The Ravi Lancers (20 page)

‘Such as what?’

‘Permission to wear caste marks when off duty would mean a lot to some of them ... As this Manraj case shows, I think they’re going to miss women soon. In Basohli the bachelors used to go to brothels, but most of the men are married. They lived with their families in the city. They’re not used to separation.’

‘They’ll have to get used to it, like the rest of us,’ Major Bateman said grimly. ‘I’d like to let them wear
tilaks
, myself, but neither General Glover nor General Rogers will permit it, as you know. About the women ... the problem is these damned French whores. Or loose women. Their husbands are away at the war and they make hay . . .’

‘I suppose some of them are short of money,’ Krishna said.

‘I suppose so,’ Warren said grudgingly, ‘but that doesn’t help us. I’ve talked privately with some of the COs of Indian infantry battalions in the division, and we are all worried about it. It’s not a good situation, but no one knows what to do, except restrict the men still more when they’re out of the line, and that’s not right.’ Krishna thought, no, it’s not a good situation. In India where there were so few British, and they the rulers, it was as much as an Indian’s life was worth to make the smallest advance to an Englishwoman. The lesson had been learned in the Mutiny, when the rape of a white woman, without other violence, would result in the slaughter of whole villages--men, women, and babies--and a wave of oppression that might last six months, with Indians forced to crawl on their stomachs past any English person. Then the English would agree to forget and all was smiles and offhand politeness again. But, then, surely someone in authority should have seen the danger of taking Indian soldiers to France, where there was nothing but white women, some of them naturally of a class that most sowars had never met and probably did not believe to exist. But now they were here, and they did need women, and willing women were obviously to be found, so ... He was about to make a suggestion but Major Bateman’s manner discouraged him. He’d wait till he had had time to think it out more fully.

Major Bateman said, ‘My wife’s lost another relative. A cousin gone down in a destroyer. This war’s hitting some of us very hard ... That’s all, Krishna, except one thing.’ He stood up, smiling. ‘We’re being inspected by the King-Emperor tomorrow.’

‘King George?’ Krishna gasped. ‘Here?’

‘Yes. I believe the Queen was going to come but she got influenza and His Majesty insisted on coming in her place. We’ll have everyone in the BEF on our necks, from Sir John French down, so let’s put on a good show. I’m going to work something out with the adjutant and the RM now, and will issue orders here at four. Durbar at five.’

Krishna Ram saluted and went out. The King-Emperor! He never thought he would see him more closely than he had at the Delhi Durbar of 1911, when, as heir-presumptive to the
gaddi
of a rather small state, he had been one of the mass of young princes who had sat at the foot of the throne during the imperial coronation. The great Durbar had awed him, but his memories of it were less clear than of expeditions into the warrens of Delhi with a couple of other princes, considerably more profligate than himself, and of spending a great deal more money than he had been allotted. He remembered that his return to Basohli had felt unexpectedly like a first seeing, everything new and exciting, the air fresh, the trees extending bare arms along the river, the Himalayas a giant slash of white across the northern sky, wood-smoke, moving shapes in the dark temple, the sound of music from the city.

This time he would see the King differently, as the leader of his people, the figurehead and unifying soul for millions of every colour, religion, caste, and race. He called Hanuman and told him the news, adding, ‘Tomorrow my boots and belt must shine more brightly than the sun.’

‘Why not? It is the Son of the Sun who wears them,’ the orderly replied matter-of-factly. ‘The King-Emperor will be dazzled.’

The regimental durbar took place at the edge of the wood beyond A Squadron’s horse lines, the CO and officers standing under the trees and the sowars squatting in a packed semicircle on the grass. When the men had settled themselves comfortably, Warren Bateman said, ‘Lads, we will all stand for durbar ... It is a protection against those who would wish to hold our ears while our hair turns grey.’

The sowars laughed in appreciation as they stood. Krishna thought, it will be more efficient this way, but even so thoughtful an Englishman as Warren Bateman did not understand what it meant to these men to be able to talk to their rulers, for as long as they wanted.

The CO said, ‘Durbar is open. Let any who wish speak without fear of what is in his heart ... You. Paraschand, is it not, C Squadron?’

’Yes, sahib ... Sahib, it is in my mind that these
Fransezi
cultivate their land in a manner different from ours. Yet their cattle are fatter than ours and give more milk. I milked some cows for a
Fransezi
the other day and as God hears me each cow gave six seers of milk, not watery or blue, but full of cream. The wheat is gathered for the year and the barns are full. It is hard to understand the
Fransezi
when they say how many
bighas
of land were ploughed and sown in order to gather in that wheat ... but the wheat itself is good, the kernels firm and large, the ears heavy and thick, and altogether good. It is in my mind that we could learn something from these Fransezi farmers that would benefit us at home. But how can it be done in a thorough manner? For we will not learn all that is necessary, nor will we understand much that we see, by merely milking a cow here or helping with a plough there ... as I hear that one of our brothers did last week ... to his sorrow, it is said.’

The sowars shouted and banged their thighs with laughter, for all had long since heard of Manraj’s mishap with the woman in Longmont. Catching sight of Manraj’s face among the crowd, Krishna saw that he was laughing with the rest.

Rissaldar-Major Baldev Singh said, ‘Much could be learned by a man willing to spend his leave working for a
Fransezi
farmer, it being understood by the
Fransezi
that the wages of the man are not in money but in being taught. But I cannot arrange it, for I speak no
Fransezi
.’’

‘I will look into it,’ Major Bateman said, ‘but remember that we are here to fight, not to plough fields.’

Krishna Ram could see by the faces nearby him that to the sowars there was no distinction, or exclusion; the land was under foot, a part of you.

An old lance-dafadar said, ‘With respect to all, I think we should be careful of what we learn from these
Fransezi
. The cows are fat, yes ... but the children are thin. On the edge of a town ten miles beyond Longmont there is a big house. Know you what they keep in that house? Orphans! As though they had done some crime, to be shut up, instead of cared for by every man and woman eager to please the gods ... for the lord Krishna was once a helpless babe.’

‘Well spoken, well spoken,’ a dozen voices murmured.

Warren said, ‘Next ...’

A sowar of A Squadron spoke up: ‘During the action at Poucelle, we left ten of our brothers dead on the field. From each a finger was taken that it might be properly burned, which was done, as I saw with these eyes. But ... it is in my mind that a man will not fight so bravely for the honour of our sovereign and our regiment if he feels that his body may be left for dogs and rats to feed upon. Or for the Germans, who do not know our rites, to bury under this distant earth. Or is it that the Germans have Brahmins also as we do, to perform the sacred duties?’

Major Bateman said, ‘The Germans have no Brahmins, for they are Christians, like us
Angrezi
... It is impossible in a real war to bring back the bodies of our dead unless they fall in our own place. And it is only necessary when we are fighting against such savages as the tribesmen of the Afghan frontier, who will mutilate the dead and shame the living. I was with the squadrons at Poucelle. It was I who ordered them back, and to leave our dead upon the field, for the enemy artillery was ranging on us, and we would have suffered much in men and horses.’

‘Sahib, we are willing to suffer that our dead may pass to rest in the manner required.’

The CO said, ‘I know ... but you have seen only a hundredth part of the power of weapons today. You should spend a week with the infantry, as I have. If we tried to bring back our dead after a big action, there would be no regiment left. So, except where an officer thinks the dead can be brought back with no loss to the living, it is forbidden.
Hukm hai
, it is an order,’ he said with a snap, using the phrase that puts an end to discussion. After a pause he said, ‘You may be learning the wisdom of this order soon. The infantry battalions go up the line in their turns. We spend our days and most of our nights on fatigues for them, because we are cavalry. I have asked the general to include us in the normal roster for spells in the front line. He was doubtful--because we have no bayonets, for instance--but he said he would think it over.’

The men stirred and whispered among themselves, and Warren Bateman said, ‘Next ... You, Bahar Singh.’

The rations were short, the sowar said: ‘Why?’

Sohan Singh the fat quartermaster blandly explained that no rations had come up for two days after the last move, and the men had nearly starved--was it not so? A chorus of yeses agreed. So, he said, he was building up a little reserve of food for another such emergency. It was forbidden by regulations, but the colonel-sahib had given his permission and until it was done, everyone would receive only three-quarters of his proper ration.

Caste marks again; and the CO again saying they were forbidden. He did not, Krishna noted, bring in General Glover to shoulder the blame for an unpopular move, but took it on himself. Yet the men would know who was responsible. They were simple, but they were shrewd.

The festival of Dewali was due in a week’s time. Would there be proper nautches, feasts and prayers, as was customary?

Warren hesitated a moment before answering. The big Dussehra celebrations soon after the battle of Poucelle had gone off very well from one point of view, but they had emphasized the men’s far origin and foreign faith, and brought crowds of British troops and French civilians to stare at the prayers and garlands and sacrificial ceremonies. It had made Warren feel, he said, that he was commanding a mob of circus freaks, or beings from another planet. His officers’ carefully applied Englishness had temporarily evaporated, like a thin layer of wax burned away by the Brahmin’s prayers; and he had had to demote a lance-dafadar to the ranks for wearing a caste mark in defiance of orders.

But, there was no help for it--not yet. Unless the regiment was sent up the line, he’d have to allow the men to celebrate Dewali in the usual way. He answered the question. ‘Yes, if we are not in the line. I shall tell the Quartermaster-sahib he can spend 300 rupees out of the regimental fund. As you know, he has some costumes. There will be a great
tamasha
.’

The men clapped and cheered. Then, after a few more minor points, as full darkness fell, and rain began to drip from the beech boughs, Warren Bateman said, ‘Anything more? Very well. Durbar is ended. The next durbar will be one month from now.’

He turned on his heel and left, as the officers saluted and the rissaldar-major bellowed, ‘Ravi Lancers--’ten ...
shun! ‘

Krishna walked slowly to his billet. An interesting durbar. Perhaps they should be held more often than once a month. In conditions as strange as these in France were to them, the men needed a safety valve.

An hour later he was still sitting in his billet, a bottle
of vin ordinaire
on the bare table and a candle guttering in the neck of another bottle. The house, part of a long row of brick houses which faced a similar row across the only street of the little hamlet, rumbled to the passage of guns towards the front. Other guns muttered and grumbled indistinctly, for the wind was in the north, and a chilling draught blew through the cracked windows and fluttered the worn curtains. The owners had fled, God knows where, and Krishna occupied one downstairs room among a welter of disregarded fragments of their lives. There was a picture of a solemn wedding couple on the mantelpiece, a crucifix and a large stain on one wall, and on another a discoloured patch where a picture had been taken away or stolen, and on the chest of drawers a basket containing the knicknacks of a woman’s sewing. The bed he had had brought in from another house. He looked at his wristwatch--more and more officers were wearing them nowadays, but he had been the first. Still nearly an hour to dinner.

Hanuman came in saying, ‘Captain Sher Singh, lord.’

‘Come in,’ Krishna called as his orderly went out. Sher Singh entered, his palms joined, the neck of a bottle sticking out of the pocket of his British warm. ‘Don’t make
namasti
to me,’ Krishna said irritably. ‘Salute, man.’

The captain saluted hastily, and straightened his back from the ritual half bow that had gone with the
namasti
. ‘I found a bottle of vintage wine, and as I don’t drink ...’

‘Some of your men found it, you mean,’ Krishna said, reaching out his hand. The dusty label hardly decipherable, read
Vosne Romanée 1904
. He didn’t know anything about vintages beyond a few tips Warren Bateman had given him since he started to drink, but this was obviously too good to keep to himself. He’d take it to Warren’s billet one evening and they’d demolish it over a chat. Sher Singh was hanging around, as though waiting to be invited in. Krishna did not like him, but felt suddenly lonely for company and said, ‘
Andar aiye, bhai
... Come in. Sit down.’

The captain sat down with alacrity and, at Krishna’s command, lit a cigarette. ‘How does the CO think we’re doing, sir?’ he asked, leaning forward with a frank, open expression on his face.

‘All right,’ Krishna replied. ‘Our march discipline used to be bad, but the night drills the CO has ordered, and being harder on the VCOs, has had a good effect. Of course we haven’t seen any action since Poucelle.’