by John Masters
‘Ay, you’re a good wife, Mary.’
‘Go on with you. And no betting, mind.’
Upstairs, she cocked her head, listening for the rumble of the cartwheels on the hall linoleum, then the crash as Betty pulled the front door shut behind her with her boot. Funny, she hadn’t complained at all about having to push her dad all that way, and watch the game, too. Ah, there’d be men there, lots of men. But she couldn’t be going off with any of them when she had her father to push along … She shook her head. It was terrible to be worrying about your daughter like this, and she only thirteen. What could they find for her to do, that would save her from what she had fallen into, when they moved to Scarrow Hall, and Sir Guy’s Foundation?
Daily Telegraph, Saturday, November 8, 1919
FOOD PRICES AND PROSPECTS
WORSE THAN WAR TIME
It is little consolation to know that the people of the United Kingdom are better off than the inhabitants of some other countries, but it is due to those who have organised our food supplies that the following percentage increases since July, 1914, should be tabulated:
Belgium (Antwerp)
278
Belgium (Brussels)
267
Italy (Milan)
226
Italy (Rome)
107
Sweden
209
United Kingdom
122
Norway
171
France (Paris)
150
France (other towns)
188
Portugal
151
Switzerland
151
After these figures the rise continued, the higher price of meat carrying the percentage of 122 to 128, and further increases have been estimated to bring the cost of food to about 133 per cent above the pre-war figure … Further increases are regarded as inevitable – a disturbing situation considering that prices of necessaries are already higher than in our darkest days of war … Mr J. O’Grady, MP, is urging that the Government should promptly release all its stocks of food, placing the whole on the market at reasonable prices. Such a suggestion as that naturally demands consideration from the point of view of ability to replenish our stores.
ANTI-CONTROL TO THE FORE
There is a revival of the opposition to control of various foodstuffs, particularly as regards meat and milk. It is asserted by traders that imported meat would be 3d per lb cheaper and milk a similar sum less per quart if control were removed. The meat trade also differs from the pessimistic view of the Ministry of Food on the subject of future supplies …
Cate thumbed gloomily through the rest of the paper … dock strikes in America, coal strike feared here, railway strike not long over … both Richard’s factories on strike in Hedlington … President Wilson apparently unable to exercise the functions of his office and many Americans suspicious that his wife was usurping them. He looked at his own wife across the table – ‘What is the world coming to, Isabel?’
‘A period of lancing boils,’ she said. ‘It’s not a very pretty simile for the breakfast table, I know, darling, but it’s accurate, I think … The war was like a huge malady in the body of the world, causing all sorts of illnesses, ailments, ulcers, sores, poisonings … but few of them visible or treatable, because the body was wearing armour, to fight the war … Now the armour’s been laid aside, and the boils and sores are being bared, and must be treated, or burst … And while we are on not very pleasant subjects, I think Fletcher is having an affair.’
‘Oh dear,’ Cate said. ‘They haven’t been married very long.’
Isabel said, ‘I’m sure that women throw themselves at his head – he is so good-looking, in that wild animal way … and now he’s famous, and a poet into the bargain. He has no armour to resist … When I went up to London yesterday I had lunch with Jane in the Coq d’Or, and Fletcher came in with a very pretty and expensively dressed young woman. Their table was at the front and ours at the back, and they never saw us. Anyway, they only had eyes for each other … they were holding hands, stroking each other … everyone else noticed, but they didn’t notice … or didn’t care.’
‘Poor Betty,’ Cate said after a while.
Isabel said, ‘If she ever gets to know. Though I think she will … she’s very sensitive. And it’s perhaps as well that she has to face it now, and come to terms with it, and with Fletcher, so early in their marriage.’
‘Let’s hope it isn’t also rather late in their marriage, then,’ Cate said.
Chapter 31
Hassanpore, India: October, 1919
‘Next detail – ready!’ Company Sergeant-Major Lodge barked. The twelve men fallen in behind the firing point marched forward. ‘Halt! Number! Right turn! For inspection, port arms! Ease springs!’
Fred Stratton, standing with two of his platoon commanders at one flank of the firing point, stifled a yawn. This was the last detail, about to fire its last practice – five rounds snap-shooting at 400 yards.
‘Five rounds – lying – load!’
It was eleven o’clock and they’d been here since seven-thirty in the morning. Early on it had been almost fresh, but as the sun climbed it grew hotter, and the sun beat relentlessly on the back of his khaki cotton shirt, and the shade of his pith helmet grew smaller and thinner and at length seemed to vanish. Still, it was nothing like as bad as it had been in June. Half a dozen palm trees forty yards off gave some respite, and the men who were not actually firing were lying and sitting there, huddled together, smoking, waiting.
‘Ready in the butts, sarn’t-major.’
‘Detail – fire each time the targets appear … one round each time.’
Fred looked towards the butts, a wall of earth and sand twenty feet high standing isolated out in the semi-desert two miles south of Hassanpore. Every now and then a firer’s arm would slip and the bullet would hit the hard ground between the firing point and the butts; and every now and then one of those bullets would ricochet over the top of the earth wall and whine off into the nothingness beyond. There were a few fields in that direction, and a mud hut or two, but it was practically desert, for most of the cultivation was done in the zone fed by the Doab Canal: this was not.
Twelve rifles cracked … nine of the black and white disc targets were rotated gently … Damn, three misses. The target sank down, as the butt detail lowered them into the trench where they stood. Suddenly they all came up again. Again the twelve rifles cracked … eleven hits … No. 4 had missed again. Who was it? Fred peered – Private Denton: very young, seemed to be afraid of his rifle. He’d not get his proficiency pay unless he improved. The CSM was yelling, ‘Don’t jerk the bloody rifle, Denton. Squeeze! It’s not going to bite you!’
But that’s just what Denton believes it will, Fred thought. Well, Mendoza was Denton’s platoon commander and he was here. It was his business.
Cracracraaccraak … Denton had a hit this time. He turned away, looking at his watch. Forty minutes’ march back to cantonments, just time for a beer before lunch; and in the afternoon, go through all the morning’s results and enter them in the men’s records. He yawned again, pulled out a big khaki handkerchief, took off his helmet, and mopped his forehead.
‘Firing programme completed, sir.’ The CSM was at his side, saluting.
‘Very well, sarn’t-major. Get them fallen in.’
The road was a dusty cart track for the first mile, then they joined the Grand Trunk Road, and the men’s nailed boots bit rhythmically into the packed macadam of the surface. Fred, marching at the head of the company, did not speak while they were on the cart track, for the wind was behind and the dust kicked up by the marching feet eddied forward and hung round all the way. Today it would be better for him to be where he would normally have been, at the rear, as 2nd-in-command: but Major Featherstonehaugh had gone on leave to shoot bison in the Nilgiris, and Fred would be commanding the company for the next four months. It was an odd feeling, strangely
unlike commanding a company in battle. Of course you might have to do some fighting – he’d learned that on the Frontier, but that wasn’t the real substance of soldiering: this was – drill, annual musketry course, ceremonial parades, the CO’s lectures on map reading, the adjutant’s on regimental tradition and customs. A Regular battalion in peacetime was a sort of large family, with no real job to do, except live together – ready.
They swung on to the Grand Trunk Road and the CSM sent two men doubling on a hundred yards ahead to turn any wandering bullock carts off the road. Often, even at this hour the carter would be fast asleep in the back, or even perched on the swingletree. Stratton glanced round. No. 3 Platoon was leading, so 2nd Lieutenant Mendoza, its commander, was marching just behind him. He dropped back level with the young man and said, ‘How did your fellows do?’
‘All right, sir, except for Denton … and even he can hit a native at fifty yards.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fred asked. Mendoza was tall and swarthily handsome. Must be a lot of Spanish or Portuguese blood in the family; lots of money, too. He was always nipping into Lahore to buy more boots and clothes at Ranken’s, and he owned a very large American Buick car.
Mendoza said, ‘I heard last night that the Hindu procession is coming off next week. They’ve refused to cancel it. So … don’t you think there’ll be trouble then, sir?’
Fred said, ‘These silly buggers are capable of anything. What’s it all about, anyway? I don’t read the papers much.’
Mendoza said, ‘Well some Hindu saint was killed here by Muslims a long time ago … eight or nine hundred years … and every ten years the Hindu community takes a sacred image in a big cart to his grave. It’s right in the middle of the bazaar … but to get there they have to pass a certain tree, and the tree’s branches now stick out across the road. The Hindus’ cart won’t pass under them.’
‘They can cut the branches off,’ Fred said.
‘The tree is sacred to the Muslims. Some mullah used to preach under it in the fourteenth century. They won’t allow it to be touched.’
‘Bloody fools,’ Fred said. ‘Why don’t they take the cart round another way?’
‘Ah, but they must use the exact route, saying mantras at certain points. That’s the tradition.’
‘Well, if it does come to trouble, they won’t need the whole battalion. Let’s hope the CO sends some other company. The bazaar stinks, and we’d be standing about all day among the flies and rotting food and shit, in the sun …’
‘It’s quite interesting though,’ Mendoza said diffidently. ‘Muslims saying their prayers in the middle of the street … whores looking down at you from some of the high windows … a Jain with a little whiskbroom sweeping the dust in front of him so that he doesn’t by chance tread on an ant … India’s absolutely fascinating.’
‘You’d better join the Indian Army if you think that,’ Fred said grumpily. They had entered the cantonments and in a moment would turn on to the road into the regiment’s lines. He stepped aside, and shouted over his shoulder, ‘March to attention!’
The rifles were unslung and carried at the trail. The CSM barked the faster cadence. Outside the Orderly Room the Quarter Guard turned out, and fell in in two ranks. The guard commander yelled, ‘Quarter Guard, attention!’
Fred called, ‘A Company … Eyes right! … Eyes front!’ Three more minutes to ‘Dismiss’, six to beer. Christ, the Light Infantry pace made you sweat, in this Indian heat.
But, when the time came, Colonel Trotter did not choose B, C, or D Companies; he chose A; so Fred Stratton found himself the next Tuesday morning, at 9 a.m., marching towards the city. The cantonment roads were always wide, straight, and sparsely occupied; and so they were today; but as one neared the city, across the half-mile of wasteland and smoking piles of garbage that separated the two, one normally ran into more and more people until, entering under the old Mogul brick arch, one passed into a world of Harun al Raschid, smelly, noisy, teeming with life, movement, and colour. Not this day, though … the narrow street inside the arch was not deserted; it was just not packed, and the people who were there seemed to be going about definite tasks, then returning to the shelter of their houses. Very few people seemed to be merely wandering, looking, haggling, or chattering.
The company marched 400 yards into the city, then turned into the Kotwali, the city police station. Here Fred ordered them to pile arms and rest, in the capacious garden behind the building. When that was done he went into the Kotwali itself, as ordered, to report to the Deputy Commissioner, the head of the local civil government. Mr William Jordan, Indian Civil Service, was about his own age, thickset, smoking a pipe and wearing a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a white suit, and a small white sun helmet, the latter set on the table in front of him. He got up as Fred entered, saluting – ‘Ah, Captain Stratton, we’ve met … and your good lady and mine share an enthusiasm for horses. Do sit down … Now, there seems to be no doubt that there’s going to be a confrontation. What we have to ensure is that there is no, or very little, bloodshed. Obviously that means that we ourselves must not shed more blood than is necessary, or we’d be defeating our own purpose – wouldn’t we?’ He shot a keen glance at Fred, his eyes seeming to bulge behind the lenses.
‘I understand,’ Fred said shortly. He knew perfectly well that he must use minimum force; to that end, the Lewis guns had not been brought out, and the cut-offs on the rifles would be used to ensure that each man could fire only one round at a time.
The DC repeated, ‘No more blood than is absolutely necessary. The province … and the country … can’t afford another Jallianwala Bagh. So, I propose to use all the police in the first instance. On my orders, they will physically prevent the Hindus from cutting down the branches. The Assistant Commissioner will read the Riot Act and declare that the tree is government property … There’s a perfectly good way up an alley and round the tree, so the procession can go on to the Saint’s Tomb … Now if the Hindus press forward and overrun the police, I shall have no alternative but to call on you to disperse the crowd. Because, once damage has been done to the tree, the Muslims will attack … they will be there, waiting, of course. So, how many men can you use, do you think?’
‘I’ll go and look at the tree, sir, and the whole position. But I doubt if I’ll need more than a platoon – twenty-five men – at the tree.’
‘They should be visible, but not aggressively so. And they must be able to act fast, once I hand over to you. Remember that the Riot Act will already have been read. I will be there, and I will give you the authorisation according to the Riot Act, and it will be signed – here it is’ – he produced a square card from his pocket; Fred, reading it, saw that it was in the proper form, from the Civil Authority, for military intervention, as the situation was beyond its own power to control; and the DC had signed and dated it.
The DC put the card back in his pocket and said, ‘So, when I give you this, just step up and start firing … I wish to heaven you could fire a few rounds over their heads.’
‘We are not allowed to do that, sir,’ Fred said. Colonel Trotter had impressed on him that the army must never threaten – it must shoot, to kill, first time; nor must it let the crowd get close; nor must it make arrests, for it had no power of arrest, nor training for it. He said, ‘Some of the police have rifles, don’t they, sir? Why don’t they fire a few rounds over the Hindus’ heads … or everyone’s, if the Muslims look threatening, before they give up and hand over to us?’
‘I’ll probably have them do that,’ the DC said. ‘But it isn’t effective because the crowds know they won’t actually fire into them. God knows what relatives they might be hitting. Their rifles are for use against dacoits, not crowds. You don’t live among the people, as the police do. They know you will shoot, and they know, really, that you are quite impartial … so the dirty work will fall to you. But we will really do our damnedest to see that it doesn’t get that far.’
Fred had a brainwave – �
�Sir, would it be possible to dig the road down at the tree, so that the Hindus’ cart can pass under the branches?’
The DC stared at him, and cried, ‘By God, you’re a genius, man! How much time do we have? Two hours before they’re due to start out. We’ll need every man we can get … Can some of your fellows help?’
‘I can send three platoons – seventy-five men, sir,’ Fred said. ‘But they don’t have picks or shovels here.’
‘I can …’ the DC began; when a police havildar burst into the room, and gabbled rapidly in Hindustani. The DC stood up, and took off his glasses – ‘The best laid plans,’ he said. ‘They’ve cut the branches. A big crowd of Muslims is gathering there. Let’s see. They’ll go through the bazaar to the Raj Mandir – that’s where the image and the cart are being garlanded. There’ll be several hundred, or thousand, Hindus there.’
Another Englishman came in, and the DC said briefly – ‘Simpson, the DSP … Simmy, have your men block all streets between the tree and the Raj Mandir, to the north of Hanuman Road. Captain Stratton, will you please help us by blocking all streets to the south of Hanuman Road – that is, this side? Just don’t let anyone pass.’
‘Can we shoot, if they won’t stop?’ Fred asked. He wished the CO was here; this was not at all the sort of situation they had been discussing and planning for.
The DC said briefly, ‘Yes, once the Riot Act has been read and your card signed. I’ll send the AC with you – he’ll do those, instead of me.’
‘I’ll need three more interpreters,’ Fred said. ‘One with each of the other platoons.’
‘Simmy, find some, quick …’ The door opened and Brigadier-General Quentin Rowland, commanding the Hassanpore Brigade, strode in. ‘Morning, Jordan,’ he said briskly. ‘Morning, Stratton. Colonel Trotter told me he’d sent you down. Everything all right?’
