eyes were wild and her lips trembling, so I gave my swarthy ravisher's growl, swept her up in my arms, and then down on to the mossy floor. She gave a little frightened moan, opened her eyes wide, and whispered:
'You're sure you're Jewish … not … not Indian?'
'Han, mem-sahib,' says I, thrusting away respectfully, and she gave a contented little squeal and grappled me like a wrestler.
We rode to Aligaut quite frequently after that, studying Indian social customs, and if the forty-fifth position eluded us, it wasn't for want of trying. She had a passion for knowledge, did Mrs Leslie, and I can think back affectionately to that cool, dim, musty interior, the plump white body among the ferns, and the thoughtful way she would gnaw her lower lip while she surveyed the friezes before pointing to the lesson for today. Pity for some chap she never re-married. Aye, and more of a pity for her she never got the chance.
For by now April had turned into May, the temperature was sweltering, and there was a hot wind blowing across the Meerut parade-ground and barracks that had nothing to do with the weather. You could feel the tension in the air like an electric cloud; the sepoys of the 3rd N.C. went about their drill like sullen automatons, the native officers stopped looking their men in the eye, the British officers were quiet and wary or explosively short-tempered, and there were more men on report than anyone could remember. There were ugly rumours and portents: the 34th N.I. — the executed Sepoy Pandy's regiment — had been disbanded at Barrackpore, a mysterious fakir on an elephant had appeared in Meerut bazaar predicting that the wrath of Kali was about to fall on the British, chapattis were said to be passing in some barrack-rooms, the Plassey legend was circulated again. Out of all the grievances and mistrust that folk like Ram Mangal had been voicing, a great, discontented unease grew in those few weeks — and one thing suddenly became known throughout the Meerut garrison: without a word said, the certainty was there. When the new greased cartridge was issued, the 3rd Native Cavalry would refuse it.
Now, you may say, knowing what followed, something should have been done. I, with respect, will ask: what? The thing was, while everyone knew that feeling was rising by the hour, no one could foresee for a moment what was about to happen. It was unimaginable. The British officers couldn't conceive that their beloved sepoys would be false to their salt — dammit, neither could the sepoys. If there's one thing I will maintain, it is that not a soul — not even creatures like Ram Mangal — thought that the bitterness could explode in violence. Even if the cartridge was refused — well, the worst that could follow was disbandment, and even that was hard to contemplate. I didn't dream of what lay ahead — not even with all my forewarning over months.
And I was there — and no one can take fright faster than I. So when I heard that Carmichael-Smith had ordered a firing-parade, at which the skirmishers (of whom I was one) would demonstrate the new cartridge, I simply thought: well, this will settle it — either they'll accept the new loads, and it'll all blow over, or they won't and Calcutta will have to think again.
Waterfield tried to smooth things beforehand, singling out the older skirmishers and reassuring them that the loads were not offensively greased, but they wouldn't have it — they even pleaded with him not to ask them to take the cartridge. I think he tried to reason with Carmichael-Smith — but the word came out that the firing-parade would take place as ordered.
After Waterfield's failure, this was really throwing down the gauntlet, if you like — I'd not have done it, if I'd been Carmichael-Smith, for one thing I've learned as an officer is never to give an order unless there's a good chance of its being obeyed. And if you'd fallen in with the skirmishers that fine morning, having seen the sullen faces as they put on their belts and bandoliers and drew their Enfields from the armoury, you'd not have wagered a quid to a hundred on their taking the cartridge. But Carmichael-Smith, the ass, was determined, so there we stood, in extended line between the other squadrons of the regiment facing inwards, the native officers at ease before their respective troops, and the rissaldar calling us to attention as Carmichael-Smith, looking thunderous, rode up and saluted.
We waited, with our Enfields at our sides, while he rode along the extended rank, looking at us. There wasn't a sound; we stood with the baking sun at our backs; every now and then a little puff of warm wind would drive a tiny dust-devil across the ground; Plowden's horse kept shying as he cursed and tried to steady it. I watched the shadows of the rank swaying with the effort of standing igid, and the sweat rivers were tickling my chest. Naik Kudrat Ali on my right was straight as a lance; on my other side old Sardul's breathing was hoarse enough to be audible. Carmichael-Smith completed his slow inspection, and reined up almost in front of me; his red face under the service cap was as heavy as a statue's. Then he snapped an order, and the havildar-major stepped forward, saluted, and marched to Carmichael-Smith's side, where he turned to face us. Jack Waterfield, sitting a little in rear of the colonel, called out the orders from the platoon exercise manual.
'Prepare to load!' says he, adding quietly: 'Rifle-atfull-extent-of-left-arm.' The havildar-major shoved out his rifle.
'Load!' cries Jack, adding again: 'Cartridge-is-broughtto-the-left-hand-right-elbow-raised-tear-off-top-of- cartridge-with-fmgers-by-dropping-elbow. '
This was the moment; you could feel the rank sway forward ever so little as the havildar-major, his bearded face intent, held up the little shiny brown cylinder, tore it across, and poured the powder into his barrel. A hundred and eighty eyes watched him do it; there was just a suspicion of a sigh from the rank as his ram-rod drove the charge home; then he came to attention again. Waterfield gave him the 'present' and 'fire', and the single demonstration shot cracked across the great parade-ground. On either side, the rest of the regiment waited, watching us.
'Now,' says Carmichael-Smith, and although he didn't raise his voice, it carried easily across the parade. 'Now, you have seen the loading drill. You have seen the havildar-major, a soldier of high caste, take the cartridge. He knows the grease with which it is waxed is pure. I assure you again — nothing that could offend Hindoo or Muslim is being offered to you — I would not permit it. Carry on, havildar-major.'
What happened was that the havildar-major came along the rank, with two naiks carrying big bags of cartridges, of which he offered three to each skirmisher. I was looking straight to my front, sweating and wishing the back of my kg would stop itching; I couldn't see what was happening along the rank, but I heard a repeated murmur as the havildar-major progressed —'Nahin, havildar-major sahib; nahin, havildar-major sahib.' Carmichael-Smith's head was turned to watch; I could see his hand clenched white on his rein.
The havildar-major stopped opposite Kudrat Ali, and held out three cartridges. I could feel Kudrat stiffen — he was a big, rangy Punjabi Mussulman, a veteran of Aliwal and the frontier, proud as Lucifer of his stripes and himself, the kind of devoted ass who thinks his colonel is his father and even breaks wind by numbers. I stole a glance at him; his mouth was trembling under his heavy moustache as he muttered:
'Nahin, havildar-major sahib.'
Suddenly, Carmichael-Smith broke silence; his temper must have boiled higher with each refusal.
'What the devil do you mean?' His voice cracked hoarsely. 'Don't you recognise an order? D'you know what insubordination means?'
Kudrat started violently, but recovered. He swallowed with a gulp you could have heard in Poona, and then says:
'Colonel sahib — I cannot have a bad name!'
'Bad name, by God!' roars Smith. 'D'you know a worse name than mutineer?' He sat there glowering and Kudrat trembled; then the havildar-major's hand was thrust out to me, his blood-shot brown eyes glaring into mine; I looked at the three little brown cylinders, aware that Waterfield was watching me intently, and old Sardul was breathing like a walrus on my other side.
I took the cartridges — there was a sudden exclamation farther along the rank, but I stuffed two of them into my belt, and held up the third. As I glanced at it, I realised with a start that it wasn't greased — it was waxed. I tore it across with a shaky hand, poured the powder into the barrel, stuffed the cartridge after it, and rammed it down.22 Then I returned to attention, waiting.
Old Sardul was crying. As the cartridges were held out to him he put up a shaking hand, but not to take them. He made a little, feeble gesture, and then sings out:
'Colonel sahib — it is not just! Never — never have I disobeyed — never have I been false to my salt! Sahib — do not ask this of me — ask anything — my life, even! But not my honour!' He dropped his Enfield, wringing his hands. 'Sahib, I -
'Fool!' shouts Carmichael-Smith. 'D'you suppose I would ask you to hurt your honour? When did any man know me do such a thing? The cartridges are clean, I tell you! Look at the havildar-major — look at Makarram Khan! Are they men of no honour? No — and they're not mutinous dogs, either!'
