Smoke and Ashes

by Abir Mukherjee

  As more protesters arrived, the pressure on the front ranks was growing intolerable and the discipline of the Congress Volunteers looked to be wavering. The line broke, and I had a vision of soldiers firing at the onrushing crowd, of white homespun turning crimson. But instead of a surge of protesters, it was Surrender-not and Bose who appeared through the gap. The Volunteers fought to close the breach behind them and, for the moment, their line held.

  I left Dawson on the steps and ran down to negotiate safe passage for Surrender-not and Bose through the few feet of no-man’s-land between the Volunteers and the army and over to our side.

  ‘You need to tell your people to disperse,’ I shouted to Bose. ‘You’ve made your point. You’ve protested under the prince’s nose. Now tell them to go home. The soldiers aren’t going to budge and they’ll respond with force if you push them much further.’

  ‘You heard Basanti Devi,’ he replied. ‘The demonstration will not end until we have carried out the burning of foreign cloth.’

  I shook my head in disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious. We’re minutes away from a riot and you want to burn cloth?’

  ‘There will be no rioting,’ he said calmly. ‘At least not from our side.’

  ‘Get on with it, then,’ I said. ‘Burn your damn cloth and end this.’

  Surrender-not accompanied him back through the cordon and to his own men while I returned to my position atop the town hall steps, still hoping against hope that I’d been wrong, and that with the kidnapping and slaying of McGuire, Gurung’s thirst for revenge had been slaked.

  Below me, Bose issued a command and, moments later, from out of the throng appeared two Volunteers carrying a crate and a bullhorn. They placed the crate at Bose’s feet. He climbed atop it and, taking the megaphone, began to address the crowd. Within seconds the shouts had died as the mass of men struggled to hear what he was saying.

  He spoke in Bengali, but there was something in the tone and tempo of his voice, the clipped syllables, that made me think he was rushing his speech, and given that Bengalis weren’t exactly known for brevity, I got the impression that, despite his bravado, he too might have been afraid that things were close to spiralling out of control.

  But slowly the crowd began to respond to his words. Some turned and shouted his instructions to others further back, and gradually the pressure at the front began to lessen. Within minutes, the Volunteers managed to clear a gap ten feet wide between the protesters and Dawson’s troops.

  Bose issued more orders, and from the crowd, a line of men appeared. They walked solemnly to the centre of the clearing and, one by one, began to throw garments onto the ground: one a shirt, another a coat, a third a scarf and so on until the pile of discarded foreign cloth had reached head height. As Das had done a few days earlier, Bose took a lit torch and set it at the base of the pile.

  Behind me, the doors to the town hall opened and the invitees to the prince’s reception began to file out. I turned and urged them back into the building, and after certain initial remonstration from some of the congregation, they decided to heed my instructions, no doubt aided in their decision by the sight of several thousand Indians setting fire to a pile of clothes a yard away and me reaching for my revolver.

  Golden flames began to rise from the mound of discarded material, illuminating the darkening sky, and soon the pile was completely engulfed in fire, sending a column of thick black smoke into the air.

  It was then that the explosion occurred.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It sounded like a firecracker going off or a car backfiring. The shock caused those closest to scream, and then white smoke began to rise. It was coming from somewhere not far from the front of the crowd, only a few yards from the ranks of Congress Volunteers. Instinctively, the men in the immediate vicinity began to scatter.

  I turned to Dawson. ‘You need to get the prince out of here,’ I shouted. He nodded and set off inside, while I started to cajole and corral the people on the lawns back up the stairs and into the town hall.

  I heard what I thought was the sound of an engine starting. Whatever else happened, at least the Prince of Wales would soon be within the safety of Government House.

  The smoke drifted slowly in our direction, engulfing the ashes of the bonfire that Bose had lit. Surrender-not was down there. I grabbed a handkerchief from my pocket, covered my mouth and nose, and ran down the stairs towards the line of soldiers. But then came the sound of a second explosion, followed by another in quick succession, and I saw a plume of white smoke rise from the direction of Government Place. Three explosions. Three canisters of gas. Gurung had shown his hand, and yet if he was hoping to catch the prince in an explosion, he’d failed. His Highness’s car couldn’t have reached Government Place yet.

  The street was now shrouded in a white mist. Panic was setting in over the crowd as I broke through the cordon and headed for where I thought I’d last seen Surrender-not and Bose standing. As I rushed forward my eyes began to sting, but through the smoke I thought I could make out Surrender-not. He and Bose were still on their feet, directing the Volunteers to disperse the crowd. It was then that I realised something wasn’t right.

  Surrender-not, Bose, the Volunteers – they should all have been suffering from the symptoms of mustard gas exposure by now, but they didn’t seem to be having any trouble breathing. My eyes too. While they were stinging from the smoke, they weren’t burning.

  I dropped the handkerchief from my mouth and inhaled.

  Smoke. Ordinary smoke.

  Surrender-not saw me and came over. He too looked bewildered.

  ‘Something’s happened to the gas,’ he said. ‘It’s a miracle!’

  The problem was I didn’t believe in miracles.

  ‘He’s set off smoke bombs,’ I said, ‘not mustard gas.’

  The crowd, too, startled by the noise of the explosions, was beginning to realise that the smoke was benign.

  Surrender-not broke into a broad smile.

  ‘We should have known he wouldn’t murder innocent civilians,’ he said. ‘It should have been obvious after he spared my life last night. His revenge was complete with McGuire.’

  I afforded myself a sigh of relief, but I wasn’t yet convinced. It didn’t make any sense.

  Why set off smoke bombs when you had mustard gas, and why steal mustard gas if you weren’t going to use it?

  ‘If he’s finished, why the smoke bombs?’

  ‘What?’ said Surrender-not.

  ‘If he’s had his revenge, why not just disappear? Why set off the smoke bombs? No,’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t do that without a reason. He’s always been three steps ahead of us. This is no different. It has to be part of his plan.’

  ‘But what is his plan?’

  I worked through the facts. An explosion here, then two outside Government House, yet nothing but harmless smoke.

  And then it struck me.

  ‘The prince.’

  Surrender-not stared at me blankly.

  ‘He doesn’t want revenge on the crowd. He’s after the Prince of Wales. That’s why he set off the other two smoke bombs. He’s blocking off the route to Government House. Dawson and his men will be forced to change their plan. He’s herding the prince to a place where he can kill him.’

  ‘But how can he know where Dawson will take the prince?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? He’ll take him to the safest place in Calcutta. He’ll take him to Fort William.’

  Surrender-not blinked. ‘Gurung’ll never get past the security.’

  ‘He got in and out of Barrackpore easily enough.’

  ‘That was a sprawling cantonment. This is Fort William.’

  ‘And Fort William is where his regiment is currently stationed,’ I said. ‘It’s where he went AWOL from last week.’

  That seemed to convince him.

  ‘We’ll need transport,’ he said, looking around. The routes towards Red Road and Government House were still cordoned off and jammed with
bodies. ‘The High Court,’ he continued, setting off down Esplanade Row. ‘There’s bound to be a car or two there.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ I asked, following him at a run.

  He shouted over his shoulder. ‘Have you ever known a judge to walk anywhere?’

  Ten minutes later, with the aid of some rough words and gratuitous waving of my revolver, we had convinced a frightened-looking court officer to lend us one of the honourable judges’ cars, and were now flying along the strand towards Fort William. I drove while Surrender-not stared out of the window.

  ‘How did he set off the two devices on Government Row?’ he asked.

  ‘The same way he set off the one among the protesters. Some sort of pull-ring igniter on a home-made device, I expect. They’re quite straightforward. All you really need is some potassium nitrate, some sugar and a glass bottle.’

  ‘No,’ said Surrender-not, ‘I meant they were set off some distance apart but went off at the same time.’

  I looked over at him. ‘Are you suggesting he’s getting help?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ he said. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

  ‘It’s possible he rigged up some sort of timing mechanism on one of them; waited for it to go off and then let off the other device. The bigger issue now is how he plans to get the mustard gas inside the fort.’

  Surrender-not looked at me. ‘What if it’s been there all along?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Consider it,’ he said. ‘The whole stock of mustard gas was transferred from Barrackpore to Fort William in advance of it being shipped back to England. Prio Tamang, the first victim, was involved in the shipment. He would have told Gurung about its arrival. The records show that all stocks left Barrackpore but the stocktake at Fort William showed three canisters missing. Gurung was stationed at Fort William the night they arrived. Instead of smuggling them out, he could have simply hidden the three canisters somewhere on the base.’

  My head spun at the sheer simplicity of it. While Dawson instituted a city-wide search, maybe the stolen canisters had been under his nose all along, inside his own base and mere yards from where he was sitting.

  The fort’s Calcutta Gate was barred by a red-and-white-striped boom gate and a troop of nervy-looking sepoys. A soldier scrutinised our papers with a thoroughness that, at another time, might have been almost admirable, while another two inspected the vehicle and two more stood watch with rifles at the ready.

  ‘What is the purpose of your visit?’ asked the guard, bending down to make sure that both Surrender-not and I were who our papers claimed we were.

  Telling the truth was out of the question. Explaining that we were here in an attempt to stop the imminent assassination of the Prince of Wales in a mustard gas attack was just the sort of response guaranteed to ensure we would be held here at gunpoint until some officer could be found to deal with the matter, and we didn’t have the time for that. Nevertheless, a blatant lie could easily be checked and might cost us even more dearly. What was needed was something banal.

  ‘We’re here to see Miss Braithwaite, secretary to Major Dawson,’ I said. Of course, no such meeting existed, but I felt sure that Marjorie Braithwaite would confirm my story when the guards inevitably phoned her to check. For the Prince of Wales’s sake if not mine, I just prayed she was at her desk.

  The sepoy asking the questions disappeared into the guardhouse. Through the doorway I watched as he picked up the telephone receiver and spoke to the operator. Precious seconds ticked by.

  ‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ whispered Surrender-not.

  ‘That’s hardly the spirit,’ I muttered. ‘And you better pray that it does, because short of scaling the walls, I can’t think of any other way to get in.’

  The guard replaced the receiver and called over to one of his colleagues.

  ‘Keep calm,’ I said to Surrender-not as the second sentry entered the guardhouse. A brief conversation ensued before both men returned. The first guard bent over to speak to me while the other walked over to the boom gate. ‘Miss Braithwaite says you are to proceed to Admin Block 6.’

  I didn’t need telling twice, and before the boom had even been half raised, I gunned the car past it, then under the thick brick arch of the Calcutta Gate and into Fort William.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The activity at the base spoke volumes: a doubling of the guard; platoons of sepoys deploying to defensive positions; and lorry-loads of troops mobilising in a haze of exhaust smoke. We ignored them all and headed for Admin Block 6.

  ‘They’re putting the fort under lockdown,’ I said. ‘Dawson must have brought the prince back here.’

  ‘Looks like we arrived just in time,’ said Surrender-not. ‘Two minutes later and we might not have made it through the gate.’

  I slammed on the brakes outside Section H’s office and jumped out. The entrance was barred by a gorilla in uniform, holding a rifle with a nasty-looking bayonet affixed to it.

  ‘We’ve been ordered to report to Major Dawson,’ I said, shoving my warrant card in his face. ‘It’s critical we speak to him.’

  He shook a tree trunk of a neck. ‘Not possible, sir. We have orders. No one in or out.’

  I didn’t have time to discuss the matter civilly.

  ‘Listen to me, son,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Major Dawson in one of his rages, but believe me, it’s not a pretty sight. He’s expecting to hear from me in the next five minutes, and if he doesn’t he’s going to be furious, and he’s going to want to know why. Now unless you’d like to spend the rest of your military service cleaning latrines, I suggest you let me and my colleague pass.’

  Once I’d explained it to him, it didn’t take him long to realise the wisdom of acceding to my wishes. He stood aside and, with a nod of his head, gestured to the stairwell inside, but by then, Surrender-not and I were already past him.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, we made it to the second floor and along the corridor to the large office that housed Section H. Dawson was inside, pipe in hand, surrounded by three of his men and poring over a map laid out on a desk.

  ‘Where’s the prince?’

  Dawson looked up. ‘Wyndham?’ he said in exasperation. ‘You’re like the proverbial bad penny –’ but before he could continue, an explosion rattled the windows of the room.

  I rushed to the window as an air-raid siren began to wail. A plume of greyish smoke was rising from a building nearby and soon came the sort of screams that I’d last heard on a battlefield in France.

  Dawson was beside me.

  ‘Mustard gas,’ I said. ‘The devices he set off in town were smoke bombs. These are the real thing. Gurung’s after the prince.’

  Dawson’s pipe fell to the floor. He shook his head, unwilling, or unable, to accept the facts.

  ‘But how? How did he get in?’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ I said. ‘Right now we need to get to the prince.’

  ‘He’s in the senior officers’ apartments. One of the buildings near the St George’s Gate,’ said Dawson as we raced down the stairs and out of the building. I jumped into the car as Dawson made for the passenger seat.

  ‘We’ll need gas masks,’ I said, as Surrender-not and Dawson’s man, Allenby, sat in the rear.

  Dawson pointed the way. ‘The stores are located near St Patrick’s Chapel.’

  It didn’t take long to confirm that this was the real thing. The scene resembled a battleground. A squad of men in gas masks stretchered one poor sepoy, his eyes covered with makeshift bandages and his shirt open to the navel, revealing the most horrendous purple burns. Writhing in paroxysms of pain, his cries carried over to us till they were drowned by distance and the droning of the siren. We passed others, the walking wounded, being led away by their comrades towards a line of trucks which then sped off, I presumed to the fort’s infirmary.

  A mass of troops jostled outside the equipment store as a harassed-looking lieutena
nt tried to impose some order. Beside him, a sergeant and his men were busy setting up a distribution system. Dawson and Allenby jumped out and made for the head of the queue, returning with five gas masks – one for each of us, and one for the prince. As they hopped back in there was a second explosion. I looked to Dawson.

  He handed me a gas mask. ‘That came from the direction of the officers’ quarters,’ he said.

  ‘Gurung’s figured out where the prince is,’ I said.

  The good news, if there was any, was that he was only a few minutes ahead of us. I put on the gas mask and pointed the car in the direction of the explosion.

  We drove into white mist, a thick fog of poisonous gas, past men, some already burned, fleeing the other way.

  It was difficult to communicate with the gas masks on, and I relied on Dawson pointing out the direction he wanted me to take. He held up a hand and ordered me to stop outside a nondescript three-storey building. We got out and ran towards the entrance. Two men lay prostrate at the open doorway. Surrender-not bent down beside one of them and checked for a pulse, then touched a hand to the chest of one of them. He looked up, then raised a hand with bloodstained fingers.

  The guards had been shot. I drew my revolver, as did Dawson and Allenby. Surrender-not picked up the rifle of one of the dead sentries and followed us in. Not much of the gas had penetrated past the doorway, and once through the hallway, Dawson removed his mask.

  ‘How did he manage to shoot the sentries?’ he asked. ‘They’d been warned not to let any Gurkhas near the building.’

  ‘He’d have been wearing a gas mask,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t have known he was a Gurkha.’

  Dawson shook his head. ‘They were my men. They would have challenged him as soon as he approached.’