Escape From Java and Other Tales of Danger

by Ruskin Bond

  Mr Labadoor was forty-two, his wife thirty-eight. Their daughter, Ruth, was a pretty girl, with raven-black hair and dark, lustrous eyes. She had left Mrs Shield’s school at Fatehgarh only a fortnight before, because her mother felt she would be safer at home.

  Mrs Labadoor’s father had been a French adventurer who had served in the Maratha army; her mother came from a well-known Muslim family of Rampur. Her name was Mariam. She and her brothers had been brought up as Christians. At eighteen, she married Labadoor, a quiet, unassuming man, who was a clerk in the magistrate’s office. He was the grandson of a merchant from Jersey (in the Channel Islands), and his original Jersey name was Labadu.

  While most of the British wives in the cantonment thought it beneath their dignity to gossip with servants, Mariam Labadoor, who made few social calls, enjoyed these conversations of hers. Often they enlivened her day by reporting the juiciest scandals, on which they were always well informed. But from what Mariam had heard recently, she was convinced that it was only a matter of hours before rioting broke out in the city. News of the events at Meerut had reached the bazaars and sepoy lines, and a fakir, who lived near the River Khannaut, was said to have predicted the end of the English East India Company’s rule in the coming months. Mariam made her husband and daughter stay at home the evening of the Bowlings’ party, and had even suggested that they avoid going to church the next day, Sunday: a surprising request from Mariam, a regular churchgoer.

  Ruth liked having her way, and insisted on going to church the next day, and her father promised to accompany her.

  * * *

  The sun rose in a cloudless, shimmering sky, and only those who had risen at dawn had been lucky enough to enjoy the cool breeze that had blown across the river for a brief spell. At seven o’clock the church bell began to toll, and people could be seen making their way towards the small, sturdily built cantonment church. Some, like Mr Labadoor and his daughter, were on foot, wearing their Sunday clothes. Others came in carriages, or were borne aloft in dolies manned by sweating dolie-bearers.

  St Mary’s, the little church in Shahjahanpur, was situated on the southern boundary of the cantonment, near an ancient mango grove. There were three entrances: one to the south, facing a large compound known as Buller’s; another to the west, below the steeple; and the vestry door opening to the north. A narrow staircase led up to the steeple. To the east there were open fields sloping down to the river, cultivated with melon; to the west lay an open plain bounded by the city; while the parade ground stretched away to the north until it reached the barracks of the sepoys. The bungalows scattered about the side of the parade ground belonged to the regimental officers, Englishmen who had slept soundly, quite unaware of an atmosphere charged with violence.

  I will let Ruth take up the story . . .

  At the Church

  Father and I had just left the house when we saw several sepoys crossing the road, on their way to the river for their morning bath. They stared so fiercely at us that I pressed close to my father and whispered, ‘Papa, how strange they look!’ But their appearance did not strike him as unusual: the sepoys usually passed that way when going to the River Khannaut, and I suppose Father was used to meeting them on his way to office.

  We entered the church from the south porch, and took our seats in the last pew to the right. A number of people had already arrived, but I did not particularly notice who they were. We had knelt down, and were in the middle of the Confession, when we heard a tumult outside and a lot of shouting that seemed nearer every moment. Everyone in the church got up, and Father left our pew and went and stood at the door, where I joined him.

  There were six or seven men on the porch. Their faces were covered up to their noses, and they wore tight loincloths as though they had prepared for a wrestling bout, but they held naked swords in their hands. As soon as they saw us, they sprang forward, and one of them made a cut at us. The sword missed us both and caught the side of the door where it buried itself in the wood. My father had his left hand against the door, and I rushed out from under it, and escaped into the church compound.

  A second and third cut were made at my father by the others, both of which caught him on his right cheek. Father tried to seize the sword of one of his assailants, but he caught it high up on the blade, and so firmly that he lost two fingers from his right hand. These were the only cuts he received, but though he did not fall, he was bleeding profusely. All this time I had stood looking on from the porch, completely bewildered and dazed by what had happened. I remember asking my father what had happened to make him bleed so much.

  ‘Take the handkerchief from my pocket and bandage my face,’ he said.

  When I had made a bandage from both our handkerchiefs and tied it about his head, he said he wished to go home. I took him by the hand and tried to lead him out of the porch, but we had gone only a few steps when he began to feel faint, and said, ‘I can’t walk, Ruth. Let us go back to the church.’

  * * *

  The armed men had made only one rush through the church, and had then gone off through the vestry door. After wounding my father, they had run up the centre of the aisle, slashing right and left. They had taken a cut at Lieutenant Scott, but his mother threw herself over him and received the blow on her ribs; her tight clothes saved her from a serious injury. Mr Ricketts, Mr Jenkins, the Collector, and Mr MacCullam, the minister, ran out through the vestry.

  The rest of the congregation had climbed up to the belfry, and on my father’s urging me to do so, I joined them there. We saw Captain James riding up to the church, quite unaware of what was happening. We shouted him a warning, but as he looked up at us, one of the sepoys, who were scattered about on the parade ground, fired at him, and he fell from his horse. Now two other officers came running from the Mess, calling out to the sepoys: ‘Oh children, what are you doing?’ They tried to pacify their men, but no one listened to them. They had, however, been popular officers with the sepoys, who did not prevent them from joining us in the turret with their pistols in their hands.

  Just then we saw a carriage coming at full speed towards the church. It was Dr Bowling’s, and it carried him, his wife and child, and the nanny. The carriage had to cross the parade ground, and they were halfway across when a bullet hit the doctor who was sitting on the coach box. He doubled up in his seat, but did not let go of the reins, and the carriage had almost reached the church, when a sepoy ran up and made a slash at Mrs Bowling, missing her by inches. When the carriage reached the church, some of the officers ran down to help Dr Bowling off the coach box. He struggled in their arms for a while, and was dead when they got him to the ground.

  I had come down from the turret with the officers, and now ran to where my father lay. He was sitting against the wall, in a large pool of blood. He did not complain of any pain, but his lips were parched, and he kept his eyes open with an effort. He told me to go home, and to ask Mother to send someone with a cot, or a dolie, to carry him back. So much had happened so quickly that I was completely dazed, and though Mrs Bowling and the other women were weeping, there wasn’t a tear in my eye. There were two great wounds on my father’s face, and I was reluctant to leave him, but to run home and fetch a dolie seemed to be the only way in which I could help him.

  Leaving him against the stone wall of the church, I ran round to the vestry side and almost fell over

  Mr Ricketts, who was lying about twelve feet from the vestry door. He had been attacked by an expert and powerful swordsman, whose blow had cut through the trunk from the left shoulder, separating the head and right hand from the rest of the body. Sick with horror, I turned from the spot and began running home through Buller’s compound.

  Nobody met me on the way. No one challenged me, or tried to intercept or molest me. The cantonment seemed empty and deserted, but just as I reached the end of Buller’s compound, I saw our house in flames. I stopped at the gate, looking about for my mother, but could not see her anywhere. Granny, too, was missing, and the serva
nts. Then I saw Lala Ramjimal walking down the road towards me.

  ‘Don’t worry, my child,’ he said. ‘Mother, Granny and the others are all safe. Come, I will take you to them.’

  There was no question of doubting Lala Ramjimal’s intentions. He had held me on his knee when I was a baby, and I had grown up under his eyes. He led me to a hut some thirty yards from our old home. It was a mud house, facing the road, and its door was closed. Lala knocked on the door, but received no answer; then he put his mouth to a chink and whispered, ‘Missy-baba is with me, open the door.’

  The door opened, and I rushed into my mother’s arms.

  ‘Thank god!’ she cried. ‘At least one is spared to me.

  ‘Papa is wounded at the church,’ I said. ‘Send someone to fetch him.’

  Mother looked up at Lala and he could not resist the appeal in her eyes.

  ‘I will go,’ he said. ‘Do not move from here until I return.’

  ‘You don’t know where he is,’ I said. ‘Let me come with you and help you.’

  ‘No, you must not leave your mother now,’ said Lala. ‘If you are seen with me, we shall both be killed.’

  He returned in the afternoon, after several hours. ‘Sahib is dead,’ he said, very simply. ‘I arrived in time to see him die. He had lost so much blood that it was impossible for him to live. He could not speak and his eyes were becoming glazed, but he looked at me in such a way that I am sure he recognized me . . .’

  Lala Ramjimal

  Lala left us in the afternoon, promising to return when it grew dark, then he would take us to his own house. He ran a grave risk in doing so, but he had promised us his protection, and he was a man who once he had decided on taking a certain course of action, could not be shaken from his purpose. He was not a Government servant and owed no loyalties to the British; nor had he conspired with the rebels for his path never crossed theirs. He had been content always to go about his business (he owned several dolies and carriages, which he hired out to the Europeans who could not buy their own) in a quiet and efficient manner, and was held in some respect by those he came into contact with; his motives were always personal and if he helped us, it was not because we belonged to the ruling class—my father was probably the most junior officer in Shahjahanpur—but because he had known us for many years, and had grown fond of my mother, who had always treated him as a friend and equal.

  I realized that I was now fatherless, and my mother, a widow, but we had no time to indulge in our private sorrow. Our own lives were in constant danger. From our hiding place we could hear the crackling of timber coming from our burning house. The road from the city to the cantonment was in an uproar, with people shouting on all sides. We heard the tramp of men passing up and down the road, just in front of our door; a moan or a sneeze would have betrayed us, and then we would have been at the mercy of the most ruffianly elements from the bazaar, whose swords flashed in the dazzling sunlight.

  There were eight of us in the little room: Mother, Granny, myself; my cousin, Anet; my mother’s half-brother, Pilloo, who was about my age, and his mother; our servants, Champa and Lado; as well as two of our black-and-white spaniels, who had followed close on Mother’s heels when she fled from the house.

  The mud hut in which we were sheltering was owned by Tirloki, a mason who had helped build our own house. He was well known to us. Weeks before the outbreak, when Mother used to gossip with her servants and others about the possibility of trouble in Shahjahanpur, Tirloki had been one of those who had offered his house for shelter should she ever be in need of it. And Mother, as a precaution, had accepted his offer, and taken the key from him.

  Mother afterwards told me that as she sat on the veranda that morning, one of the gardener’s sons had come running to her in great haste and had cried out: ‘Mutiny broken out, sahib and missy-baba killed!’ Hearing that we had both been killed, Mother’s first impulse was to throw herself into the nearest well, but Granny caught hold of her, and begged her not to be rash, saying, ‘And what will become of the rest of us if you do such a thing?’ And so she had gone across the road, followed by the others, and had entered Tirloki’s house and chained the door from within.

  * * *

  We were shut up in the hut all day, expecting, at any moment, to be discovered and killed. We had no food at all, but we could not have eaten any had it been there. My father gone, our future appeared a perfect void, and we found it difficult to talk. A hot wind blew through the cracks in the door, and our throats were parched. Late in the afternoon, a chatty of cold water was let down to us from a tree outside a window at the rear of the hut. This was an act of compassion on the part of a man called Chinta, who had worked for us as a labourer when our bungalow was being built.

  At about ten o’clock, Lala returned, accompanied by Dhani, our old bearer. He proposed to take us to his own house. Mother hesitated to come out into the open, but Lala assured her that the roads were quite clear now, and there was little fear of our being molested. At last, she agreed to go.

  We formed two batches. Lala led the way with a drawn sword in one hand, his umbrella in the other. Mother and Anet and I followed, holding each other’s hands. Mother had thrown over us a counterpane which she had been carrying with her when she left the house. We avoided the main road, making our way round the sweeper settlement, and reached Lala’s house after a fifteen-minute walk. On our arrival there, Lala offered us a bed to sit upon, while he squatted down on the ground with his legs crossed.

  Mother had thrown away her big bunch of keys as we left Tirloki’s house. When I asked her why she had done so, she pointed to the smouldering ruins of our bungalow and said: ‘Of what possible use could they be to us now?’

  The bearer, Dhani, arrived with the second batch, consisting of dear Granny, Pilloo and his mother, and Champa and Lado, and the dogs. There were eight of us in Lala’s small house; and, as far as I could tell, his own family was as large as ours.

  We were offered food, but we could not eat. We lay down for the night—Mother, Granny and I on the bed, the rest on the ground. And in the darkness, with my face against my mother’s bosom, I gave vent to my grief and wept bitterly. My mother wept, too, but silently, and I think she was still weeping when at last I fell asleep.

  In Lala’s House

  Lala Ramjimal’s family consisted of himself, his wife, mother, aunt and sister. It was a house of women, and our unexpected arrival hadn’t changed that. It must indeed have been a test of the Lala’s strength and patience, with twelve near-hysterical females on his hands!

  His family, of course, knew who we were, because Lala’s mother and aunt used to come and draw water from our well, and offer bel leaves at the little shrine near our house. They were at first shy of us; and we, so immersed in our own predicament, herded together in a corner of the house, looked at each other’s faces and wept. Lala’s wife would come and serve us food in platters made of stitched leaves. We ate once in twenty-four hours, a little after noon, but we were satisfied with this one big meal.

  The house was an ordinary mud building, consisting of four flat-roofed rooms, with a low veranda in the front, and a courtyard at the back. It was small and unpretentious, occupied by a family of small means.

  Lala’s wife was a young woman, short in stature, with a fair complexion. We didn’t know her name, because it is not customary for a husband or wife to call the other by name, but her mother-in-law would address her as dulhan, or bride.

  Ramjimal himself was a tall, lean man, with a long moustache. His speech was always very polite, like that of most Kayasthas, but he had an air of determination about him that was rare in others.

  On the second day of our arrival, I overheard his mother speaking to him: ‘Lalaji, you have made a great mistake in bringing these Angrezans into our house. What will people say? As soon as the rebels hear of it, they will come and kill us.’

  ‘I have done what is right,’ replied Lala very quietly. ‘I have not given shelter to Angrezans. I
have given shelter to friends. Let people say or think as they please.’

  He seldom went out of the house, and was usually to be seen seated before the front door, either smoking his small hookah, or playing chess with some friend, who happened to drop by. After a few days, people began to suspect that there was somebody in the house about whom Lala was being very discreet, but they had no idea who these guests could be. He kept a close watch on his family, to prevent them from talking too much, and he saw that no one entered the house, keeping the front door chained at all times.

  It is a wonder that we were able to live undiscovered for as long as we did, for there were always the dogs to draw attention to the house. They would not leave us, though we had nothing to offer them except the leftovers from our own meals. Lala’s aunt told Mother that the third of our dogs, who had not followed us, had been seen going round and round the smoking ruins of our bungalow, and that on the day after the outbreak, he was found dead, sitting up—waiting for his master’s return!

  Escape from Java

  It all happened within the space of a few days. The cassia tree had barely come into flower when the first bombs fell on Batavia (now called Jakarta) and the bright pink blossoms lay scattered over the wreckage in the streets.

  News had reached us that Singapore had fallen to the Japanese. My father said, ‘I expect it won’t be long before they take Java. With the British defeated, how can the Dutch be expected to win!’ He did not mean to be critical of the Dutch; he knew they did not have the backing of the Empire that Britain had. Singapore had been called the Gibraltar of the East. After its surrender there could only be retreat, a vast exodus of Europeans from South East Asia.

  It was the Second World War. What the Javanese thought about the war is now hard for me to say, because I was only nine at the time and knew very little of worldly matters. Most people knew they would be exchanging their Dutch rulers for Japanese rulers; but there were also many who spoke in terms of freedom for Java when the war was over.