by Talbot Mundy
“I know the thoughts ye think!” said he, beginning again when he had given us time to answer and none had dared. “I will give you a real thought to put in the place of all that foolishness. This is a regiment. I am its last surviving officer. Any regiment can kill its officers. If ye are weary of being a regiment, behold — I am as near you as a man’s throat to his hand! Have no fear” — (that was a bitter thrust, sahib!)— “this is a German saber; I will use no German steel on any of you. I will not strike back if any seek to kill me.”
There was no movement and no answer, sahib. We did not think; we waited. If he had coaxed us with specious arguments, as surely a liar would have done, that would probably have been his last speech in the world. But there was not one word he said that did not ring true.
“I have been made a certain offer in Berlin,” said he, after another long pause. “First it was made to me alone, and I would not accept it. I and my regiment, said I, are one. So the offer was repeated to me as the leader of this regiment. Thus they admitted I am the rightful leader of it, and the outcome of that shall be on their heads. As major of this regiment, I accepted the offer, and as its major I now command your obedience.”
“Obedience to whom?” asked I, speaking again as it were against my will, and frightened by my own voice.
“To me,” said he.
“Not to the Germans?” I asked. He wore a German uniform, and so for that matter did we all.
“To me,” he said again, and he took one step aside that he might see my face better. “You, Hira Singh, you heard Colonel Kirby make over the command!”
Every man in the regiment knew that Colonel Kirby had died across my knees. They looked from Ranjoor Singh to me, and from me to Ranjoor Singh, and I felt my heart grow first faint from dread of their suspicion, and then bold, then proud that I should be judged fit to stand beside him. Then came shame again, for I knew I was not fit. My loyalty to him had not stood the test. All this time I thought I felt his eyes on me like coals that burned; yet when I dared look up he was not regarding me at all, but scanning the two lines of faces, perhaps to see if any other had anything to say.
“If I told you my plan,” said he presently, when he had cleared his throat, “you would tear it in little pieces. The Germans have another plan, and they will tell you as much of it as they think it good for you to know. Mark what my orders are! Listen to this plan of theirs. Pretend to agree. Then you shall be given weapons. Then you shall leave this camp within a week.”
That, sahib, was like a shell bursting in the midst of men asleep. What did it mean? Eyes glanced to left and right, looking for understanding and finding none, and no man spoke because none could think of anything to say. It was on my tongue to ask him to explain when he gave us his final word on the matter — and little enough it was, yet sufficient if we obeyed.
“Remember the oath of a Sikh!” said he. “Remember that he who is true in his heart to his oath has Truth to fight for him! Treachery begets treason, treason begets confusion; and who are ye to stay the course of things? Faith begets faith; courage gives birth to opportunity!”
He paused, but we knew he had not finished yet, and he kept us waiting full three minutes wondering what would come. Then:
“As for your doubts,” said he. “If the head aches, shall the body cut it off that it may think more clearly? Consider that!” said he. “Dismiss!”
We fell out and he marched away like a king with thoughts of state in mind. I thought his beard was grayer than it had been, but oh, sahib, he strode as an arrow goes, swift and straight, and splendid. Lonely as an arrow that has left the sheaf!
I had to run to catch up with him, and I was out of breath when I touched his sleeve. He turned and waited while I thought of things to say, and then struggled to find words with which to say them.
“Sahib!” said I. “Oh, Major sahib!” And then my throat became full of words each struggling to be first, and I was silent.
“Well?” said he, standing with both arms folded, looking very grave, but not angry nor contemptuous.
“Sahib,” I said, “I am a true man. As I stand here, I am a true man. I have been a fool — I have been half-hearted — I was like a man in the dark; I listened and heard voices that deceived me!”
“And am I to listen and hear voices, too?” he asked.
“Nay, sahib!” I said. “Not such voices, but true words!”
“Words?” he said. “Words! Words! There have already been too many words. Truth needs no words to prove it true, Hira Singh. Words are the voice of nothingness!”
“Then, sahib—” said I, stammering.
“Hira Singh,” said he, “each man’s heart is his own. Let each man keep his own. When the time comes we shall see no true men eating shame,” said he.
And with that he acknowledged my salute, turned on his heel, and marched away. And the great gate slammed behind him. And German officers pressing close on either side talked with him earnestly, asking, as plainly as if I heard the words, what he had said, and what we had said, and what the outcome was to be. I could see his lips move as he answered, but no man living could have guessed what he told them. I never did know what he told them. But I have lived to see the fruit of what he did, and of what he made us do; and from that minute I have never faltered for a second in my faithfulness to Ranjoor Singh.
Be attentive, sahib, and learn what a man of men is Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur.
CHAPTER III
Shall he who knows not false from true judge treason? — EASTERN PROVERB.
You may well imagine, sahib, in the huts that night there was noise as of bees about to swarm. No man slept. Men flitted like ghosts from hut to hut — not too openly, nor without sufficient evidence of stealth to keep the guards in good conceit of themselves, but freely for all that. What the men of one hut said the men of the next hut knew within five minutes, and so on, back and forth.
I was careful to say nothing. When men questioned me, “Nay,” said I. “I am one and ye are many. Choose ye! Could I lead you against your wills?” They murmured at that, but silence is easier to keep than some men think.
Why did I say nothing? In the first place, sahib, because my mind was made at last. With all my heart now, with the oath of a Sikh and the truth of a Sikh I was Ranjoor Singh’s man. I believed him true, and I was ready to stand or fall by that belief, in the dark, in the teeth of death, against all odds, anywhere. Therefore there was nothing I could say with wisdom. For if they were to suspect my true thoughts, they would lose all confidence in me, and then I should be of little use to the one man who could help all of us. I judged that what Ranjoor Singh most needed was a silent servant who would watch and obey the first hint. Just as I had watched him in battle and had herded the men for him to lead, so would I do now. There should be deeds, not words, for the foundation of a new beginning.
In the second place, sahib, I knew full well that if Gooja Singh or any of the others could have persuaded me to advance an opinion it would have been pounced on, and changed out of all recognition, yet named my opinion nevertheless. This altered opinion they would presently adopt, yet calling it mine, and when the outcome of it should fail at last to please them they would blame me. For such is the way of the world. So I had two good reasons, and the words I spoke that night could have been counted without aid of pen and paper.
The long and short of it was that morning found them undecided. There was one opinion all held — even Gooja Singh, who otherwise took both sides as to everything — that above all and before all we were all true men, loyal to our friends, the British, and foes of every living German or Austrian or Turk so long as the war should last. The Germans had bragged to us about the Turks being in the war on their side, and we had thought deeply on the subject of their choice of friends. Like and like mingle, sahib. As for us, my grandfather fought for the British in ‘57, and my father died at Kandahar under Bobs bahadur. On that main issue we were all one, and all ashamed to be prisoners
while our friends were facing death. But dawn found almost no two men agreed as to Ranjoor Singh, or in fact on any other point.
Not long after dawn, came the Germans again, with new arguments. And this time they began to let us feel the iron underlying their persuasion. Once, to make talk and gain time before answering a question, I had told them of our labor in the bunkers on the ship that carried us from India. I had boasted of the coal we piled on the fire-room floor. Lo, it is always foolish to give information to the enemy — always, sahib — always! There is no exception.
Said they to us now: “We Germans are devoting all our energy to prosecution of this war. Nearly all our able-bodied men are with the regiments. Every man must do his part, for we are a nation in arms. Even prisoners must do their part. Those who do not fight for us must work to help the men who do fight.”
“Work without pay?” said I.
“Aye,” said they, “work without pay. There is coal, for instance. We understand that you Sikhs have proved yourselves adept at work with coal. He who can labor in the bunkers of a ship can handle pick and shovel in the mines, and most of our miners have been called up. Yet we need more coal than ever.”
So, sahib. So they turned my boast against me. And the men around me, who had heard me tell the tale about our willing labor on the ship, now eyed me furiously; although at the time they had enjoyed the boast and had added details of their own. The Germans went away and left us to talk over this new suggestion among ourselves, and until afternoon I was kept busy speaking in my own defense.
“Who could have foreseen how they would use my words against us?” I demanded. But they answered that any fool could have foreseen it, and that my business was to foresee in any case and to give them good advice. I kept that saying in my heart, and turned it against THEM when the day came.
That afternoon the Germans returned, with knowing smiles that were meant to seem courteous, and with an air of confidence that was meant to appear considerate. Doubtless a cat at meal-time believes men think him generous and unobtrusive. They went to great trouble to prove themselves our wise counselors and disinterested friends.
“We have explained to you,” said they, “what hypocrites the British are, — what dust they have thrown in your eyes for more than a century — how they have grown rich at your expense, deliberately keeping India in ignorance and subjection, in poverty and vice, and divided against itself. We have told you what German aims are on the other hand, and how successful our armies are on every front as the result of the consistence of those aims. We have proved to you how half the world already takes our side — how the Turks fight for us, how Persia begins to join the Turks, how Afghanistan already moves, and how India is in rebellion. Now — wouldn’t you like to join our side — to throw the weight of Sikh honor and Sikh bravery into the scale with us? That would be better fun than working in the mines,” said they.
“Are we offered that alternative?” I asked, but they did not answer that question. They went away again and left us to our thoughts.
And we talked all the rest of that day and most of the next night, arriving at no decision. When they asked me for an opinion, I said, “Ranjoor Singh told us this would be, and he gave us orders what to do.” When they asked me ought they to obey him, I answered, “Nay, choose ye! Who can make you obey against your wills?” And when they asked me would I abide by their decision, “Can the foot walk one way,” I answered, “while the body walks another? Are we not one?” said I.
“Then,” said they, “you bid us consider this proposal to take part against our friends?”
“Nay,” said I, “I am a true man. No man can make me fight against the British.”
They thought on that for a while, and then surrounded me again, Gooja Singh being spokesman for them all. “Then you counsel us,” said he, “to choose the hard labor in the coal mines?”
“Nay,” said I. “I counsel nothing.”
“But what other course is there?” said he.
“There is Ranjoor Singh,” said I.
“But he desired to lead us against the British,” said he.
“Nay,” said I. “Who said so?”
Gooja Singh answered: “He, Ranjoor Singh himself, said so.”
“Nay,” said I. “I heard what he said. He said he will lead us, but he said nothing of his plan. He did not say he will lead us against the British.”
“Then it was the Germans. They said so,” said Gooja Singh. “They said he will lead us against the British.”
“The Germans said,” said I, “that their armies are outside Paris — that India is in rebellion — that Pertab Singh was hanged in Delhi — that the British rule in India has been altogether selfish — that our wives and children have been butchered by the British in cold blood. The Germans,” said I, “have told us very many things.”
“Then,” said he, “you counsel us to follow Ranjoor Singh?”
“Nay,” said I. “I counsel nothing.”
“You are a coward!” said he. “You are afraid to give opinion!”
“I am one among many!” I answered him.
They left me alone again and talked in groups, Gooja Singh passing from one group to another like a man collecting tickets. Then, when it was growing dusk, they gathered once more about me and Gooja Singh went through the play of letting them persuade him to be spokesman.
“If we decide to follow Ranjoor Singh,” said he, “will you be one with us?”
“If that is the decision of you all,” I answered, “then yes. But if it is Gooja Singh’s decision with the rest consenting, then no. Is that the decision of you all?” I asked, and they murmured a sort of answer.
“Nay!” said I. “That will not do! Either yes or no. Either ye are willing or ye are unwilling. Let him who is unwilling say so, and I for one will hold no judgment against him.”
None answered, though I urged again and again. “Then ye are all willing to give Ranjoor Singh a trial?” said I; and this time they all answered in the affirmative.
“I think your decision well arrived at!” I made bold to tell them. “To me it seems you have all seen wisdom, and although I had thoughts in mind,” said I, “of accepting work in the collieries and blowing up a mine perhaps, yet I admit your plan is better and I defer to it.”
They were much more pleased with that speech than if I had admitted the truth, that I would never have agreed to any other plan. So that now they were much more ready than they might have been to listen to my next suggestion.
“But,” said I, with an air of caution, “shall we not keep any watch on Ranjoor Singh?”
“Let us watch!” said they. “Let us be forehanded!”
“But how?” said I. “He is an officer. He is not bound to lay bare his thoughts to us.”
They thought a long time about that. It grew dark, and we were ordered to our huts, and lights were put out, and still they lay awake and talked of it. At last Gooja Singh flitted through the dark and came to me and asked me my opinion on the matter.
“One of you go and offer to be his servant,” said I. “Let that servant serve him well. A good servant should know more about his master than the master himself.”
“Who shall that one be?” he asked; and he went back to tell the men what I had said.
After midnight he returned. “They say you are the one to keep watch on him,” said he.
“Nay, nay!” said I, with my heart leaping against my ribs, but my voice belying it. “If I agree to that, then later you will swear I am his friend and condemn me in one judgment with him!”
“Nay,” said he. “Nay truly! On the honor of a Sikh!”
“Mine is also the honor of a Sikh,” said I, “and I will cover it with care. Go back to them,” I directed, “and let them all come and speak with me at dawn.”
“Is my word not enough?” said he.
“Was Ranjoor Singh’s enough?” said I, and he went, muttering to himself.
I slept until dawn — the first night I
had slept in three — and before breakfast they all clustered about me, urging me to be the one to keep close watch on Ranjoor Singh.
“God forbid that I should be stool pigeon!” said I. “Nay, God forbid! Ranjoor Singh need but give an order that ye have no liking for and ye will shoot me in the back for it!”
They were very earnest in their protestations, urging me more and more; but the more they urged the more I hung back, and we ate before I gave them any answer. “This is a plot,” said I, “to get me in trouble. What did I ever do that ye should combine against me?”
“Nay!” said they. “By our Sikh oath, we be true men and your friends. Why do you doubt us?”
Then said I at last, as it were reluctantly, “If ye demand it — if ye insist — I will be the go-between. Yet I do it because ye compel me by weight of unanimity!” said I.
“It is your place!” said they, but I shook my head, and to this day I have never admitted to them that I undertook the work willingly.
Presently came the Germans to us again, this time accompanied by officers in uniform who stood apart and watched with an air of passing judgment. They asked us now point-blank whether or not we were willing to work in the coal mines and thus make some return for the cost of keeping us; and we answered with one voice that we were not coal-miners and therefore not willing.
“The alternative,” said they, “is that you apply to fight on the side of the Central Empires. Men must all either fight or work in these days; there is no room for idlers.”
“Is there no other work we could do?” asked Gooja Singh.
“None that we offer you!” said they. “If you apply to be allowed to fight on the side of the Central Empires, then your application will be considered. However, you would be expected to forswear allegiance to Great Britain, and to take the military oath as provided by our law; so that in the event of any lapse of discipline or loyalty to our cause you could be legally dealt with.”
