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Soldiers Three

R >> Rudyard Kipling >> Soldiers Three




For reasons which will appear, I never went to the Fort while Khem
Singh was then within its walls. I knew him only as a gray head seen
from Lalun's window--a gray head and a harsh voice. But natives told
me that, day by day, as he looked upon the fair lands round Amara, his
memory came back to him and, with it, the old hatred against the
Government that had been nearly effaced in far-off Burma. So he raged
up and down the West face of the Fort from morning till noon and from
evening till the night, devising vain things in his heart, and croaking
war-songs when Lalun sang on the City wall. As he grew more acquainted
with the Subaltern he unburdened his old heart of some of the passions
that had withered it. 'Sahib,' he used to say, tapping his stick against
the parapet, 'when I was a young man I was one of twenty thousand
horsemen who came out of the City and rode round the plain here. Sahib,
I was the leader of a hundred, then of a thousand, then of five
thousand, and now!'--he pointed to his two servants. 'But from the
beginning to to-day I would cut the throats of all the Sahibs in the
land if I could. Hold me fast, Sahib, lest I get away and return to
those who would follow me. I forgot them when I was in Burma, but now
that I am in my own country again, I remember everything.'

'Do you remember that you have given me your Honour not to make your
tendance a hard matter?' said the Subaltern.

'Yes, to you, only to you, Sahib,' said Khem Singh. 'To you because
you are of a pleasant countenance. If my turn comes again, Sahib, I
will not hang you nor cut your throat.'

'Thank you,' said the Subaltern gravely, as he looked along the line
of guns that could pound the City to powder in half an hour. 'Let us
go into our own quarters, Khem Singh. Come and talk with me after
dinner.'

Khem Singh would sit on his own cushion at the Subaltern's feet,
drinking heavy, scented anise-seed brandy in great gulps, and telling
strange stories of Fort Amara, which had been a palace in the old days,
of Begums and Ranees tortured to death--aye, in the very vaulted chamber
that now served as a Mess-room; would tell stories of Sobraon that
made the Subaltern's cheeks flush and tingle with pride of race, and
of the Kuka rising from which so much was expected and the foreknowledge
of which was shared by a hundred thousand souls. But he never told
tales of '57 because, as he said, he was the Subaltern's guest, and
'57 is a year that no man, Black or White, cares to speak of. Once
only, when the anise-seed brandy had slightly affected his head, he
said: 'Sahib, speaking now of a matter which lay between Sobraon and
the affair of the Kukas, it was ever a wonder to us that you stayed
your hand at all, and that, having stayed it, you did not make the
land one prison. Now I hear from without that you do great honour to
all men of our country and by your own hands are destroying the Terror
of your Name which is your strong rock and defence. This is a foolish
thing. Will oil and water mix? Now in '57--'

'I was not born then, Subadar Sahib,' said the Subaltern, and Khem
Singh reeled to his quarters.

The Subaltern would tell me of these conversations at the Club, and
my desire to see Khem Singh increased. But Wali Dad, sitting in the
window-seat of the house on the City wall, said that it would be a
cruel thing to do, and Lalun pretended that I preferred the society
of a grizzled old Sikh to hers.

'Here is tobacco, here is talk, here are many friends and all the news
of the City, and, above all, here is myself. I will tell you stories
and sing you songs, and Wali Dad will talk his English nonsense in
your ears. Is that worse than watching the caged animal yonder? Go
to-morrow, then, if you must, but to-day such and such an one will be
here, and he will speak of wonderful things.'

It happened that To-morrow never came, and the warm heat of the latter
Rains gave place to the chill of early October almost before I was
aware of the flight of the year. The Captain commanding the Fort
returned from leave and took over charge of Khem Singh according to
the laws of seniority. The Captain was not a nice man. He called all
natives 'niggers,' which, besides being extreme bad form, shows gross
ignorance.

'What's the use of telling off two Tommies to watch that old nigger?'
said he.

'I fancy it soothes his vanity,' said the Subaltern. 'The men are
ordered to keep well out of his way, but he takes them as a tribute
to his importance, poor old wretch.'

'I won't have Line men taken off regular guards in this way. Put on
a couple of Native Infantry.'

'Sikhs?' said the Subaltern, lifting his eyebrows.

'Sikhs, Pathans, Dogras--they're all alike, these black vermin,' and
the Captain talked to Khem Singh in a manner which hurt that old
gentleman's feelings. Fifteen years before, when he had been caught
for the second time, every one looked upon him as a sort of tiger. He
liked being regarded in this light. But he forgot that the world goes
forward in fifteen years, and many Subalterns are promoted to
Captaincies.

'The Captain-pig is in charge of the Fort?' said Khem Singh to his
native guard every morning. And the native guard said: 'Yes, Subadar
Sahib,' in deference to his age and his air of distinction; but they
did not know who he was.

In those days the gathering in Lalun's little white room was always
large and talked more than before.

'The Greeks,' said Wali Dad who had been borrowing my books, 'the
inhabitants of the city of Athens, where they were always hearing and
telling some new thing, rigorously secluded their women--who were
fools. Hence the glorious institution of the heterodox women--is it
not?--who were amusing and _not_ fools. All the Greek philosophers
delighted in their company. Tell me, my friend, how it goes now in
Greece and the other places upon the Continent of Europe. Are your
women-folk also fools?'

'Wali Dad,' I said, 'you never speak to us about your women-folk and
we never speak about ours to you. That is the bar between us.'

'Yes,' said Wali Dad, 'it is curious to think that our common
meeting-place should be here, in the house of a common--how do you
call _her_?' He pointed with the pipe-mouth to Lalun.

'Lalun is nothing but Lalun,' I said, and that was perfectly true.
'But if you took your place in the world, Wali Dad, and gave up dreaming
dreams--'

'I might wear an English coat and trouser. I might be a leading
Muhammadan pleader. I might be received even at the Commissioner's
tennis-parties where the English stand on one side and the natives on
the other, in order to promote social intercourse throughout the Empire.
Heart's Heart,' said he to Lalun quickly,'the Sahib says that I ought
to quit you.'

'The Sahib is always talking stupid talk,' returned Lalun with a laugh.
'In this house I am a Queen and thou art a King. The Sahib'--she put
her arms above her head and thought for a moment--'the Sahib shall be
our Vizier--thine and mine, Wali Dad--because he has said that thou
shouldst leave me.'

Wali Dad laughed immoderately, and I laughed too. 'Be it so,' said he.
'My friend, are you willing to take this lucrative Government
appointment? Lalun, what shall his pay be?'

But Lalun began to sing, and for the rest of the time there was no
hope of getting a sensible answer from her or Wali Dad. When the one
stopped, the other began to quote Persian poetry with a triple pun in
every other line. Some of it was not strictly proper, but it was all
very funny, and it only came to an end when a fat person in black,
with gold _pince-nez_, sent up his name to Lalun, and Wali Dad dragged
me into the twinkling night to walk in a big rose-garden and talk
heresies about Religion and Governments and a man's career in life.

The Mohurrum, the great mourning-festival of the Muhammadans, was close
at hand, and the things that Wali Dad said about religious fanaticism
would have secured his expulsion from the loosest-thinking Muslim sect.
There were the rose-bushes round us, the stars above us, and from every
quarter of the City came the boom of the big Mohurrum drums. You must
know that the City is divided in fairly equal proportions between the
Hindus and the Musalmans, and where both creeds belong to the fighting
races, a big religious festival gives ample chance for trouble. When
they can--that is to say when the authorities are weak enough to allow
it--the Hindus do their best to arrange some minor feast-day of their
own in time to clash with the period of general mourning for the martyrs
Hasan and Hussain, the heroes of the Mohurrum. Gilt and painted paper
presentations of their tombs are borne with shouting and wailing,
music, torches, and yells, through the principal thoroughfares of the
City, which fakements are called _tazias_. Their passage is rigorously
laid down beforehand by the Police, and detachments of Police accompany
each _tazia_, lest the Hindus should throw bricks at it and the peace
of the Queen and the heads of Her loyal subjects should thereby be
broken. Mohurrum time in a 'fighting' town means anxiety to all the
officials, because, if a riot breaks out, the officials and not the
rioters are held responsible. The former must foresee everything, and
while not making their precautions ridiculously elaborate, must see
that they are at least adequate.

'Listen to the drums!' said Wali Dad. 'That is the heart of the
people--empty and making much noise. How, think you, will the Mohurrum
go this year? _I_ think that there will be trouble.'

He turned down a side-street and left me alone with the stars and a
sleepy Police patrol. Then I went to bed and dreamed that Wali Dad had
sacked the City and I was made Vizier, with Lalun's silver _huqa_ for
mark of office.

All day the Mohurrum drums beat in the City, and all day deputations
of tearful Hindu gentlemen besieged the Deputy Commissioner with
assurances that they would be murdered ere next dawning by the
Muhammadans. 'Which,' said the Deputy Commissioner, in confidence to
the Head of Police, 'is a pretty fair indication that the Hindus are
going to make 'emselves unpleasant. I think we can arrange a little
surprise for them. I have given the heads of both Creeds fair warning.
If they choose to disregard it, so much the worse for them.'

There was a large gathering in Lalun's house that night, but of men
that I had never seen before, if I except the fat gentleman in black
with the gold _pince-nez_. Wali Dad lay in the window-seat, more
bitterly scornful of his Faith and its manifestations than I had ever
known him. Lalun's maid was very busy cutting up and mixing tobacco
for the guests. We could hear the thunder of the drums as the
processions accompanying each _tazia_ marched to the central
gathering-place in the plain outside the City, preparatory to their
triumphant re-entry and circuit within the walls. All the streets
seemed ablaze with torches, and only Fort Amara was black and silent.

When the noise of the drums ceased, no one in the white room spoke for
a time. 'The first _tazia_ has moved off,' said Wali Dad, looking to
the plain.

'That is very early,' said the man with the _pince-nez_.

'It is only half-past eight.' The company rose and departed.

'Some of them were men from Ladakh,' said Lalun, when the last had
gone. 'They brought me brick-tea such as the Russians sell, and a
tea-urn from Peshawur. Show me, now, how the English _Memsahibs_ make
tea.'

The brick-tea was abominable. When it was finished Wali Dad suggested
going into the streets. 'I am nearly sure that there will be trouble
to-night,' he said. 'All the City thinks so, and _Vox Populi_ is _Vox
Dei_, as the Babus say. Now I tell you that at the corner of the
Padshahi Gate you will find my horse all this night if you want to go
about and to see things. It is a most disgraceful exhibition. Where
is the pleasure of saying "_Ya Hasan, Ya Hussain_," twenty thousand
times in a night?'

All the processions--there were two and twenty of them--were now well
within the City walls. The drums were beating afresh, the crowd were
howling '_Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!_' and beating their breasts, the brass
bands were playing their loudest, and at every corner where space
allowed, Muhammadan preachers were telling the lamentable story of the
death of the Martyrs. It was impossible to move except with the crowd,
for the streets were not more than twenty feet wide. In the Hindu
quarters the shutters of all the shops were up and cross-barred. As
the first _tazia_, a gorgeous erection ten feet high, was borne aloft
on the shoulders of a score of stout men into the semi-darkness of the
Gully of the Horsemen, a brickbat crashed through its talc and tinsel
sides.

'Into thy hands, O Lord?' murmured Wali Dad profanely, as a yell went
up from behind, and a native officer of Police jammed his horse through
the crowd. Another brickbat followed, and the _tazia_ staggered and
swayed where it had stopped.

'Go on! In the name of the _Sirkar_, go forward!' shouted the Policeman;
but there was an ugly cracking and splintering of shutters, and the
crowd halted, with oaths and growlings, before the house whence the
brickbat had been thrown.

Then, without any warning, broke the storm--not only in the Gully of
the Horsemen, but in half a dozen other places. The _tazias_ rocked
like ships at sea, the long pole-torches dipped and rose round them
while the men shouted: 'The Hindus are dishonouring the _tazias!_
Strike! Strike! Into their temples for the faith!' The six or eight
Policemen with each _tazia_ drew their batons, and struck as long as
they could in the hope of forcing the mob forward, but they were
overpowered, and as contingents of Hindus poured into the streets, the
fight became general. Half a mile away where the _tazias_ were yet
untouched the drums and the shrieks of '_Ya Hasanl Ya Hussain!_'
continued, but not for long. The priests at the corners of the streets
knocked the legs from the bedsteads that supported their pulpits and
smote for the Faith, while stones fell from the silent houses upon
friend and foe, and the packed streets bellowed: '_Din! Din! Din!_'
A _tazia_ caught fire, and was dropped for a flaming barrier between
Hindu and Musalman at the corner of the Gully. Then the crowd surged
forward, and Wali Dad drew me close to the stone pillar of a well.

'It was intended from the beginning!' he shouted in my ear, with more
heat than blank unbelief should be guilty of. 'The bricks were carried
up to the houses beforehand. These swine of Hindus! We shall be gutting
kine in their temples to-night!'

_Tazia_ after _tazia_, some burning, others torn to pieces, hurried
past us and the mob with them, howling, shrieking, and striking at the
house doors in their flight. At last we saw the reason of the rush.
Hugonin, the Assistant District Superintendent of Police, a boy of
twenty, had got together thirty constables and was forcing the crowd
through the streets. His old gray Police-horse showed no sign of
uneasiness as it was spurred breast-on into the crowd, and the long
dog-whip with which he had armed himself was never still.

'They know we haven't enough Police to hold 'em,' he cried as he passed
me, mopping a cut on his face. 'They _know_ we haven't! Aren't any of
the men from the Club coming down to help? Get on, you sons of burnt
fathers!' The dog-whip cracked across the writhing backs, and the
constables smote afresh with baton and gun-butt. With these passed the
lights and the shouting, and Wali Dad began to swear under his breath.
From Fort Amara shot up a single rocket; then two side by side. It was
the signal for troops.

Petitt, the Deputy Commissioner, covered with dust and sweat, but calm
and gently smiling, cantered up the clean-swept street in rear of the
main body of the rioters. 'No one killed yet,' he shouted. 'I'll keep
'em on the run till dawn! Don't let 'em halt, Hugonin! Trot 'em about
till the troops come.'

The science of the defence lay solely in keeping the mob on the move.
If they had breathing-space they would halt and fire a house, and then
the work of restoring order would be more difficult, to say the least
of it. Flames have the same effect on a crowd as blood has on a wild
beast.

Word had reached the Club and men in evening-dress were beginning to
show themselves and lend a hand in heading off and breaking up the
shouting masses with stirrup-leathers, whips, or chance-found staves.
They were not very often attacked, for the rioters had sense enough
to know that the death of a European would not mean one hanging but
many, and possibly the appearance of the thrice-dreaded Artillery. The
clamour in the City redoubled. The Hindus had descended into the streets
in real earnest and ere long the mob returned. It was a strange sight.
There were no _tazias_--only their riven platforms--and there were
no Police. Here and there a City dignitary, Hindu or Muhammadan, was
vainly imploring his co-religionists to keep quiet and behave
themselves--advice for which his white beard was pulled. Then a native
officer of Police, unhorsed but still using his spurs with effect,
would be borne along, warning all the crowd of the danger of insulting
the Government. Everywhere men struck aimlessly with sticks, grasping
each other by the throat, howling and foaming with rage, or beat with
their bare hands on the doors of the houses.

'It is a lucky thing that they are fighting with natural weapons,' I
said to Wali Dad, 'else we should have half the City killed.'

I turned as I spoke and looked at his face. His nostrils were distended,
his eyes were fixed, and he was smiting himself softly on the breast.
The crowd poured by with renewed riot--a gang of Musalmans hard-pressed
by some hundred Hindu fanatics. Wali Dad left my side with an oath,
and shouting: '_Ya Hasan! Ya Hussain!_' plunged into the thick of the
fight where I lost sight of him.

I fled by a side alley to the Padshahi Gate where I found Wali Dad's
house, and thence rode to the Fort. Once outside the City wall, the
tumult sank to a dull roar, very impressive under the stars and
reflecting great credit on the fifty thousand angry able-bodied men
who were making it. The troops who, at the Deputy Commissioner's
instance, had been ordered to rendezvous quietly near the fort, showed
no signs of being impressed. Two companies of Native Infantry, a
squadron of Native Cavalry and a company of British Infantry were
kicking their heels in the shadow of the East face, waiting for orders
to march in. I am sorry to say that they were all pleased, unholily
pleased, at the chance of what they called 'a little fun.' The senior
officers, to be sure, grumbled at having been kept out of bed, and the
English troops pretended to be sulky, but there was joy in the hearts
of all the subalterns, and whispers ran up and down the line: 'No
ball-cartridge--what a beastly shame!' 'D'you think the beggars will
really stand up to us?' ''Hope I shall meet my money-lender there. I
owe him more than I can afford.' 'Oh, they won't let us even unsheathe
swords.' 'Hurrah! Up goes the fourth rocket. Fall in, there!'

The Garrison Artillery, who to the last cherished a wild hope that
they might be allowed to bombard the City at a hundred yards' range,
lined the parapet above the East gateway and cheered themselves hoarse
as the British Infantry doubled along the road to the Main Gate of the
City. The Cavalry cantered on to the Padshahi Gate, and the Native
Infantry marched slowly to the Gate of the Butchers. The surprise was
intended to be of a distinctly unpleasant nature, and to come on top
of the defeat of the Police who had been just able to keep the
Muhammadans from firing the houses of a few leading Hindus. The bulk
of the riot lay in the north and north-west wards. The east and
south-east were by this time dark and silent, and I rode hastily to
Lalun's house for I wished to tell her to send some one in search of
Wali Dad. The house was unlighted, but the door was open, and I climbed
upstairs in the darkness. One small lamp in the white room showed Lalun
and her maid leaning half out of the window, breathing heavily and
evidently pulling at something that refused to come.

'Thou art late--very late,' gasped Lalun without turning her head.
'Help us now, O Fool, if thou hast not spent thy strength howling among
the _tazias_. Pull! Nasiban and I can do no more! O Sahib, is it you?
The Hindus have been hunting an old Muhammadan round the Ditch with
clubs. If they find him again they will kill him. Help us to pull him
up.'

I put my hands to the long red silk waist-cloth that was hanging out
of the window, and we three pulled and pulled with all the strength
at our command. There was something very heavy at the end, and it swore
in an unknown tongue as it kicked against the City wall.

'Pull, oh, pull!' said Lalun at the last. A pair of brown hands grasped
the window-sill and a venerable Muhammadan tumbled upon the floor,
very much out of breath. His jaws were tied up, his turban had fallen
over one eye, and he was dusty and angry.

Lalun hid her face in her hands for an instant and said something about
Wali Dad that I could not catch.

Then, to my extreme gratification, she threw her arms round my neck
and murmured pretty things. I was in no haste to stop her; and Nasiban,
being a handmaiden of tact, turned to the big jewel-chest that stands
in the corner of the white room and rummaged among the contents. The
Muhammadan sat on the floor and glared.

'One service more, Sahib, since thou hast come so opportunely,' said
Lalun. 'Wilt thou'--it is very nice to be thou-ed by Lalun--'take
this old man across the City--the troops are everywhere, and they
might hurt him for he is old--to the Kumharsen Gate? There I think he
may find a carriage to take him to his house. He is a friend of mine,
and thou art--more than a friend--therefore I ask this.'

Nasiban bent over the old man, tucked something into his belt, and I
raised him up, and led him into the streets.

In crossing from the east to the west of the City there was no chance
of avoiding the troops and the crowd. Long before I reached the Gully
of the Horsemen I heard the shouts of the British Infantry crying
cheeringly: 'Hutt, ye beggars! Hutt, ye devils! Get along! Go forward,
there!' Then followed the ringing of rifle-butts and shrieks of pain.
The troops were banging the bare toes of the mob with their
gun-butts--for not a bayonet had been fixed. My companion mumbled and
jabbered as we walked on until we were carried back by the crowd and
had to force our way to the troops. I caught him by the wrist and felt
a bangle there--the iron bangle of the Sikhs--but I had no suspicions,
for Lalun had only ten minutes before put her arms round me. Thrice
we were carried back by the crowd, and when we made our way past the
British Infantry it was to meet the Sikh Cavalry driving another mob
before them with the butts of their lances.

'What are these dogs?' said the old man.

'Sikhs of the Cavalry, Father,' I said, and we edged our way up the
line of horses two abreast and found the Deputy Commissioner, his
helmet smashed on his head, surrounded by a knot of men who had come
down from the Club as amateur constables and had helped the Police
mightily.

'We'll keep 'em on the run till dawn,' said Petitt. 'Who's your
villainous friend?'

I had only time to say:' The Protection of the _Sirkar!_' when a fresh
crowd flying before the Native Infantry carried us a hundred yards
nearer to the Kumharsen Gate, and Petitt was swept away like a shadow.

'I do not know--I cannot see--this is all new to me!' moaned my
companion. 'How many troops are there in the City?'

'Perhaps five hundred,' I said.

'A lakh of men beaten by five hundred--and Sikhs among them! Surely,
surely, I am an old man, but--the Kumharsen Gate is new. Who pulled
down the stone lions? Where is the conduit? Sahib, I am a very old
man, and, alas, I--I cannot stand.' He dropped in the shadow of the
Kumharsen Gate where there was no disturbance. A fat gentleman wearing
gold _pince-nez_ came out of the darkness.

'You are most kind to my old friend,' he said suavely. 'He is a
landholder of Akala. He should not be in a big City when there is
religious excitement. But I have a carriage here. You are quite truly
kind. Will you help me to put him into the carriage? It is very late.'

We bundled the old man into a hired victoria that stood close to the
gate, and I turned back to the house on the City wall. The troops were
driving the people to and fro, while the Police shouted, 'To your
houses! Get to your houses!' and the dog-whip of the Assistant District
Superintendent cracked remorselessly. Terror-stricken _bunnias_ clung
to the stirrups of the cavalry, crying that their houses had been
robbed (which was a lie), and the burly Sikh horsemen patted them on
the shoulder, and bade them return to those houses lest a worse thing
should happen. Parties of five or six British soldiers, joining arms,
swept down the side-gullies, their rifles on their backs, stamping,
with shouting and song, upon the toes of Hindu and Musalman. Never was
religious enthusiasm more systematically squashed; and never were poor
breakers of the peace more utterly weary and footsore. They were routed
out of holes and corners, from behind well-pillars and byres, and
bidden to go to their houses. If they had no houses to go to, so much
the worse for their toes.

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