Wallace of the Secret Service

by Alexander Wilson

  ‘It’s very important,’ returned Wallace. ‘It will certainly help to establish my bona fides, and will probably be the only possible way of enabling me to get into the Ashram. But when you push me, push hard. It would look absurd and highly suspicious if I fell over for no apparent reason.’

  Early next morning a figure was seen on the road to Sabarmati, which pedestrians and others regarded with reverence or disgust, according to their religious persuasions. His dark brown, almost black, skin was coated with dust, his only garment being a loin-cloth. His hair was matted with dried mud; his face and chest streaked with white paint. Round his neck and ankles were fastened bells, and he carried in his right hand a beggar’s bowl, into which every now and again a pious passer-by would drop a coin. His left arm had been amputated between shoulder and elbow, and the stump, covered with dirt like the rest of his body, hung pathetically to his side. He took a considerable time to traverse the short distance between Ahmedabad and Sabarmati, as he walked very slowly most of the way, and visited every shrine he came to, but occasionally he would trot in order to make the bells ring, particularly when approaching people whom he thought charitably minded.

  Sir Leonard Wallace had worn many disguises in his time, but nothing to equal this. In every way he looked the religious mendicant, one of the unclean, grotesque brotherhood so common in India. It was the only disguise that, in his opinion, would be effective in the Ashram of Mahatma Gandhi, after the detection of the previous day. But he hated the filth and indecency of it, loathed the necessity which compelled him to walk barefooted, abominated the unclean scent which, with many a shudder, he had sprinkled on his body in order to complete the effectiveness of the masquerade. A master of disguise, Sir Leonard always took care to assure himself that, in every particular, his make-up was perfect. The only amusement, however, his impersonation of a fakir afforded him was contained in the reflection that he would like his wife to see him and study her face when she knew it was he.

  At last he arrived at the Ashram and found it a hive of industry. It no longer wore the placid appearance it had possessed when he made his first visit. Everybody moved about as though great events were about to take place, and he was surprised at the number of people assembled in the compound until he remembered that the two Nehrus were expected, and that the gathering was there to bid them welcome. He squatted at the gate, and watched. Several men approached, dropped coins in his bowl, and spoke reverently to him. Eventually Gandhi was apparently notified of his arrival, for he emerged from the building surrounded by a crowd of his disciples, and walked to the ‘holy’ visitor. Wallace prepared for the interview quite confidently. He had studied the religious mendicant business thoroughly, and felt no qualms that he would make a slip and give himself away. For several minutes the Mahatma spoke to him, asking questions and receiving appropriate replies, and it was obvious that despite his enlightenment, he possessed almost the same superstitious reverence for the ascetic squatting before him as his untutored companions. One of the first things he noticed was the stump of Wallace’s left arm. It seemed to fascinate him and he asked questions concerning it, to receive a highly coloured recital of the imaginary accident which had led to the amputation.

  ‘It is strange that thou should be in like state,’ he remarked, ‘to an Englishman who visited me yesterday. He also had lost his left arm, but in place of it was an instrument made by man.’

  The fakir spat derisively, whether to show his contempt for the Englishman or the artificial limb was not clear, however. He was invited to enter the compound and partake of food, which Gandhi ordered to be brought to him, and rose and followed his host. As he did so a car arrived and turned in at the gate, pulling up close by. Carter descended, and walked up to the man he recognised as Gandhi.

  ‘May I speak to you?’ he asked politely.

  The Mahatma bowed and led him a little aside.

  ‘What can I have the pleasure of doing for you?’ he asked.

  ‘My name is Carter,’ was the reply, ‘and I am the secretary of Sir Leonard Wallace. He desires me to ask if you can give him an appointment. He would like to have an interview with you.’

  Gandhi smiled.

  ‘As himself, I presume?’ he murmured.

  ‘As himself,’ assented Carter.

  ‘Then please tell Sir Leonard from me that it will be a great pleasure to meet him – as himself. I will be free to receive him at seven this evening.’

  Carter thanked him, and turned away. Suddenly he became aware of the grotesque figure standing before him, and his eyes almost started from his head.

  ‘My God!’ he gasped below his breath, and for a moment still almost in a state of stupefaction.

  He quickly recovered himself, however, when the bowl of the religious beggar was thrust before him. He pushed it aside, and started to walk to the car, but the fakir stepped in his way, asking for alms in a wheedling voice, and holding the bowl expectantly towards him.

  ‘Out of my way,’ snapped Carter.

  The fakir was most insistent, however, and the Englishman at last appeared to lose his temper. He flung the man aside with such force that he staggered, lost his balance, and crashed to the ground on his left shoulder. Immediately there was a roar of rage from the spectators of the act of violence, some rushed to pick up the fakir, others advanced threateningly in the direction of Carter. A sharp word of command from Gandhi, and the latter hung back muttering angrily to each other. The Indian leader turned to the Englishman.

  ‘You had better go,’ he advised in a quiet voice.

  ‘I’m beastly sorry,’ said Carter. ‘I didn’t mean to throw the fellow down.’

  He felt more than sorry when he noticed that Sir Leonard was bleeding badly from the stump of his left arm. The sight almost turned him sick, and he felt an insane desire to go down on his knees, and apologise to his chief. In that moment he realised what it must have cost Sir Leonard to adopt such a disguise. He was known to be terribly sensitive about his disfigurement, and only Batty, his manservant and, of course, Lady Wallace, had ever seen the stump, and here he was exposing it to the gaze of a crowd of Indians for the sake of a cause. Carter knew that he would probably be complimented by Sir Leonard for the effectiveness and apparent genuineness of his shove, but that did not cause him to regret any the less that he had hurt the chief. He turned away regretfully, and entered his car, which left the compound followed by the hoots and catcalls of the enraged Indians.

  Leonard was lifted up by willing hands and, at Gandhi’s command, conveyed to a room close to his own quarters. Here he was attended to by Mirabai, but refused to allow the torn stump of an arm to be dressed. The reason he gave, a religious one invented on the spur of the moment, was respected; actually he was afraid that, if the wound had been washed, some of the stain would have been removed, and result in his being unmasked. Although the stump was exceedingly painful, he smiled inwardly at Carter’s very realistic effort. The brutality of the Englishman would probably be the talk of the Ashram for some time. Wallace counted a great deal on his being made an object for compassion and pity, and being exhibited to the Nehrus and other visitors as a victim of the cruelty of a member of the governing race. Perhaps then he would be able to learn, from a chance remark dropped in his hearing, where the conference was to take place. But that did not worry him very much; it was bound to be nearby, for he was close to Gandhi’s own apartments.

  Mirabai and another woman tended him carefully. He was brought food, of which he took little, continuing to utter groans and call down curses on the head of the white man who had treated him so ill. Lying on a charpai in the little room, he presently pretended to fall into a sleep. A blanket was laid gently over him, and he was left alone.

  The sound of cheering caused him to raise himself a little and listen eagerly. Several minutes went by, during which the cheering was renewed at short intervals. Then there was silence, after which he heard footsteps coming in the direction of his room. He lay down again, and re
sumed the pretence of slumber. In a few seconds the chick at the door was drawn aside, and several people appeared to enter, and group themselves by the bed. He recognised Gandhi’s voice speaking quietly. He was relating what had happened, his description being punctuated by various remarks from the men with him expressive of sympathy for the victim and abuse for the assailant. A harsh voice which Sir Leonard had not heard before was more vituperative than the others. It obviously belonged to a firebrand.

  ‘If I had my way,’ it said, ‘I would train young India not to a campaign of non-violent resistance, but to a properly organised reign of terror. Milk and water methods are too good for the English.’

  Someone laughed softly.

  ‘Gupta is feeling bloodthirsty again, it seems.’ It was Pandit Jawarhalal Nehru speaking.

  ‘My friend,’ murmured Gandhi, ‘your sentiments are repugnant to me. Bloodshed is horrible, and I would rather this country was wallowing in slavery than that my compatriots should endeavour to obtain their rights by assassination.’

  An impatient exclamation broke from the lips of the man with the harsh voice. Another spoke in support of him and Jawarhalal again interposed.

  ‘It is quite certain,’ he observed mockingly, ‘that we all have to name our friends from Calcutta the Bloodthirsty Bengal Brigade.’

  His remark brought a heated reply from one of the others, and Gandhi hastened to change the subject.

  ‘Do you remember the Afghan gentleman to whom you gave a letter of introduction for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ returned Pandit Jawarhalal. ‘I found him a most charming man.’

  ‘So did I,’ went on the Mahatma with a little chuckle. ‘I also discovered who he really was. My friends, you gave shelter to a man whose purpose it was to learn our secrets, and divulge them to the British Government.’

  ‘A spy?’ cried several voices.

  ‘A spy indeed; perhaps the greatest spy in the world today. It was the famous Sir Leonard Wallace of whom you all must have heard.’

  For a few moments there was a stupefied silence; then the harsh voice broke out in a more violent diatribe than before, even reviling the Nehrus for their carelessness.

  ‘Where is that man now?’ it concluded fiercely.

  ‘He is in Ahmedabad with his secretary,’ replied Gandhi.

  ‘Then I will see that his activities are ended for ever. Tomorrow the British will be mourning the passing of Wallace Sahib.’

  Several voices spoke sharply to the fellow, the Mahatma’s predominating.

  ‘If you dare take action which will, in any way, harm the Englishman,’ it said, ‘you will be cast from the Congress in ignominy. Remember my words, and subdue those violent tendencies of yours.’

  He received a hot reply in which the speaker stated that there was a strong party in the Congress that felt as he felt, and would be ready, at a word, to split from the more pacific members.

  ‘Think,’ advised Gandhi; ‘such a split would ruin all our aspirations. Separately we would be too weak to take any action. Can you not see, my friend, that violence would ruin all, that desperate measures would be met with desperate measures, against which our people would be helpless and our cause destroyed?’

  The voice of Pandit Motilal Nehru spoke for the first time.

  ‘Are we then to commence our conference standing over this poor fakir?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘What arrangements have you made, Mahatma Sahib, in order that we may converse without fear of eavesdroppers or interruption?’

  ‘This part of the Ashram,’ replied Gandhi, ‘will be entirely cut off from communication with the other part. I have instructed several of my young men to guard it, and allow no one to enter, not even Mirabai. I suggest also that we should speak in English in order that this holy beggar may not understand if, by any chance, he should hear.’

  ‘Why not remove him elsewhere?’ asked a voice.

  ‘It is unnecessary,’ came the answer, much to Sir Leonard’s relief. ‘Come, gentlemen!’

  The men retreated from the room, and Wallace was left alone. He opened his eyes, and looked round; then sat up and smiled to himself. He appeared to be in luck’s way. As nobody was to be allowed in that part of the building, he would be able to move about without much fear of detection. The thought that the Congressmen would speak in English, in case he overheard, amused him immensely. He felt that he would dearly like to share the joke with Gandhi later on.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he muttered regretfully, ‘that the old boy’s sense of humour would not be proof against such a revelation.’

  He looked down at his filthy body and shuddered; then got off the charpai and stepped quietly to the door. The bells round his ankles tinkled softly and, after a moment’s hesitation, he bent down and removed them, leaving them on the floor. Pushing the chick slightly aside he looked along the veranda. There was not a soul in sight, but the murmur of voices reached him, seeming to come from a room a little way along. Treading carefully he approached it; then suddenly stopped dead. Like all the others, chicks hung before the window and door, and he knew very well that, though it was impossible to see into a room through a chick, those inside can see out. He returned to the little chamber which had been allotted to him, and sat down on the charpai to think things out. A closed door caught his eye. Obviously it communicated with the next room, and it was reasonable enough to suppose that in that room would be a door communicating with the apartment in which the Indians were holding their meeting. He walked across to it, but it was bolted. Nothing daunted, he went out onto the veranda, and was able to enter the adjoining chamber that way. As he had guessed, there was a door at the upper end opposite the one that was bolted and, putting his ear against it, he heard the voices now quite distinctly, proving that the conspirators were indeed in the next room. This door was also locked, but it did not matter much. With the exception of a few words he was able to hear everything that was said.

  As he stood there, his ear pressed hard against a panel, he wondered what he would do if someone entered the apartment. Like all the rooms in the Ashram he had seen, it was barely furnished, and certainly possessed nothing that would suffice to hide him. However, as Gandhi had given instructions that nobody was to be allowed into that part of the establishment, there was not much danger unless it came from the conspirators themselves. It was quite possible, of course, that Gandhi or one of the others would enter the room or take it into his head to go and look at the fakir. In that case, Sir Leonard decided, he would have to act as the situation decreed; there was no use bothering about it now, when he was so occupied in listening to the discussion in the next apartment.

  For a long time nothing was said of particular interest. The man with the harsh voice tried very hard to impress upon his colleagues that violent methods should be adopted in the coming campaign, but he was overruled, and thereafter his voice was seldom heard. A long and boring debate followed concerning the Statutory Commission, and an almost equally tiresome argument about the Hindu–Muslim problem. Wallace smiled grimly as he realised that the general inclination was to throw dust into the eyes of Muslims by pretending to agree to the majority of their demands, and thus get them to declare themselves on the side of Congress.

  ‘Afterwards,’ observed a voice which he did not know, ‘we shall see!’ There was a general laugh.

  Then came the intelligence for which Wallace was waiting so eagerly. Gandhi was speaking.

  ‘I have given matters very deep consideration,’ he said in his excellent English. ‘We are agreed, I take it, that although we have stated publicly that Dominion status would be acceptable to the people of India, actually we are determined upon a demand for complete independence.’

  A chorus of assent greeted his remarks.

  ‘To attain that,’ he went on, ‘I suggest that a campaign of civil disobedience be mapped out. It will probably take at least two years before it can be put into effect, but what matter two or three or four years, so long as everything is prepared
properly, and so well organised that there can be no hitch or failure. Every move made by the British government, which has not as its ultimate object complete independence for India, must be systematically boycotted, not in the unprepared manner that the Commission has been boycotted, but in a way that will make success an absolute certainty. In every conceivable manner the government must be harried, subverted and checkmated, until in desperation it is forced to give in. The programme of civil disobedience I outline is this: every law that it is possible to break, apart from criminal laws such as murder, theft and that type of misdemeanour, must be broken. We must see that the income of the government is reduced by persuading the people not to pay excise and customs duties; we shall induce government servants to resign; we shall picket shops dealing in British goods and also liquor shops; and urge the masses not to pay land revenue, chowkidari tax and forest grazing fees.’

  He paused, and a babble of excited and enthusiastic comment broke out.

  ‘Our preparations must be so complete,’ he went on after some time, ‘that the movement will come as a complete shock to the British government, and cause credit and confidence to be shattered, and trade and commerce to be paralysed. Men, women and even children must be included in the campaign, all with their special duties. In a desperate attempt to cripple us the government will, no doubt, promulgate ordinances, but we will defy them. We shall be thrown into jail, but what will that matter? Let us fill the jails of the country, there will always be others to follow us and carry on our work, if our organisation is as complete and perfect as I hope it will be. That, my friends, is the outline of the civil disobedience I propose. If you accept the suggestion, all that remains to do is to set to work now, and organise quietly, carefully, efficiently. I only stipulate one thing, and that is: there must be no violence. The most effective way of gaining freedom is through non-violence. Thus shall we merit and receive the sympathy of the world. In each capital city in Europe and America we must place a small committee, the duties of which will be to circulate propaganda on our behalf. In India we shall choose a leader, call him the dictator if you will, and in each province there must be a deputy dictator presiding over a small committee of action. Only thus can the work go on successfully. If you are with me, let our watchword be Satyagraha!’