by John Masters
Slowly the crowd moved on down the street, singing louder than ever. Colonel Savage stood in the middle of the road, alone among trodden garlands and wilting flowers, the smoke of a bonfire drifting past. He raised both arms, palms extended and fingers spread wide and began to chant at the deep, light-flecked clouds over the city: ‘Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us. Let us call down God’s blessing upon Robert Clive, First and Last Baron Clive of Plassey and of the County of something or other. And Warren Hastings, impeached by the mighty British nation for preserving their profits, extending their dominions, and loving India. And Stringer Lawrence and Eyre Coote, those much- underestimated soldiers. And Nicholson, Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence, Hodson, and Edwardes, the Old Firm, the muscular Christian moving men. And Mountstuart Elphinstone, Gent, and innumerable people called Battye and Coldstream, who usually died, without public comment, in places called Rumblebellypore or Rotimakkanganj. And William Hickey, and Mr Justice Elijah Impey, and the great Elihu Yale, sometime chief despot of Madras. And Bobs Bahadur too, let us not forget him, O Lord, in spite of his well-known weakness in matters of administration.’
He stopped suddenly and staggered towards her. ‘You were frightened,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’ll never make a memsahib. You will be terribly polite, and afraid, and, and-hating them. I. . . I’m rude, and I’m not afraid, and ... I love them. But it’s time to go. That’s the whole sad sad story. Time to go. But I’m not going. Never. See?’
He stood and examined her thoroughly. ‘You’re a good-looking woman, wonderful body. Would you care to take your clothes off? Take ‘em off, and we’ll make love in the street, here. Only proper thing to do, today.’
He put out his hand. She gathered her stunned wits and began to run. After a few seconds, realising no one was following, she looked over her shoulder. The colonel lay alone on his face at the edge of the road, under the street lamp. For a time she hesitated, watching and waiting, then she turned again and hurried to the hotel. . .
It was stifling in the chapel now. She got up slowly, and found her knees stiff". She walked out into the leaden glare of day. Time to go - but, like him, she would not go. She crossed the road and entered the low hut that was the mission hospital’s only ward.
Chapter 2
Major-general Ran Singh Dadhwal, known throughout the Indian Army as ‘Max’, spread his big hands on the table and looked up. ‘Achcha, so what do you propose to do now, Ranjit?’
The man opposite him, across the table, Mr Ranjit Singh, Indian Civil Service, was the Deputy Commissioner of the district. He was about thirty-six years of age, and wore a smart suntan suit with a white shirt and British cricket club tie - the Free Foresters, the general noted. The Deputy Commissioner was a Sikh, and today his long hair was bound up in a puggaree of dazzling pink. A polished steel bangle showed on his right wrist under the sleeve of his coat.
‘I think we will have to be quite firm,’ Ranjit Singh said. ‘If we don’t nip it in the bud now we will have worse trouble later.’
The general nodded. That’s what he had expected to hear. Sikhs usually liked to be tough on everyone’s foibles except their own. Also, there was the I.C.S. tradition. Eight hundred Englishmen hadn’t ruled four hundred million Indians by forming committees. They’d gone out and done something, in person, at once. All Indians joining the I.C.S. had learned the lesson.
The general said, ‘I can send a battalion down to manoeuvre in the area while you go in and haul out the ringleaders . . . but I presume you’ll speak to the Governor before that. I mean, about what action is to be taken if they won’t come. I don’t want my chaps to drift into a battle. I want to know what the policy is before we go in. Otherwise, you’ll have to do it with the police alone.’
The light changed and the two Indians glanced up. An Englishman stood in the open double doors, smiling. The general leaped to his feet. ‘Rodney! What are you doing here?’ He pumped the newcomer’s arm. ‘My God, it’s funny seeing you in mufti again.
Just like before the war! Have you made your lakh yet, or is it a crore by now?’
The Englishman grinned and slapped the general’s back. ‘I am in this area because McFadden Pulley have sent me to study their cement operations. I’m in this dak bungalow because there was gossip that the Courageous General Sahib and the August Collector Sahib - they still use the old titles here, don’t they? - were meeting to discuss yesterday’s incident at Bhilghat.’ He turned to the Sikh. ‘You’re the D.C.? I’m Rodney Savage.’
‘Ranjit Singh,’ the D.C. said, smiling.
‘How’s the policeman who ...?’
‘Died this morning, in Bhowani hospital,’ the D.C. said.
‘Poor bastards,’ Rodney said. ‘They must be desperate.’
The general smiled at the remark. Rodney’s instinctive reaction was for the Gonds, who had committed the outrage, rather than for the forces of law and order. Yet he had enforced the law often enough, as ruthlessly as he had fought the Japanese.
Rodney turned to him. ‘I’m interrupting a conference - and that’s what I meant to do. Look - if there isn’t anything secret or high policy about this, can I help? I know Bhilghat pretty well. I was there before the war, and again once or twice in ‘46. And I’ve got a sort of family connection with the Gonds there. You don’t have to listen to me .. . any more ...’ he grinned, ‘but it’s just possible that I might say something helpful.’
The general looked at the D.C. This was a civilian party, so far, and he’d have to abide by Ranjit Singh’s decision. The I.C.S. didn’t take kindly to advice from soldiers at the best of times, and now, with independence so recent, and Rodney an Englishman...
To his surprise the D.C. said, after only a small hesitation, ‘Please do. Why don’t you sit down?’
They all sat. Rodney said, ‘In case it leaks out to your superiors that I was at this conference, I was just expressing McFadden Pulley’s anxiety over the possible effects on our quarrying operations.’
‘The story’s simple enough,’ the D.C. said. ‘About a month ago the provincial government, in accordance with the policy of the Government of India, abolished the post of special assistant commissioner for Bhilghat - ‘
‘The best young man’s job in the I.C.S.,’ Rodney murmured.
‘Yes, but against national policy,’ the D.C. said, smiling a little thinly. ‘The Gonds have always been treated as a separate people, as savages. Their isolation from the rest of India, and other Indians, has been preserved and even reinforced. We cannot accept that. All Indians are - Indians. Bhilghat lies geographically in my district, Bijoli, and it has now been included in it. The Special Assistant Commissioner, who used to be responsible to the Governor direct, is now merely my own assistant. They gave me a new man … ‘
The general glanced at Rodney, expecting a groan or a sign of dismay; those were his own reactions at the time when the decision had been made. But Rodney showed nothing. The D.C. must also have expected disapproval, for he added quickly, ‘We had to. The man there, though he was an Indian, had identified himself too closely with the Gonds ... Yesterday the new man went down to discuss the building and staffing of a school for the Gonds. They opened fire on him, wounded him - he’s still in hospital - and one of his police escort, the man who died.’
Rodney said, ‘And you’re planning to go back with more police, or some of Max’s men in the background?’
‘I am going to get hold of the headman and the elders, and I’m going to discuss schools,’ the D.C. said. ‘I don’t propose to make much fuss about the affair yesterday, if they co-operate now. If they don’t - then ...’ He shrugged.
Max watched his friend drumming his fingers on the table. He hoped he would come out with some idea that would save the Gonds from further trouble. They were a race of aborigines, living widely scattered over these Vindhya hills of Central India and completely out of touch with the modern world. They were not a relic of medieval times, nor yet of India’s Golden A
ge, but of prehistory. They were pathetic and yet likeable. He wished that their individualism could somehow be preserved . . . but the new policy was right. A new India, a single India, conscious of its oneness, had to be created somehow, and fast.
Rodney said, ‘Will you let me go down there alone, to talk to the headman?’ The D.C. started to speak but Rodney raised his hand. ‘Not as an official emissary. Suppose I had heard nothing of yesterday’s affair and just happened to be driving down that way.
I don’t think I’ll be in any danger. I wouldn’t go if I thought that. My hero days are over.’ He smiled again, the wide grin that looked out of place under the cold blue eyes. That grin had always made Max smile, too, and he smiled now.
The D.C. said gently, ‘I appreciate your offer, Savage - but I’m afraid I can’t permit that. After all, I’m trying to make the Gonds realise that there’s a new government of India - and that they’re a part of it.’
Rodney said, ‘Then why don’t you and Max come with me?’
‘We will increase the danger of a clash,’ Max said.
The D.C. grimaced. ‘We will, damn it, though it’s an annoying thing to have to admit. And if they shoot me or the general, I’m afraid they will be in real trouble. I had thought of going down alone, of course, and decided it was not fair to them. After all, if they are willing to shoot at Parsad, how much more at me?’
‘And to bore holes in a Thrice-Born of the I.C.S. is a heinous crime, indeed,’ Rodney said with a straight face. The D.C. looked at him suspiciously, and then laughed.
Rodney said, ‘Look, I have no position. But I do know these people. I think I can guarantee there won’t be any trouble. If we fail, we’ll fail without bloodshed. I believe it’s worth trying.’
The D.C. made up his mind quickly. ‘All right. When can you start?’
‘Quarter of an hour,’ Rodney said. ‘I suggest we go in my company’s jeep - we three, and Ratanbir. He’s my orderly -I mean my chauffeur. Lately Havildar Ratanbir Burathoki, I.D.S.M., of the 1/13th Gurkha Rifles.’
The general sat up. ‘Ratanbir? Is that the fellow who killed two Japanese officers with his kukri the night we--?’
The D.C. interrupted, smiling. ‘We had better get ready .. ‘
‘Sorry,’ the general said, ‘Rodney and I haven’t met for a long time. We’ll have a good gup when we come back, eh? You must come and stay with us in Bhowani. Well, we can discuss that on the trip. Oh, and Janaki’s coming out...’
But Rodney had gone, with a wave of the hand, and the D.C. was on his feet. ‘An old army friend of yours? He’s the man who got K. P. Roy, isn’t he?’
The general said, ‘Yes. He’s more than a friend. He saved my career once.’
‘Yours?’ the D.C. said incredulously. ‘I’ve never heard that you were the sort of chap to get into trouble.’
The general hesitated; but it was important to let the D.C. know what sort of man Rodney Savage was. He said, ‘It was in Peshawar, not long after he’d joined - I had seven or eight years’ service by then. We were an Indianised battalion, of course, and the fellow next junior to me got into moneylender trouble. He asked me to lend him two thousand chips out of the Treasure Chest or there’d be a stink, a court-martial... The stink would have been about a dishonest Indian. I felt it my duty to our reputation - there weren’t so many of us in the service then - to help him. He put the lot on the horses, lost it, and disappeared. Then it was me who was in danger of a court-martial, and cashiering ... one Indian instead of another. I told Janaki. She must have told Rodney, though I specially ordered her not to say anything -I had to face the music myself. Next day he came to the bungalow and gave me two thousand rupees.’
‘Did he say where he got it?’
‘No ... I’ve always believed he stole it, but he never said a word, or I couldn’t have taken it. It was bad enough anyway - but thinking of Janaki, what would happen to us, made me desperate.’
‘A good friend, but a pretty ruthless character,’ the D.C. murmured.
The general said, ‘Yes, I suppose you’d have to say that... We kept on running into each other after that, on the Frontier. Then we commanded battalions in the same brigade in Burma. He was a hell of a good soldier.’
‘Old India family?’
The general nodded. ‘Yes. Very old.’
The D.C. said, ‘Poor devils. They can’t let go, even if they want to. Still, they had a long innings, and a good one, from their point of view ... I’ll be ready in a minute.’
The general picked up his red-banded hat and put it carefully on his head. He must tell his orderly and driver they were to stay here. Janaki was due later this afternoon to see how her Sabora Cottage Industry Co-operative was coming along. And, my God, he’d nearly forgotten - Sumitra was coming too. Not to look at Cottage Industries - out of boredom, more likely, and to preach birth control to giggling, nervous village women. Have to tell the chowkidar to get her room ready . . . Funny, Rodney turning up out of the blue. You couldn’t agree with Rodney all the time about India. No Indian could. But you knew he loved India. You could fight happily with him. He sighed and went to his room to fill his tobacco pouch.
He and the D.C. were waiting on the veranda when a jeep drove up fast from the direction of the little town down the road. Rodney sat in the front seat beside a short Gurkha wearing khaki trousers, a white shirt, and a small round black cap. As the jeep stopped, Rodney swung easily into the back seat. ‘Will you sit in front, Ranjit? Then they’ll hit you first. Max and I will cower in the back. Thirty-two miles to Bhilghat - about an hour and a half on this road.’
They drove off. Max found his feet awkwardly placed on top of a large sack, that clinked as the jeep bounced along the rutted, muddy road, little more than a cart track. He cocked his head inquisitively, and the D.C. turned round in his seat.
Rodney Savage said, ‘Rum. It helps.’
The jeep bumped on, often in four-wheeled drive and low gear in the deep reddish mud. The general fumbled for his pipe and began to fill it with his favourite mixture, a Benson and Hedges Special, which he ordered direct from London. Won’t be getting this much longer, he thought, after the Prime Minister’s warning that India must cut down imports.
The road wound up a low rise in short, steep zigzags, the outer edge marked by mud-splashed white stones. Momentarily from the top a long view spread out to the south, the foreground and middle distance all green under the jungle, the background dim blue, the whole filmed with a thin haze that reduced all dimensions to one, like a coat of paint on the surface. For a second the land seemed almost featureless, but, quickly, as the jeep’s nose dipped down the far slope, he saw scattered cliffs, which marked the edge of gorges, and lines of rock on far escarpments, and the flash of water in a lake. Heavy white cloud formations sailing over from the southwest covered half the sky. Then they were grinding down in low gear, and he was looking under the ranked trees, where the wet leaves lay thick on the short grass, and there was a flock of goats and a young girl standing guard over them in the shade of a sal tree.
Something about his companion’s attitude attracted his attention and he turned his head. Rodney Savage sat hunched forward, staring past Ratanbir’s head at the landscape - no, not at it, but through and beyond it. His lips were slightly open and his whole being seemed to be projected forward - out of the bumping vehicle into the patterned sunlight and shadow of the jungle. He began to speak. ‘Remember the mahua berries in July?’ Max opened his mouth, then closed it. His friend was not speaking to him, nor to any of them.
‘... They lie sticky and white under the trees everywhere in the jungle. The rain seems to fall directly through the trees then, because the monsoon has made the leaves heavy with all the water they can bear. The raindrops glisten on the berries. If you’re near a village you see men and women and children gathering them, like ants ... bent down, the baskets beside them, gathering up the berries and dropping them into the baskets. And someone has always started to boil them in t
he village, so if you’re coming upwind you can smell the sweet, fermenting smell from two miles away … ‘
He stopped, and when he spoke again it was in a different voice: ‘What did that missionary in Lapri die of, Ranjit?’
‘Dr Wood? Cancer. Did you know him?’
‘No. I’d heard of them, of course. They are on M.P.’s books as worthy objects of our charity - and to leaven our profits with a little godliness.’
‘It looks good on the balance sheets,’ the D.C. said dryly. ‘And, of course, the Raj had to stick together.’
Rodney laughed. ‘What was he like - Wood?’
‘A good man,’ the D.C. said slowly. ‘He’d been in India a long time but somehow never came to terms with it. He always looked a little surprised and horrified - at the heat, the dirt, the things his patients and the villagers did or didn’t do. He was alone there for years, and then near the end of the war he went back to England and married the most competent nurse in the hospital where he’d been trained himself, years before. She’s a good deal younger than he is - was. Northern Irish. Her name was Donoghue. A good-looking woman - good figure, auburn hair, and one of those skins that go with it, creamy and almost transparent but healthy.’
‘I know,’ Rodney said. ‘I met her yesterday by accident. She’d been wandering round the jungles all day, in a daze. It must have been a blow.’
The D.C. said, ‘I suppose she loved him. She certainly acted like it, and there must have been something, to bring her out here. But, you know, it wasn’t what I’d call love. Perhaps it was religious fervour, or faith, or--’
‘I met her once,’ Max interposed. ‘She’s like an Indian woman, that’s all. She married this man, and accepted him and his life and tried to make it her all. How well she succeeded’ - he shrugged - ‘no one can know. Perhaps she needed more time, and now he’s gone.’
‘The poor devil was ill the whole time since he came back last year,’ the D.C. said.
‘She must be absolutely lost,’ Max said. ‘And, hey, Rodney, that reminds me - congratulations on your engagement. When’s the wedding?’