sedition riled me; I snatched the paper and rubbed it deliberately on the seat of my trousers. Pir Ali and some of the sepoys grinned, but the rest looked pretty glum, and old Sardul shook his head.
'If the 19th have been false to their salt, it is an ill thing,' says he, and Mangal broke in excitedly to say hadn't the sahibs broken faith first, by trying to defile the sepoys' caste?
'First Behrampore — then where?' cries he. 'Which pultan will be next? It is coming, brothers — it is coming!' And he nodded smugly, and went off chattering with his cronies.20
I didn't value this, at the time, but it crossed my mind again a couple of nights later, when Duff Mason had Archdale Wilson, the binky-nabob,*(*Artillery commander.) and Hewitt and Carmichael-Smith and a few others on his verandah, and I heard Jack Waterfield, a senior man in the 3rd Native Cavalry, talking about Behrampore, and wondering if it was wise to press ahead with the issue of the new cartridge.
'Of course it is,' snaps Carmichael-Smith. 'Especially now, when it's been refused at Behrampore. Give way on this — and where will it end? It's a piece of damned nonsense- some crawling little agitator fills the sepoys' heads with rubbish about beef-grease and pig-fat, when it's been made perfectly plain by the authorities that the new cartridge contains nothing that could possibly offend Muslim or Hindoo. But it serves as an excuse for the troublemakers — and there are always some.'
'Fortunately not in our regiment,' says another — Plow-den, who commanded my own company. By God, thinks I, that's all you know, and then Carmichael-Smith was growling on that he'd like to see one of his sepoys refuse the issue, by God he would.
'No chance of that, sir,' says another major of the 3rd, Richardson. 'Our fellows are too good soldiers, and no fools. Can't think what happened with the 19th — too many senior officers left regimental service for the staff, I shouldn't wonder. New men haven't got the proper grip.'
'But suppose our chaps did refuse?' says one young fellow in the circle. 'Mightn't it —'
'That is damned croaking!' says Carmichael-Smith angrily. 'You don't know sepoys, Gough, and that's plain. I do, and I won't countenance the suggestion that my soldiers would have their heads turned by this … this seditious bosh. What the devil — they know their duty! But I I' they get the notion that any of us have doubts, or might show weakness — well, that's the worst thing imaginable. I'll be obliged if you'll keep your half-baked observations to yourself!'
That shut up Gough, sharp enough, and Duff Mason tried to get the pepper out of the air by saying he was sure Carmichael-Smith was right, and if Gough had misgivings, why not settle them then and there.
'Your colonel won't mind, I'm sure, if I put it to one of his own sowars — don't fret, Smith, he's a safe man.' And he beckoned me from where I stood in the shadows by the serving-table from which the bearers kept the glasses topped up.
'Now, Makarram Khan,' says he. 'You know about this cartridge nonsense. Well — you're a Muslim … will you take it?'
I stood respectfully by his chair, glancing round the circle of faces — Carmichael-Smith red and glistening, Waterfield thin and shrewd, young Gough flustered, old Hewitt grinning and belching quietly.
'If it will drive a ball three hundred yards, and straight, husoor,' says I, 'I shall take it.'
They roared, of course, and Hewitt said there was a real Pathan answer, what?
'And your comrades?' asks Archdale Wilson.
'If they are told, truly, by the colonel sahib, that the cartridge is clean, why should they refuse?' says I, and they murmured agreement. Well, thinks I, that's a plain enough hint, and Carmichael-Smith can put Master Mangal's croaking into the shade.
He might have done, too, but the very next day the barracks was agog with a new rumour — and we heard for the first time a name that was to sweep across India and the world.
'Pandy?' says I to Pir Ali. 'Who may he be?'
'A sepoy of the 34th, at Barrackpore,' says he. 'He shot at his captain sahib on the parade-ground — they say he was drunk with sharab or bhang, and called on the sepoys to rise against their officers.21 What do I know? Perhaps it is true, perhaps it is rumour — Ram Mangal is busy enough convincing those silly Hindoo sheep that it really happened.'
So he was, with an admiring crowd round him in the middle of the barrack-room, applauding as he harangued them.
'It is a lie that the sepoy Pandy was drunk!' cries he. 'A lie put about by the sahibs to dishonour a hero who will defend his caste to the death! He would not take the cartridge — and when they would have arrested him, he called to his brothers to beware, because the British are bringing fresh battalions of English soldiers to steal away our religion and make slaves of us. And the captain sahib at Barrackpore shot Pandy with his own hands, wounding him, and they keep him alive for torture, even now!'
He was working himself into a terrible froth over this — what surprised me was that no one — not even the Muslims — contradicted him, and Naik Kudrat Ali, who was a good soldier, was standing by chewing his lip, but doing nothing. Eventually, when Mangal had raved himself hoarse, I thought I'd take a hand, so I asked him why he didn't go to the Colonel himself, and find out the truth, whatever it was, and ask for reassurance about the cartridge.
'Hear him!' cries he scornfully. 'Ask a sahib for the truth? Hah! Only the gora-colonel's lapdog would suggest it! Maybe I will speak to Carmik-al-Ismeet, though in my own time!' He looked round at his cronies with a significant, ugly grin. 'Yes, maybe I will … we shall see!'
Well, one swallow don't make a summer, or one ill-natured agitator a revolt — no doubt what I'm telling you now about barrack-room discontent among the sepoys looks strong evidence of trouble brewing, but it didn't seem so bad then. Of course there was discontent, and Ram Mangal played on it, and every rumour, for all he was worth — but you could go into any barracks in the world, you know, at any time, and find almost the same thing happening. No one did anything, just sullen talk; the parades went on, and the sepoys did their duty, and the British officers seemed content enough — anyway, I was only occasionally in the barracks myself, so I didn't hear much of the grumbling. When the word came through that Sepoy Pandy had been hanged at Barrackpore for mutiny, I thought there might be some kind of stir among our men, but they never let cheep.
In the meantime, I had other things to claim my attention: Mrs Leslie of the red hair and lazy disposition had begun to take a closer interest in me. It started with little errands and tasks that put me in her company, then came her request to Duff Mason that I should ride escort on her and Miss Blanche when they drove out visiting ('it looks so much better to have Makarram Khan attending us than an ordinary syce'), and fmally I found myself accompanying her when she went riding alone — the excuse was that it was convenient to her to have an attendant who spoke English, and could answer her questions about India, in which she professed a great interest.
I know what interests you, my girl, thinks I, but you'll have to make the first move. I didn't mind; she was a well-fleshed piece in her way. It was amusing, too, to see her plucking up her courage; I was a black servant to her, you see, and she was torn between a natural revulsion and a desire to have the big hairy Pathan set about her. On our rides, she would flirt a very little, in a hoity-toity way, and then think better of it; I maintained my correct and dignified noble animal pose, with just an occasional ardent smile, and a slight squeeze when I helped her dismount. I knew she was getting ready for the plunge when she said one day:
'You Pathans are not truly … Indian, are you? I mean … in some ways you look … well, almost … white.'
'We are not Indian at all, mem-sahib,' says I. 'We are descended from the people of Ibrahim, Ishak and Yakub, who were led from the Khedive's country by one Moses.'
'You mean — you're Jewish?' says she. 'Oh.' She rode in silence for a while. 'I see. How strange.' She thought some more. 'I … I have Jewish acquaintances … in England. Most respectable people. And quite white, of course.'
Well, the Pathans believe it, and it made her happy, so I hurried the matter along by suggesting next day that I show her the ruins at Aligaut, about six miles from the city; it's a deserted temple, very overgrown, but what I hadn't told her was that the inside walls were covered with most artistically-carved friezes depicting all the Hindoo methods of fornicating — you know the kind of thing: effeminate-looking lads performing incredible couplings with fat-titted females. She took one look and gasped; I stood behind with the horses and waited. I saw her eyes travel round from one impossible carving to the next, while she gulped and went crimson and pale by turns, not knowing whether to scream or giggle, so I stepped up behind her and said quietly that the forty-fifth position was much admired by the discriminating. She was shivering, with her back to me, and then she turned, and I saw that her
