by John Masters
Peter and Rodney send their love. Rodney wants to know how you can possibly blow out ninety-one candles with one breath on your birthday cake.
Your affectionate granddaughter,
Emily
D.C.’S BUNGALOW
RUDWAL, PUNJAB
March 30th. 1918
Dear Grandfather,
The children continue to keep well, except that Elizabeth had whooping-cough last month and Gerry fell and cut his chin quite badly on the gravel yesterday morning. And of course they have had occasional upset stomachs like everyone else.
The news from France is so bad that one hesitates to open the paper, and I suppose even what we are being allowed to learn from the newspapers is not the whole truth. Sometimes I have nightmares that all this bloodshed will be in vain after all, and that the Germans are going to win--in France, at least. When I think of it, and read the newspapers and look at the casualty lists, I wonder whether it wouldn’t have been better for England if our own worries had turned out differently. I mean, if Peter had gone on the way he was perhaps meant to, and become a general. Now he reads the paper and says: ‘The Germans are attacking,’ and that’s all.
The honeymoon spirit that met Peter at the railway station last April, and the eagerness that I felt among the people, have nearly all evaporated by now. The usual problems come up all the time, of a thousand different kinds, and for the first five or six months they seemed to solve themselves with little trouble. Peter would call conferences and ask for advice from the D.S.P. and Harnarayan and Adam Khan and Parkash, or whoever else was involved, and some solution would soon be put forward and happily accepted by everyone. He still holds the conferences, but solutions to problems are much harder to come by. Instead of trying to find a way to agree they seem intent on finding places where they can disagree. Partly this is because more deep-rooted problems are coming to the surface, but more than that it’s because in the beginning they all knew that if they didn’t find an answer in quick time Peter would give them one and see that it was put into effect. Now they are finding that this is not true after all.
I know what’s happening because I have taken a correspondence course in Pitman’s shorthand and usually sit as secretary at the conferences. Sometimes someone tries to force Peter into giving a decision, but he won’t be forced. He says quietly: ‘This is a problem affecting everyone, and you must find a solution and make a recommendation to me, and I will see that it is carried out.’ The Congress people like this, of course, but it doesn’t help when their opinion is directly contrary to someone else’s.
Adam Khan has been in slightly better grace with his father since a man who is apparently becoming important, a lawyer named Gandhi, declared in Bombay a few weeks ago that every patriotic Indian should get into the Army and help us win the war. (Adam has felt this all the way along.) Adam’s son, Baber, has been talking for a year about going into the Army. He would go tomorrow if he could decide whether to enlist, as the Old Captain did, and start as a sowar in the Guides, or wait a bit and get a direct Viceroy’s commission as jemadar, or wait still more and try to get to Sandhurst. As you will have heard, Indians are now going to be admitted there, and will get the King’s Commission. I can’t think why it wasn’t done ages ago, when you think that Indians have been going into the I.C.S., which is supposed to be far more important than the Army, since 1860. The D.C. of the district next to us is an Indian, by the way.
The Commissioner is coming next week to stay a few days, and there is a lot to do. A land dispute he said ought to have been dealt with six months ago has still not been decided, and I must rush, as I want to write out a solution which I think they will both accept, if only Peter will bark at them a little.
Llyn Gared was sold last month. Now I really feel as if I had no past, only the present. The future no one can know--luckily, perhaps.
Your affectionate granddaughter,
Emily
D.C.’S CAMP
RUDWAL, PUNJAB
November 13th, 1918
Dear Grandfather,
I can hardly believe it’s over. When we got the telegram I suddenly started crying. The immediate feeling was what I suppose one had expected, that a great load had been lifted, or a cloud gone away and the sun was shining again. But very soon afterwards it seemed that the light only enabled us to see better the ruins in which we are standing. For four and a quarter years everyone has been deliberately wearing blinkers, seeing only what had to be done at once and what was going on under his nose. Now we have to take the blinkers off and look around, and forward.
There are, or soon will be, a thousand problems to be settled, a thousand decisions to be made, even inside the family. I am thirty-three, but I feel about fifty, and sometimes look it, too! These past two years have been very wearing, somehow. Rodney is six, and in another two or three years he ought to be going home to prep school. I don’t want to think of leaving Peter so soon, yet there’s no one in England we could send Rodney to, even if we wanted to, except some distant cousins of mine.
There is already an air of expectancy in political circles here. It has been growing since it became obvious in the summer that Germany had shot her bolt. There is talk of every kind, ranging from suggestions that the District Board will be given authority over the police, to rumours (started by Harnarayan, I think) that India will be given complete self-government, like Canada.
There is a truce between the politicians and the soldiers, because even people like Harnarayan can see that the latter (who are still just farmers in uniform, as they used to be in your day) have done more to put India on the map than any politician ever did. Everyone is in a good temper, the women thinking of their men returning, the harvest coming in well, the war won, the future looking so bright. A company of British soldiers marching through Rudwal on their way to manoeuvres was cheered all the way, which is unusual.
When I think that Peter might have been coming back to India by express P. & O., a general, world-famous, the darling of the government at home, I really believe he would have been made Viceroy to succeed Lord Chelmsford, and then what might not have happened! India would be the most exciting place in the world.
But it’s no good thinking of what might have been.
I can’t say Peter is as popular as he was with the people he has to deal with, or even among the peasants. Harnarayan and the rest of the Congress crowd are finding that it is all very well for the D.C. to listen to all sides, but sooner or later someone has to give a decision. They say that all will be well when everything can be decided by a vote, but as a matter of fact they know that this is not true. It is impossible to take a vote on which of two stud bulls the breeding co-operative should buy, or whether the new road to Naughat should go east or west of Ghulam Hussain’s field, because then there’d be no time to discuss really important things, like policies.
But all this is really in the background, at least for the moment. The end of the war is like a silence, so sudden and after so long a noise, that you can hear it. I find myself remembering people I have not seen since ‘07, and wondering what happened to them. Unless Harry Walsh was killed in the last few days, he will have escaped. It is a miracle, as I believe the average infantry officer’s life-expectancy was two weeks, but I can’t help wondering what effect it will have had on him. The death of Cadez on Meru in ‘13 affected him very much, I know, so the war must have been one long, mad nightmare to him--and he not able to show it, because that’s the sort of man he is.
No more now. We are moving camp tomorrow. We had meant to cover the whole of the Southern Tehsils on this tour, but there have been so many complications and so many involved cases to listen to that we won’t be able to do more than a third of the work before Peter has to get back to Rudwal.
Peter is writing separately about Ashraf, but I am sure you know how sorry I am too. He was always a dear to me. I hope the new man will look after you properly. If he served twenty-five years in India, you probably speak almost as
much Hindustani to him as you did to Ashraf!
Your affectionate granddaughter,
Emily
D.C.’S BUNGALOW
RUDWAL, PUNJAB
September 12th, 1919
Dearest Grandfather,
Yes, I am afraid that affairs here are just as bad as the newspapers have painted them--worse in some ways. There was a little violence in Rudwal, but what is far worse is the change in atmosphere. After all the expectancy the actual reforms seemed rather ungracious, and a lot of Indians felt they hadn’t been given enough. Then came the awful Dyer business in Amritsar in April, and, though the province is as quiet as a mouse again, it’s a very different sort of quiet. Harnarayan and his group are now saying that they will never get justice from England, and that they must work for total independence. This is the first time such an idea has been heard of, and, though only the extremists talk like that now, it is an omen, or could be.
Harnarayan has tried to get Peter to say something in public to show that he disapproves of the way General Dyer kept on firing until all those people had been killed, and even more of his order that Indians had to crawl past the place where the missionary woman was killed earlier. For a time I thought Peter was going to, which would have got us into trouble in some quarters but would at least have been taking a stand. Then the Commissioner came here--he was with a general from Lahore--and Peter said nothing one way or the other. Harnarayan was angry with him, and so was the Old Captain (who has had a mild stroke since). He wanted Peter to come out and say that anyone who tried to cause trouble here would get the same treatment General Dyer gave them in Amritsar. He said to Peter: ‘There was an order that they should not gather in this Jallianwala Bagh. They disobeyed, and now it is said the general sahib was wrong to kill so many. I only know that if I were ruling the Punjab, and it was as full of Sikhs as it is now, I would not have stopped firing while even one of them was left alive. Then we would have peace for fifty years.’ This is really what General Dyer is saying, without the bit about the Sikhs.
Dr Parkash is furious too because politics have crept into the hospital. He found that one of the new doctors was a fanatical Congress man and was using his position not only to convert the girls in the nurses’ school to his views but to keep out any who were likely to be loyal to us. It would have been very effective if he had succeeded, because when the girls went to their homes and to the village dispensaries which we were getting started (before the trouble), they would have been very influential proselytizers. Dr Parkash dismissed the doctor, and now the Congress people are after him, and unless Peter uses the power and influence he’s still got they’ll be able to dismiss him, too, because of the strength they have on the Hospital Board.
You asked me to tell you honestly how Peter was. Well, Grandfather, that is difficult to answer, except to say that he is the same as when he was with you at Nashe Street after he came back from the Somme. He is so gentle and kind, but it is almost worse than brutality because I feel that it is not a gentleness of the strong, as it used to be. The Commissioner has been getting more and more outspoken, and has even warned me that the new Lieutenant-Governor is very dissatisfied with Peter--but you know what the I.C.S. is. They had their chance to refuse to take him back in ‘17, but they couldn’t believe he had changed so much (with little or nothing of it showing on the surface) so they took him, and now he would have to do something terrible, or not do something in a terrible situation, before they could get rid of him. The awful thing is that I feel more and more strongly, and more and more often, that this is just what will happen. Troubles are piling up like clouds. The harvest was not good in Rudwal this year, nor were the rains. There is a much stronger pressure behind situations than there has been since I knew India, probably since 1857, and when there is an explosion it might be a very bad one.
I don’t know what to do, whether to go on here, trying and trying--and I have tried so hard to show Peter that I and other people trust him--or give up and go back to England. But what then? What are we going to do?
I have been thinking about your suggestion that Peter try his hand at mountaineering again, and, though it might be dangerous, and it probably won’t work, it seems the only thing left. So I am going to arrange for us all to spend a month in the Northern Tehsils next summer, if the situation will allow Peter to leave Rudwal. Perhaps the mountains will arouse him. They meant so much in the old days and caused him so much sadness and disillusion with himself--I suppose everything began with his climbing--that I felt at all costs he must never climb again. Now, thinking over what you said, I feel I may have made a mistake--or perhaps the passing of time and the complete change in him have altered the proportions of things. I think I would die of happiness if I heard him say, the way he used to, ‘I’m going to get to the top of that mountain, at all costs.’
Talking about mountains, you may not have heard that Harry Walsh is going to bring out another expedition to Meru next year. We saw a little snippet about it in the C. & M.--no other details.
Baber has made up his mind to take the Sandhurst exam.-- next year. Adam Khan was in favour of the idea, before the Amritsar massacre; now he is very strong against it and has been to see his father several times to try and persuade him that now even he must see it’s no use kowtowing to us. The Old Captain no longer tells Peter what’s happening, but I imagine he sent Adam Khan away without satisfaction. Those two will never see any problem in the same light.
I really should not have bothered you with such a long letter, but it is a great comfort and source of strength to me to be able to write to you, so forgive me.
Your loving granddaughter,
Emily
D.C.’S BUNGALOW
RUDWAL, PUNJAB
September 13th, 1920
Dearest Grandfather,
We only got back from the Northern Tehsils on the second, and since then the world seems to have been toppling about us. That is an exaggeration, and I know you don’t like exaggeration, but it has been bad. The least of the worries has been the arrival of Harry Walsh’s expedition, which began to gather a week ago. Harry and Peggy will be here this evening. Peggy wrote to me a few months ago, more or less making up a quarrel that had estranged us, so we will be seeing each other, but not, I fear, very cordially.
It really looks as if the mountain must be climbed this time. Besides Harry there are seven other climbers--all English--and a doctor. Everyone’s new except Harry--Capt. Ewell and Lapeyrol were both killed in ‘16, Capt. Ewell at the Somme and Lapeyrol at Verdun. An enormous number of porters and pack animals have been hired for this expedition, and Sherpa porters brought from Nepal, so that the expedition’s going to look like an army when it leaves here. There has been a lot of talk about Harry’s idea in trying the mountain now, after the monsoon, instead of earlier. Peter thinks they have a good chance, though the monsoon hardly reaches up there anyway, and while we were in Harkamu he did what he could to ensure that the ‘army’s’ procession through the Northern Tehsils would be as smooth as possible.
It is hot and muggy, as it usually is at this time of year, of course, but it seems worse this year, and everyone is in a bad temper, except Peter. The Old Captain won’t speak to him at all because of something he did, or rather didn’t do, in a criminal case a few months ago. Young Baber has been to see us to tell us that he passed the Sandhurst exam, and is sailing after Christmas. For a time we thought he would be coming with us on our trek into the Northern Tehsils. Peter once had promised him, before the war, that he would take him into the mountains and teach him how to climb, but when Baber suddenly appeared after all these years and reminded him of the promise, Peter backed out. He told me afterwards he didn’t want to take responsibility for Baber, who is a headstrong young man now. Peter didn’t do any climbing while we were up there.
The harvest was not good, in spite of heavy rains. There is a good deal of sickness, and Dr Parkash has left, feeling rather bitter. They (the Congress people) forced him to res
ign.
Rodney is eight now and I have made up my mind that he must go home at the end of this cold weather. He is thin and quite sallow, in spite of a month in the mountains. Also he is getting to be a terror to the servants, none of whom correct him--how can they?--and so I will be writing soon to Cox’s to book passages for myself and all the children in March. Peter has not made up his mind yet. He is eligible for furlough next year.
I feel very tired, so please excuse me,
Your loving granddaughter,
Emily
PS.--Peter will be coming home with us. He is going to resign from the service. I don’t know what he will do.
Chapter 32
She dipped the pen in the ink and carefully wrote the address-- Major-General R. Savage, C.B., 293 Nashe Street, Kensington, London, England. As long as she could write that address and that name, and in her mind see the old man with the eagle’s eyes, there was still something firm left in the world. He was ninety-four now, and he could not last much longer. She did not disguise from herself that a strong element in her decision to take the children back to England was her wish that he should see them again before he died--perhaps even more that young Rodney should see him, whose name he bore.
She found a stamp in her bureau drawer and put it on, and laid the envelope aside with the three other letters for the mail.
It was done.
She called for the bearer to light the lamps. It was only half-past five but the sky was overcast, and it was gloomy inside the drawing-room. Peter was in his study, at work on a report for the Commissioner. She ought to go and help him but she did not have the desire at this time, for the writing of the letter to his grandfather had emptied her.
