A Good Soldier

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  *

  Pathans were characterised by a fine swaggering independence. They did not appear to know the meaning of the word “subservience”. Every man was the equal of any monarch, in his own opinion, and free to speak and act according to his will. Neither riches nor land could elevate anyone and superiority lay in bravery and skill at arms, in loyalty and the Pathans’ own notion of honesty.

  Sher Mahommed Khan used to look forward to the regiment’s periods of duty in Calcutta. They gave him an opportunity to cut a broad swath through the female population, to bluster about the bazaars in his flashiest clothes, to brush Bengalis out of his path with an imperious sweep of his strong arm; if they hadn’t already scuttled aside at sight of that tall, brawny figure in its billowing pantaloons, embroidered waistcoat, brilliant kamarband with the long knife tucked into it, and the turban around the cone that added inches to his stature. But even he was disenchanted this time. Despite the company of his friend, Karim Baksh, life in the servants’ quarters behind the MacLean mansion was dull compared with the easy fraternity of barracks. There were problems about the womenfolk too. The Hindu menservants were frankly terrified of him and even his brother Mussalmen were apprehensive about their wives.

  He set down Ramsey’s early morning tea-tray and stood back primly, regarding him with the doleful and injured air of which only a persistent reprobate was capable and which had never deceived his master.

  Ramsey opened one eye, observed his demeanour and raised the sheet to hide his smile. The movement was his undoing, betraying his wakefulness.

  “Your Honour, when do we move from this place?”

  Ramsey sat up and poured his tea. “What’s the trouble? The girls turning their backs on you?”

  “Huzur!” Sher Mahommed Khan gave a brief and obscene account of what the girls were turning towards him. “Their men are so degenerate, Huzur, what can one expect?” He made a magnanimous gesture. “Even Karim Baksh is constantly importuned.” Karim Baksh, of course, not being a Pathan, was by no means his peer: his friend, a brave man, faithful and a good son of the Prophet; but certainly not the equal of a Frontier Orakzai.

  Ramsey was not in his most tolerant mood but sought to divert his orderly’s undoubtedly exaggerated plaint with humour. For six years Sher Mahommed Khan had been teaching him his native Pashtu and they conversed in it as often as in Hindustani. This morning, as a mark of disgruntlement, the Pathan had addressed him in the latter. Ramsey, first sipping his tea and appearing to reflect with due seriousness, resorted to Pashtu.

  “Har yo sari khapal khaza sara pakhpal takhtawala.” Sher Mahommed Khan’s craggy face broke, although he strove to suppress it, into a grin. The joke never failed. It had a special significance apart from its meaning: it was a touchstone to test the purity of a speaker’s command of Pashtu, a most difficult sentence to pronounce correctly. (A hundred and twenty years later the Dutch were to identify Nazis in their midst by the way they pronounced “Scheveningen”.) But it was also funny: it meant “Every man ran off with his own wife”, a practice which was the very contrary of the Pathans’, who preferred the wives of other men. But they were simple people and the hoariest of traditional jests always broke down any real or pretended grievance. In this instance it happened to be directly pertinent too, which made it funnier.

  “The Presence is too clever for a thick-headed soldier.” But Pathans were obstinate as well as thick: “When do we go from here to a country where men can breathe untainted air?”

  “I am no more pleased with Calcutta than you are, but there are many things I have to learn before we go.”

  “What do you need to know that you do not know already? What can any fat-bellied baniya teach an officer?” “Baniya” was not at all polite if, as they both knew very well he did, the Pathan was referring to Mr. MacLean. It meant a small shopkeeper but it also meant a mean-minded, timid, cringing creature.

  That was not the sort of hyperbole to which a wise man gave a direct answer. “This time next week we shall be sailing up the Hooghly in cool luxury. Men on the banks will point to you and say ‘There goes the Nizam himself.’” The Nizam of Hyderabad was reputed the richest man in the world. Sher Mahommed Khan grinned uninhibitedly this time.

  Ramsey’s seconds came, sniggering, to the Chowringhee office later that morning to report that Lawyer Pocock had refused the challenge with such vehemence and indignation that “The poor booby nearly died of apoplexy anyway. He said that calling a man out was an abomination in itself, a primitive rite; and anyhow how dare you insult his integrity as a servant of the Law with such a proposal? He was plainly in a blue funk, and law or no law, there’s no doubt he would have turned tail and run the breadth of India to avoid a meeting. We warned him as civilly as we could that we would feel bound to let it be known that he is neither a gentleman nor a man of honour or courage.”

  MacLean had listened with sardonic amusement, or perhaps it was glee, his eyes glistening. He uttered a pawky laugh and poured brandy for the callers with a lavish hand. “And what did he say to that?”

  “Be damned for a trio of scoundrels, the two of us and Hugh: we must have known perfectly well he couldn’t take up such a matter and it was scandalous to put him in a position where he could be made to look a poltroon.”

  “Aye, like all cowards he’d be careful to preserve his manly reputation: willing to fight, of course, but regretfully prevented by virtue of the example he has to set.”

  “He said he would make a formal complaint to our Colonel. We told him we had already informed the Colonel ourselves that we were acting for Hugh, as a matter of courtesy. And the Colonel said that as Hugh’s now a civilian he supposed it was all right, but he would not expect one of his own officers to give a mere attorney ideas above his station. Pocock looked as though he’d burst a blood vessel or have a fit.”

  The smile on MacLean’s face froze into a rictus and the amusement in his eyes gave place to icy displeasure. “Did he really? Well, it’s as well to know one’s place and keep it, no doubt; but Pocock does happen to be rather an illustrious figure in Calcutta society. He dines often at Government House.” He laughed again but unconvincingly, as though he had had to delve into some narrow, joyless fissure in his thoughts to drag it out. “It’ll be interesting to see what the town makes of the story. I’ve no doubt you’ll feel no inhibitions about putting it around as swiftly as may be.”

  Chapter Five

  On the way home from the MacLean’s dinner party, Whittaker remarked, “I like that young fella Ramsey.”

  Constance agreed. “He’s handsome and he looks like a soldier. It’s sad he’s had to quit the Army.”

  “It wasn’t a question of having to: he made the choice.”

  “Was he really in some kind of disgrace, do you think?” asked Ruth. “That lawyer man was very nasty, wasn’t he?”

  “Worse than you know. When the port was going round, he took advantage of his age and his status as a guest to make an unpardonable suggestion. Not directly to young Ramsey, but there was no doubt of his meaning.”

  “What did he say, Daddy?”

  “That when there was an earlier mutiny in one of the regiments in the Bombay Army, several officers resigned in fear there might be another, and they’d be murdered. Implying that was why Ramsey quit.”

  “The Bombay Army, Henry? Is that different from the Calcutta Army?”

  “There is no Calcutta Army. Each of the three Presidencies, Bengal, Bombay and Madras, has its own army as part of the East India Company’s Army. Ramsey’s outfit is in the Bengal Army. Those three are what are called sepoy armies: they have British officers and Indian troops, sepoys. There are regular British Army regiments out here as well, with officers and men all British. Ramsey was explaining it all to me over the port.”

  “What is that nice young fellow going to do now?”

  “He’s hoping to find a commercial post.”

  “He’s not going back to England?”

  “He says n
ot. He seems very fond of this country and the folks. I’m glad you liked him, Constance: I’ve invited him to dine with us the day after tomorrow.”

  Ruth gave a little sniff. “I can’t see where there’s anything to be fond of about India. And I do not know why you’re both making such a fuss over Mr. Ramsey.”

  “But you liked him, didn’t you, Ruth?” Constance sounded concerned.

  “Oh, Mama, I have no opinion of him at all. Truth to tell, I’m not exactly enthusiastic about redcoats.”

  “Ruth, that’s silly. The War of Independence was half a century ago. To your father and me it’s only something we heard about from our parents. To you, it’s even more remote: something you learned from a history book.”

  “Well, I don’t see what’s so special about this young man.”

  *

  Whittaker returned from his day’s business meetings, wilted by the heat and humidity. His wife and daughter were on the veranda. Ambushed as well as bushed, he told himself.

  “Daddy, when are we going to go away from here? It’s so boring sitting in the hotel all day: and if we go out, there’s nothing but garbage and smells and flies everywhere. It’s all right for the folks who live in the big houses and entertain each other and never need to go into the city.”

  “We’re all ready to move now, Ruth. I concluded my business arrangements today and I had a talk with the shipping company’s agents about our move up country: ‘the mufassal’, as the old hands call it. And that’s not the only Hindustani word I’ve learned.”

  “Oh, how soon can we start, Papa?”

  “It won’t take more than a day or two. I’m having to make special arrangements.”

  “What special arrangements?” Constance asked.

  “Well, bearing in mind that you two have such a dislike for travel by water...”

  “What has that to do with going up country?”

  “The usual way is by river boat as far as possible.”

  “Oh, no, Daddy!”

  “It’s all right, I’m arranging for us to travel by road. The shipping agents are taking care of it. Fortunately, most of our route follows what pass for highways in this country. But the ordinary vehicles are those carts we see pulled by a pair of oxen... bullocks: only bigger, rather like our Conestoga wagons.”

  “But they are so slow, Henry.”

  “I know, dear. The customary alternative is a camel cart...”

  “A camel cart, Daddy? Why, those animals look so bad-tempered and they have such a bad smell.”

  “It’s all right, Ruth, we aren’t going to travel behind any camel. We’re going to travel the way we’re used to, and the fastest way to go: with good horses to pull the wagons. We’ll have a spare team for each one, hitched on behind. That way, we can switch horses half-way through every day and keep up a good pace.”

  “For each wagon, Henry? Why, how many do we need?”

  “One for you and me to sleep in, Constance, and one for Ruth, with some of the baggage in each. There are places called chultris along the highways, where travellers can spend the night. They are not inns, just somewhere to shelter. We can sleep in the wagons or in tents. We won’t always find it convenient to use a chultri, so we must be prepared to camp anywhere.”

  “Like on the prairies,” Ruth remarked. She sighed at the memory.

  “Exactly. And we’ll need one more cart for the kitchen and camping gear and the servants. And the Munshi, the language teacher.”

  Constance raised her eyebrows. “The servants? The language teacher? Do tell, Henry. I can’t wait to hear.” She did not sound encouraging.

  “Well, there is the bearer, Husain Ahmed. He’s a Mahommedan and an old soldier of the Bengal Army...”

  “We need a soldier? And why do the British use that word `bearer’? It sounds so silly.”

  “It’s just the word they have for it, Constance. Maybe they originally carried messages... bore messages... I don’t know.”

  “India is beginning to bore me.”

  “Now, Constance...”

  “If he’s a soldier, what kind of servant is that?”

  “He was orderly to a British officer. He knows how to look after...”

  “To look after men. Did he ever have to work for a lady?”

  “His officer was married. Husain Ahmed worked around the house. And he knows how to use a gun.”

  “We need protection?”

  “Look, there should not be any trouble on the road, but some extra protection could be useful.”

  “With three guns already? Has this bearer ever shot a running buffalo at a hundred yards? Or dropped an Injun? Or a galloping deer?”

  “Now, Constance, I am aware that you and Ruth are regular sharp-shooters and as good with a gun as I am... almost! But this is a good man I’m talking about...”

  “I wonder if he has deformed or sold any unwanted daughters lately,” Ruth murmured.

  “Now, Ruth! Husain Ahmed will look after our interests: make sure we pay the right prices and don’t get involved with any undesirable people. He’s a useful guy. What is more, he has picked up a bit of English. He can pass on orders to the wagon drivers and the cook.”

  “What cook?” Constance bristled. “What wagon drivers?”

  “We need men to drive the wagons while we ride, dear. I’m going to choose us three fine riding horses.”

  “Oh, Daddy, that is the only good news I’ve had since we left home.”

  Constance was mollified. “Well, that is something to look forward to. Much preferable to bumping and rattling along in one of those old carts. But what is this about a cook?”

  “Everybody has a cook in this country, dear.”

  “Not this family. In this family we eat what I cook. Or Ruth.”

  “I seem to remember you weren’t quite so insistent on that back home in Worcester or Boston. Don’t I recall a certain Martha and a Beatrice in our kitchen?”

  “You know very well what I mean, Henry Whittaker. A cook in a civilised home is one matter, cooking on the trail is different. When, in three years out West, did we ever employ a cook? Tell me that.”

  “It is a matter of custom and... and position... prestige, out here. The two partners at the shipping agency explained it to me: both of them regular English gentlemen... well, one was Irish, actually...”

  “I see. So the British make the rules and we tamely abide by them. Even if it means being poisoned by some unwashed heathen.”

  “Now, Constance, of course I took a good look at the guy first. He’s as clean as...”

  “Don’t you dare say as clean as I am...”

  Whittaker laughed and kissed her cheek. “Well, damn it, he is, Constance. The senior partner there personally vouched for him.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s an Army cook.”

  “Don’t be like that, dear. He’s been working for some friends of this shipping agent guy’s; a British family who have returned home. He’s a Hindu, name of Bishen.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose he knows some English then.”

  “Well, maybe a few words. But it was explained to me that it is not done to talk English to servants. It loses their respect. A servant speaking English... in fact any Indian speaking English... to a white man is being insolent.”

  Constance grinned. “They would sure approve of that on Beacon Hill. So now tell us about the language teacher.”

  “I think it is important we all get to know Hindustani as quickly as possible: I to do business, you and Ruth to be able to give orders to the servants...”

  “My! Orders, now. Aren’t we grand! I don’t recall giving orders much back home. I can’t see Martha or Beatrice or Hannah taking kindly to anything stronger than a firm indication...”

  “Yes, Constance.” He was losing patience. “The Munshi’s name is Mukerji and he’s another Hindu.”

  “Can he handle a gun too, Papa?” Ruth’s eyes twinkled.

  Her father tweaked her cheek. “Now don’t you start, Miss. You
just attend to your lessons and you will be talking Hindustani by the time we get to Nekshahr. We all shall, I trust.”

  “So the wagon train is almost ready to roll?” Ruth winked at her mother.

  Constance gave her husband a smile in which there was as much teasing as affection. “Yep, pardner, sure seems that way. Come sun-up we hit the trail for... for the Mufassal.”

  Whittaker burst out laughing. “Not sun-up tomorrow, but maybe in two or three days’ time.”

  *

  Ramsey had been looking forward to seeing the Whittakers. They were the first Americans he had ever met; and, he told himself, probably the only ones he would ever meet. He found them stimulating. Henry Whittaker had great dignity but a friendly informality went with it, of a kind he had never encountered. He had quickly learned to recognise toughness in a man and he saw it in Whittaker, but there was also much kindness there. He wondered what had brought the Whittaker family to India: he had not thought it polite to ask.

  As for Mrs. Whittaker and the daughter, if they stayed long enough in Calcutta to be taken up by local society, they would both have every man in the place at their feet. It was not only their beauty but also their unusual lack of affectation and the frankness, energy and freshness they exuded without being hoydens, which was so attractive. The girl had, however, surprised him by her defensiveness.

  He found her no more enthusiastic when he met her for the second time, but her parents compensated for her reserve.

  Whittaker began by asking him how long he had served in India, and Ramsey gave a summary of his family’s association with the country.

  “I am impressed,” Whittaker said. “You should find no difficulty in obtaining highly lucrative employment. Have you any ideas about what you would like to do?”

  “My ideas have been limited to finding something urgently: before my small resources run out.”

  “I hope you are concealing that from potential employers; otherwise it is an open invitation to take advantage of you.”