by Talbot Mundy
As Yussuf bin Ali said over the camp-fire up the Khyber later on, “When she sets out to disguise herself, she is what she will be, and he who says he thinks otherwise has two tongues and no conscience!”
What is surely true is that the four of them — Yasmini, the general, Courtenay and King sat up all night in a room in the fort, talking together, while a succession of sentries overstrained their ears endeavoring to hear through keyholes. And the sentries heard nothing and invented very much.
But Partan Singh, the Sikh, who carried in bread and cocoa to them at about five the next morning and found them still talking, heard King say, “So, in my opinion, sir, there’ll be no jihad in these parts. There’ll be sporadic raids, of course, but nothing a brigade can’t deal with. The heart of the holy war’s torn out and thrown away.”
“Very well,” said the general. “You can get up the Khyber again and join your regiment.”’
But by that time the Rangar’s turban was on again and the tears were dry, and it was Partan Singh who threw most doubt on the sentry’s tale about the golden hair. But, as the sentry said, no doubt Partan Singh was jealous.
There is no doubt whatever that the general went back to Peshawur in the train at eight o’clock and that the Rangar went with him in a separate compartment with about a dozen Hillmen chosen from among those who had come down with King.
And it is certain that before they went King had a talk with the Rangar in a room alone, of which conversation, however, the sentry reported afterward that he did not overhear one word; and he had to go to the doctor with a cold in his ear at that. He said he was nearly sure he heard weeping. But on the other hand, those who saw both of them come out were certain that both were smiling.
It is quite certain that Athelstan King went up the Khyber again, for the official records say so, and they never lie, especially in time of war. He rode a coal-black mare, and Courtenay called him “Chikki” — a “lifter.”
Some say the Rangar went to Delhi. Some say Yasmini is in Delhi. Some say no. But it is quite certain that before he started up the Khyber King showed Courtenay a great gold bracelet that he had under his sleeve. Five men saw him do it.
And if that was really Rewa Gunga in the general’s train, why was the general so painfully polite to him? And why did Ismail insist on riding in the train, instead of accepting King’s offer to go up the Khyber with him?
One thing is very certain. King was right about the jihad. There has been none in spite of all Turkey’s and Germany’s efforts. There have been sporadic raids, much as usual, but nothing one brigade could not easily deal with, the paid press to the contrary notwithstanding.
King of the Khyber Rifles is now a major, for you can see that by turning up the army list.
But if you wish to know just what transpired in the room in Jamrud Fort while the general and Courtenay waited, you must ask King — if you dare; for only he knows, and one other. It is not likely you can find the other.
But it is likely that you may hear from both of them again, for “A woman and intrigue are one!” as India says. The war seems long, and the world is large, and the chances for intrigue are almost infinite, given such combination as King and Yasmini and a love affair.
And as King says on occasion: “Kuch dar nahin hai! There is no such thing as fear!” Another one might say, “The roof’s the limit!”
And bear in mind, for this is important: King wrote to Yasmini a letter, in Urdu from the mullah’s cave, in which he as good as gave her his word of honor to be her “loyal servant” should she choose to return to her allegiance. He is no splitter of hairs, no quibbler. His word is good on the darkest night or wherever he casts a shadow in the sun.
“A man and his promise — a woman and intrigue — are one!”
THE END
HIRA SINGH’S TALE
OR, WHEN INDIA CAME TO FIGHT IN FLANDERS
Originally published under the title of Hira Singh’s Tale as a four-part serial in Adventure Magazine at the end of 1917, this novel was published in book form in 1918 in Britain by Cassell and in America by Bobbs-Merrill. In this story we are reunited with Ranjoor Singh, a key character in Mundy’s novel The Winds of the World, written two years previously; this tale begins where the previous novel finishes, which in modern publishing parlance makes Hira Singh a sequel. Once again, Mundy takes the viewpoint of the Indian characters and gives it a central voice in the narrative and although this may have surprised some of its key Anglo-American readership, it would also have offered interesting insights for a public hungry for stories about the war.
Hira Singh is a wounded soldier and a comrade of Ranjoor Singh, who had returned to the Western front. The narrator, an Indian journalist, speaks briefly to Ranjoor, who tells him to get the full story from Hira, so the journalist stays with the injured man, fetching water for him and sharing his food with him. In return, the narrator is privileged to listen to the story Hira has to tell.
Ranjoor Singh and his Sikh comrades in the squadron Outram’s Own are deployed to Flanders to fight in the Great War. This fulfils the prophecy of the beautiful Yasmini in the previous story that Ranjoor “shall run away to fight men you never quarrelled with”. The Sikh soldiers are taken into the conflict in the command of two white British officers (Colonel Kirby and Captain Fellowes) who are soon killed in action, although the first battle they are involved in brings them victory. The Sikh soldiers must now be self reliant. Loyal as ever, Ranjoor must still battle the suspicions of his countrymen, a legacy of the undercover work he did in the previous story; but worse is to come. 253 of the Sikhs are captured when they encroach upon German territory and are too far away from the allied forces to be saved – they spend the middle part of 1915 in a prisoner of war camp. The Germans send the Sikhs to Turkey, hoping to gain propaganda benefits from doing so, but the Sikhs have other ideas. Can they get close enough to the fighting in Gallipoli to return to the allied side and resume their patriotic mission? There are many battles and challenges to face if they are to achieve their aim.
This story is told with commendable restraint by Mundy when it comes to dialect; many authors of his generation rendered their stories almost unreadable with what seems now laughable exaggerations. Mundy has tried his best here to indicate linguistic differences without belittling them. One should also not underestimate the courage of Mundy in telling the story through Indian eyes and perceptions and he knew he was taking a risk. In a letter to his publisher, he wrote that, “It breaks all the rules for success: there isn’t a woman in it, it is told from the first person singular by a colored (sic) man.” Taking risks such as this, along with Mundy’s reputation for creating strong female characters that could hold their own in any situation, makes Mundy an author worthy of reading today. The only weak character is the sole European, a German named Fritz Tugendheim. He is an amoral character, who puts his own interests before those of his own countrymen and as such he is a contrast to the noble Sikhs that value honour and courage above all else.
The first edition’s frontispiece
CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
PREFACE
I take leave to dedicate this book to Mr. Elmer Davis, through whose friendly offices I was led to track down the hero of these adventures and to find the true account of them even better than the daily paper promised.
Had Ranjoor Singh and his men been Muhammadans their accomplishment would have been sufficiently wonderful. For Sikhs to attempt what they carried through, even under such splendid leadership as Ranjoor Singh’s, was to defy the very nth degree of odds. To have tried to tell the tale otherwise than in Hira Singh’s own words would have been to varnish gold. Amid the echoes of the roar of the guns in Flanders, the world is inclined to overlook India’s share in it all and the
stout proud loyalty of Indian hearts. May this tribute to the gallant Indian gentlemen who came to fight our battles serve to remind its readers that they who give their best, and they who take, are one.
T. M.
One hundred Indian troops of the
British Army have arrived at Kabul,
Afghanistan, after a four months’
march from Constantinople. The men
were captured in Flanders by the
Germans and were sent to Turkey in the
hope that, being Mohammedans, they
might join the Turks. But they
remained loyal to Great Britain and
finally escaped, heading for Afghanistan.
They now intend to join their
regimental depot in India, so it
is reported.
New York Times, July, 1915
CHAPTER I
Let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go straight. Each is his own witness. God is judge. — EASTERN PROVERB.
A Sikh who must have stood about six feet without his turban — and only imagination knows how stately he was with it — loomed out of the violet mist of an Indian morning and scrutinized me with calm brown eyes. His khaki uniform, like two of the medal ribbons on his breast, was new, but nothing else about him suggested rawness. Attitude, grayness, dignity, the unstudied strength of his politeness, all sang aloud of battles won. Battles with himself they may have been — but they were won.
I began remembering ice-polished rocks that the glaciers once dropped along Maine valleys, when his quiet voice summoned me back to India and the convalescent camp beyond whose outer gate I stood. Two flags on lances formed the gate and the boundary line was mostly imaginary; but one did not trespass, because at about the point where vision no longer pierced the mist there stood a sentry, and the grounding of a butt on gravel and now and then a cough announced others beyond him again.
“I have permission,” I said, “to find a certain Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh, and to ask him questions.”
He smiled. His eyes, betraying nothing but politeness, read the very depths of mine.
“Has the sahib credentials?” he asked. So I showed him the permit covered with signatures that was the one scrap of writing left in my possession after several searchings.
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “There were others who had no permits. Will you walk with me through the camp?”
That was new annoyance, for with such a search as I had in mind what interest could there be in a camp for convalescent Sikhs? Tents pitched at intervals — a hospital marquee — a row of trees under which some of the wounded might sit and dream the day through-these were all things one could imagine without journeying to India. But there was nothing to do but accept, and I walked beside him, wishing I could stride with half his grace.
“There are no well men here,” he told me. “Even the heavy work about the camp is done by convalescents.”
“Then why are you here?” I asked, not trying to conceal admiration for his strength and stature.
“I, too, am not yet quite recovered.”
“From what?” I asked, impudent because I felt desperate. But I drew no fire.
“I do not know the English name for my complaint,” he said. (But he spoke English better than I, he having mastered it, whereas I was only born to its careless use.)
“How long do you expect to remain on the sick list?” I asked, because a woman once told me that the way to make a man talk is to seem to be interested in himself.
“Who knows?” said he.
He showed me about the camp, and we came to a stand at last under the branches of an enormous mango tree. Early though it was, a Sikh non-commissioned officer was already sitting propped against the trunk with his bandaged feet stretched out in front of him — a peculiar attitude for a Sikh.
“That one knows English,” my guide said, nodding. And making me a most profound salaam, he added: “Why not talk with him? I have duties. I must go.”
The officer turned away, and I paid him the courtesy due from one man to another. It shall always be a satisfying memory that I raised my hat to him and that he saluted me.
“What is that officer’s name?” I asked, and the man on the ground seemed astonished that I did not know.
“Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur!” he said.
For a second I was possessed by the notion of running after him, until I recalled that he had known my purpose from the first and that therefore his purpose must have been deliberate. Obviously, I would better pursue the opportunity that in his own way He had given me.
“What is your name?” I asked the man on the ground.
“Hira Singh,” he answered, and at that I sat down beside him. For I had also heard of Hira Singh.
He made quite a fuss at first because, he said, the dusty earth beneath a tree was no place for a sahib. But suddenly he jumped to the conclusion I must be American, and ceased at once to be troubled about my dignity. On the other hand, he grew perceptibly less distant. Not more friendly, perhaps, but less guarded.
“You have talked with Sikhs in California?” he asked, and I nodded.
“Then you have heard lies, sahib. I know the burden of their song. A bad Sikh and a bad Englishman alike resemble rock torn loose. The greater the height from which they fall, the deeper they dive into the mud. Which is the true Sikh, he who marched with us or he who abuses us? Yet I am told that in America men believe what hired Sikhs write for the German papers.
“No man hired me, sahib, although one or two have tried. When I came of age I sought acceptance in the army, and was chosen among many. When my feet are healed I shall return to duty. I am a true Sikh. If the sahib cares to listen, I will tell him truth that has not been written in the papers.”
So, having diagnosed my nationality and need, he proceeded to tell me patiently things that many English are in the dark about, both because of the censorship and because of the prevailing superstition that the English resent being told — he stabbing and sweeping at the dust with a broken twig and making little heaps and dents by way of illustration, — I sitting silent, brushing away the flies.
Day after day I sought him soon after dawn when they were rolling up the tent-flaps. I shared the curry and chapatties that a trooper brought to him at noon, and I fetched water for him to drink from time to time. It was dusk each day before I left him, so that, what with his patience and my diligence, I have been able to set down the story as he told it, nearly in his own words.
But of Risaldar-major Ranjoor Singh bahadur in the flesh, I have not had another glimpse. I went in search of him the very first evening, only to learn that he had “passed his medical” that afternoon and had returned at once to active service.
We Sikhs have a proverb, sahib, that the ruler and the ruled are one. That has many sides to it of which one is this: India having many moods and minds, the British are versatile. Not altogether wise, for who is? When, for instance, did India make an end of wooing foolishness? Since the British rule India, they may wear her flowers, but they drink her dregs. They may bear her honors, but her blame as well. As the head is to the body, the ruler and the ruled are one.
Yet, as I understand it, when this great war came there was disappointment in some quarters and surprise in others because we, who were known not to be contented, did not rise at once in rebellion. To that the answer is faith finds faith. It is the great gift of the British that they set faith in the hearts of other men.
There were dark hours, sahib, before it was made known that there was war. The censorship shut down on us, and there were a thousand rumors for every one known fact. There had come a sudden swarm of Sikhs from abroad, and of other men — all hirelings — who talked much about Germany and a change of masters. There were dark sayings, and arrests by night. Men with whom we talked at dusk had disappeared at dawn. Ranjoor Singh, not yet bahadur but risaldar-major, commanding Squadron D of my regiment, Outram’s Own, became very busy in the bazaars
; and many a night I followed him, not always with his knowledge. I intended to protect him, but I also wished to know what the doings were.
There was a woman. Did the sahib ever hear of a plot that had not a woman in it? He went to the woman’s house. In hiding, I heard her sneer at him. I heard her mock him. I would have doubted him forever if I had heard her praise him, but she did not, and I knew him to be a true man.
Ours is more like the French than the British system; there is more intercourse between officer and non-commissioned officer and man. But Ranjoor Singh is a silent man, and we of his squadron, though we respected him, knew little of what was in his mind. When there began to be talk about his knowing German, and about his secrecy, and about his nights spent at HER place, who could answer? We all knew he knew German.
There were printed pamphlets from God-knows-where, and letters from America, that made pretense at explanations; and there were spies who whispered. My voice, saying I had listened and seen and that I trusted, was as a quail’s note when the monsoon bursts. None heard. So that in the end I held my tongue. I even began to doubt.
Then a trooper of ours was murdered in the bazaar, and Ranjoor Singh’s servant disappeared. Within an hour Ranjoor Singh was gone, too.
Then came news of war. Then our officers came among us to ask whether we are willing or not to take a hand in this great quarrel. Perhaps in that hour if they had not asked us we might have judged that we and they were not one after all.
But they did ask, and let a man, an arrow, and an answer each go straight, say we. Our Guru tells us Sikhs should fight ever on the side of the oppressed; the weaker the oppressed, the more the reason for our taking part with them. Our officers made no secret about the strength of the enemy, and we made none with them of our feeling in the matter. They were proud men that day. Colonel Kirby was a very proud man. We were prouder than he, except when we thought of Ranjoor Singh.