow. What was he doing here, instead of with a regiment?

  ‘Sahib ... sahib ... here I am.’

  He realized he was looking straight through Narayan Singh, standing at attention beside the valise and the suitcase in the Paddington booking office. His head ached more violently, but with the pain came a steadying. He had only to buy two tickets to Woodborough, sit in the train
for a couple of hours, and then he’d be home.

  He leaned out of the window of the room, his elbows rested on the sill. It was Diana’s room, and he was sleeping in it because Joan said he must not be disturbed at night by her insomnia. This morning, as on each of the five days he had been here so far, his mother had brought him breakfast in bed. After eating he had dozed some more, read The Times, and dozed again, until he began to feel restless. Then he got up, washed, shaved, and dressed. The day was bright, white clouds like flocks of heavy-fleeced sheep grazing the sky above Salisbury Plain. Narayan Singh and the slacker, Young Marsh, were weeding the tomato patch. His mother was talking to the rissaldar-major, who was standing between rows of cauliflowers, a trowel in his hand. Ralph Harris was sitting on a bench, sunning himself; there was a worse slacker than Young Marsh, really, for he had been given a decent education, and knew what he owed his country. From an open window downstairs there escaped the wail of a suffering violin, where that sodomite Fuller, or whatever his name was, was teaching Louise. Joan had arranged that. He wouldn’t have allowed it himself, if he’d been asked. And if it had been Rodney instead of Louise, he’d have thrown the fellow out on the spot. But those swine were supposed to be afraid of women, even little girls.

  He found himself frowning fiercely, and looked back to his mother and the RM. That made him feel better. They were so much of a kind, those two. His mother was twenty-five years older, and that was the reason the RM showed her a deference which would otherwise have been inappropriate. His mother remembered a few words of Hindustani from a time she had spent in India with her brother, old General Savage, donkey’s years ago; and the RM had picked up a few words of English in his years with the Guides, and now, of French; but, as Warren knew, they mostly spoke each in his own tongue, and communicated by means other than words. His mother was probably telling the RM how she wanted the cauliflower seedlings set up, and he was understanding, although the words made no sense to him. Another time she had shown him the old church, and talked about its history and meaning, and he had nodded and understood.

  His mother went on up the garden, her basket over her arm. The RM knelt to continue his weeding. He was wearing khaki slacks, ammunition boots, a khaki shirt and turban, and, though still a little drawn from his bout with pneumonia, had begun to insist that he was fit to return to the regiment in France. Farther along, Young Marsh picked up the corduroy coat he had hung on a pear tree at the edge of the vegetable garden, went to Warren’s mother, said something, and left. Warren turned away and finished his toilet. Ten minutes later he went down and joined the workers. The RM and Narayan Singh stiffened to attention. His mother held up her cheek to be kissed. Warren stretched luxuriously and said, ‘Eleven thirty! I ought to be ashamed of myself.’

  ‘No, Warrie, that’s what you were sent here for.’

  They strolled together up and down the gravel walk, while the two Indians returned to their digging. ‘They are so good,’ his mother said.

  ‘They’re farmers,’ he said. ‘They miss the soil ... Mother, I wish you wouldn’t employ Young Marsh--a convicted criminal.’

  ‘Now, Warrie,’ his mother said gently, ‘the sentence was reduced on appeal, and then suspended. He only had to pay a five pound fine.’

  ‘Which you or Joan paid,’ he said, his voice hardening. ‘When I think of the men fighting in France, and this big fit young brute here, slacking ... I don’t know how you can do it. If you sacked him no one else would employ him. He’d have to volunteer.’

  His mother laid a thin hand on his arm. ‘I do know how you feel, but I can’t dismiss him for something that’s his business, not mine.’

  ‘It’s every woman’s business, mother,’ Warren said. ‘If the women of England encourage slackers, what hope is there?’

  ‘It’s for him to decide. If they pass a law saying that everyone has to serve that would be a different matter, but now it’s for each of us to make up our own mind.’

  ‘And I’d like to know why Ralph hasn’t decided to do his bit,’ Warren snapped. ‘Look at him ... not even working to pay for his keep here.’

  ‘I don’t mind that,’ his mother said. ‘Though I do wish he would find some job to keep him happy.’

  ‘He seems happy enough here,’ Warren said, ‘as long as no one asks him to do any work.’

  ‘Now have a nice sit down, dear,’ his mother said, ‘and enjoy the sun while we have it. Tomorrow it might rain.’

  Warren moodily watched the RM at his weeding for a time, then said abruptly, ‘Put that down, sahib. Come with me.’

  The RM obediently put away the trowel, donned his tunic, straightened his turban and fell into step at Warren’s side. Five minutes later they were sitting on a bench outside the Green Man, looking across the road at the cricket field, glasses of beer before them.

  ‘No one to play cricket,’ Warren said, indicating the shuttered pavilion and the grazing cattle. ‘All the men have gone to fight the war ... except Harris-sahib, who prefers to read books, and that other one who works for my mother. A worthless fellow,’ he ended viciously.

  ‘As the sahib says,’ the RM said.

  ‘Be healthy,’ Warren said, raising his tankard.

  ‘Be healthy, presence,’ the RM said, and drank deeply. ‘This is good beer, sahib, much better than is sold in bottles from Solan and Murree for the gora-log.’

  ‘Sahib,’ Warren said abruptly, ‘we’ll be going back to France soon. There’ll be a big offensive in the autumn. I heard talk about it at Abbeville and on the ship. The regiment will take part.’

  ‘We will not fail to do all that man can do,’ the RM said.

  ‘The Germans are strong, hard, well trained. We have to be stronger, harder, better trained.’

  ‘Huzoor-sahib!’

  ‘When we get back we must work at the regiment as you have been working in my mother’s garden ... finding the weeds, rooting them out mercilessly. You understand what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, presence.’

  ‘Of any rank, any station! The weak. The cowardly. The careless. The disloyal.’

  ‘Yes, presence.’

  Warren drank again, staring across the field at the wooded slope of the land, the Elizabethan chimneys of Pennel House just showing above the trees, the bare breasts of the Plain high and stark beyond.

  ‘England!’ he said softly. ‘We shall win! At any cost, we shall win!’

  The hobbled pony grazed along the grassy bank under the trees. The trap stood, shafts in the air, where the lane crossed the stream at an Irish bridge. The picnic hamper lay open on the grass and Joan was getting out glasses and a bottle of wine. Louise and Rodney splashed about in the shallows of the river, Louise wearing a bathing dress with flounced skirts to below her knees, Rodney a triangle of blue and white striped cotton. Warren was wearing a bathing suit which was still damp to the touch, for as soon as they had arrived at the picnic spot he had gone into the deep pool for a swim. Ralph Harris sprawled back against a tree trunk, his hands clasped behind his head.

  ‘There,’ Joan said. ‘It’s still cold.’

  Warren drank some of the chilled white wine. He, too, rested against a tree. He wished Joan hadn’t insisted on inviting Ralph to the picnic. Bees droned heavily among the flowers, swallows swooped low over the water, the river tinkled, and there was the distant hum of an aeroplane from the Royal Flying Corps airfield at Upavon on the Plain.

  ‘Be careful, don’t go near the deep pool there,’ Joan called to the children.

  Warren drank again. Joan was looking less peculiar than usual, though her hair still hung down like a gypsy’s. Yesterday, for an afternoon visit to Pewsey, she’d worn trousers. Now she was feminine again, frowning in concentration as she began to cut the bread and spread the butter for the sandwiches.

  ‘Here,’ Warren called to his daughter. ‘I’ll teach you to swim.’ He stepped gingerly into the stream. Louise was splashing about in water to her knees. Warren lifted her under one arm and walked out to
wards the deep water of the pool at the far side. ‘No, daddy! ‘ the girl suddenly screamed. ‘I don’t want to! ‘

  ‘Oh, let her go,’ Joan called. ‘She’ll learn in time.’

  ‘She’ll learn now!’ Warren snapped. He held tight hold of the struggling girl as he transferred one hand to her stomach. ‘Now, stop it, at once, Louise! ... I’ve got you. You can’t sink. Just pretend you’re a...’ but the child screamed and struggled and sobbed and would not rest supported on his hand. He shouted at her, ‘Then swim on your own, damn you! ‘

  He took his hand away and stepped back. The girl’s frantic face disappeared under water, came up again with a terrified shriek, and disappeared again.

  ‘Go like this,’ Warren shouted, imitating the breast stroke. ‘You won’t sink. Come on!’

  Joan splashed violently past him, seized her daughter by the hair, dragged her out and up, and floundered back towards the bank, crying, ‘There, there, it’s all right, darling. You’re out now.’