City of Ghosts (15 page)

The driver lit another
biri
and started the engine. Just then there was a knock on the passenger window. It was Plomer. Rehill cursed and wound the window down.

‘What is it, Plomer?' he asked.

‘What do I do with the others?'

‘Leave them where they are for an hour and then tell them to go.'

Plomer looked uncertain. ‘But what do I tell them about these two?' he asked, gesturing with his head to the prisoners.

‘Tell them the
truth
, man,' replied Rehill. ‘They'll find out soon enough anyway.'

‘But what if there's a problem?' continued Plomer.

‘Deal with it,' ordered Rehill. ‘If you need help, just send to the fort. There are some troops there, and General Dyer should be back soon.'

‘But—'

‘And do get a shave, Plomer – you'll end up looking like a bloody Sikh at this rate.'

As Plomer withdrew, Rehill turned to the driver.

‘Come along!' he snapped. ‘
Jaldi, jaldi!
'

Plomer watched the car go through the wooden gates of the compound and then turned back to the house. His insides were gurgling with gas and he felt the need to pass wind again. The sound was so thunderous that he had to look round to make sure there was no one within twenty feet of him. Luckily he was alone, but not for long. As he reached the front door of the bungalow, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith came through it.

‘Ah, Plomer – just the chap!' he said cheerily.

‘Yes, sir!' replied Plomer, standing to attention.

‘Do relax, Plomer.'

‘Sir . . .'

Smith looked around the gardens. ‘Where are the chaps who accompanied the prisoners?'

‘In the storeroom, sir.'

‘What on earth are they doing there, man?'

‘Drinking tea, sir.'

‘Tea?
Our
tea?'

Plomer nodded.

‘Well, go and tell them to leave,' ordered Smith. ‘We
can't have a bunch of rag-tag Indians about the place. There are ladies due for lunch.'

Plomer sighed. ‘But the superintendent told me to wait until later.'

Smith raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever for?' he asked.

‘So that they wouldn't take news of the arrests back to the city too soon,' explained Plomer. ‘Just in case there's trouble.'

Smith shook his head. ‘Nonsense, Plomer. There won't
be
any trouble bar a few insults and the odd effigy being burned. Don't you understand these people at
all
? They are subservient by nature. And whenever they do rise up, we put them down again just as quickly. We are their
superiors
, Plomer.'

‘But—' began Plomer, only for Smith to dismiss him with a wave of the hand.

‘Run along, Plomer, there's a good chap.'

Plomer acknowledged defeat and walked slowly off to do as ordered. Smith was a pompous, arrogant old man, he said to himself. As soon as news of the deportations hit the streets there would be uproar. Tensions were already high and this would only make things worse. But it wasn't Smith or any of his cronies who'd be in the firing line. Out on the streets it would be Plomer and his men who would have to deal with the mob. The thought made the copious gases in Plomer's stomach bubble and froth. Things were very likely to get ugly, he thought. With no superintendent to
turn to and only a handful of troops, if things did go badly wrong, it would be Plomer who took the blame.

‘Damn you, Rehill!' he cursed under his breath.

Behind him he heard Lieutenant-Colonel Smith talking to someone. Plomer turned to see who it was. Standing in front of the civil surgeon, speaking animatedly, was a tall man with a shaven head and a beak-shaped nose – an Indian whom Plomer thought he recognized but couldn't place. There was something very familiar about him. The way he stood, with his shoulders square and his feet planted firmly to the ground. Where had Plomer seen him before?

Smith said something in reply to the Indian. When he'd finished, the man turned and left. Smith saw Plomer watching the scene.

‘Are you still standing there, Plomer?' he shouted. ‘I thought I'd given you a task to perform. An order!'

‘Yes, sir!' replied Plomer, turning to scurry away as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.

When he got to the storeroom, one of Commissioner Irving's servants, an old man in a grey turban, was watering a patch of purple, yellow and pink flowers.

‘Do you know who the chap at the gate was?' Plomer asked him.

The man shrugged.

‘Well?' Plomer tried to put some authority into his voice.

‘Me not knowing him, sir,' he replied. ‘He not good man.'

Plomer sighed – something he found himself doing more and more. ‘Do you know his
name
?'

The old man looked bewildered.

‘His
name
,' Plomer repeated slowly.

This time the old man smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth, with blackened gums. ‘He very bad person,' he said again. ‘Me thinks him calling Hans Raj.'

MILES IRVING FELT
a sharp pain in his chest. ‘Are you absolutely certain, Massey?' he asked.

Captain Massey nodded.

‘Dear God!' exclaimed Irving.

The captain said nothing. As the garrison commander of the Somerset Light Infantry, he was used to such reactions.

‘Do we know how large this mob is? Are there ringleaders whom we can detain?'

‘I really don't know, sir,' replied Massey. ‘I just know they are angry about this morning's deportations and are heading this way.'

What little colour had been left in Irving's face disappeared. His lower lip quivered slightly. Massey allowed himself an imperceptible smile. What had Irving expected after his arrests of Satyapal and Kitchlew?

‘Are there men enough to defend us if we are
attacked?' asked Lieutenant-Colonel Smith from the window. The whisky tumbler in his hands sparkled in the sun's rays.

Massey shook his head. ‘No, sir. We have enough men to cover the bridge and the railway line, but beyond that, no.'

‘So we need to hold them at the bridge then,' said Irving. ‘Has anyone contacted Dyer?'

Smith raised an eyebrow. ‘Dyer is away in Lahore,' he replied. ‘It'll take him hours to get his men back to the city—'

Massey coughed and cleared his throat.

‘What is it, man?' asked Smith.

‘I took the decision to send a telegram to Lahore last night, sir,' Massey admitted.

‘You did
what
?' barked Irving.

‘When I heard of the imminent arrests, Commissioner,' explained Massey, ‘I sent for reinforcements—'

Irving looked horrified. ‘What made you think we'd need reinforcements, Massey?'

Because a senile baboon could have predicted this, thought Massey. He looked over at Smith.

‘Well, spit it out, man!' Smith was looking at Massey in a strange way.

Massey gave a quick nod to indicate that he understood. Before sending his telegram the previous evening, Massey had told Lieutenant-Colonel Smith of his fears. Yet here Smith was, refusing to acknowledge that he'd
been forewarned. There was something going on, Massey told himself, something political. And it was better to stay out of it.

‘I tried to find Lieutenant-Colonel Smith,' replied Massey. ‘But everyone was busy and I thought that there might be some kind of backlash. It was just a prediction—'

Irving's face began to go red. ‘A
prediction
?' he spat. ‘Do you have any idea how this will look, man? We'll look weak!'

Captain Massey glanced at Lieutenant-Colonel Smith. Smith raised his bushy left eyebrow before returning to the view from the window. ‘Never mind, old chap,' he said to Irving. ‘It'll be over in an hour.'

Irving struggled to contain himself. ‘I'm well aware of that!' he shouted. ‘I've no doubt that we can contain the mob. It's not going to look too good to the High Command though, is it – junior officers firing off unauthorized telegrams?'

Smith turned and walked over to Irving's mahogany desk – a solid piece of hardwood with sculpted legs as thick as an elephant's. He set down his glass. ‘Look – why don't I tell the Governor that sending the telegram was my idea?' he offered.

‘I'm not sure how that will—'

‘By laying any blame at my door,' said Smith, interrupting, ‘that way your authority won't be questioned and Massey here won't get disciplined.
Damn good soldier – we can't afford to lose him over such a trifling matter.'

Irving thought about Smith's offer for a moment. Despite his anger at Captain Massey, he knew that Smith was right. Massey was an outstanding soldier – brave, loyal and respected by his peers. The way things were going in India, the Empire needed solid men, and Massey was as solid as they came.

‘I tend to agree with you,' Irving replied finally.

‘I thought you might.' Smith smiled warmly.

Irving turned to Massey. ‘But be warned, Captain – I won't tolerate any more incidents . . . Do you understand?'

Massey stood to attention. ‘Yes, sir!'

‘Good. Now go and—'

Suddenly the door was thrown open and Assistant Commissioner Beckett, a junior magistrate, burst in.

‘
What the devil!
' Miles Irving shouted.

‘
Thousands of them!
' Beckett's voice was full of panic, his face bright red. ‘We won't be able to hold them!'

‘
Where?
' demanded Massey, his shoulders tense, eyes focused.

‘They're streaming out of the city, Captain – heading this way!'

Massey turned to Irving. ‘Orders, sir?' he asked frantically.

‘Get everyone!' shouted Irving, his voice breaking with anxiety. ‘Hold them at the railway. Under no circumstance must the mob cross the railway!'

Jeevan watched as Pritam handed the rest of the gang
lathis
and knives at their hideaway. One by one his friends took their weapons, and one by one their faces lit up. Hans Raj, as always, had been correct. The city was rising up; now was the time to fight for the motherland.

‘These are for you,' Pritam said to Jeevan as he gave him his weapons. ‘The day has come,
bhai
– time for action!'

Jeevan looked at the stout wooden stick and the glistening, freshly sharpened blade of the knife. ‘Where are we going?' he asked Pritam.

‘The plan is to attack the railway bridge and then to storm the British compound. Tonight Amritsar will again be free.'

Jeevan nodded slowly as Pritam turned to the others. Sucha Singh was grinning from ear to ear like a small child who had discovered a secret stash of sweets. His brown eyes remained fixed. His friend, Bahadhur Khan, was staring down at the floor. When he did look up, Jeevan saw fear in his round face, his beard mere wisps of brown fluff on his chin. For a second Jeevan let himself believe that Bahadhur was weak, but then the words of the soldier, Bissen Singh, rang in his ears.

He recalled sitting on a wall near the police station – the
kotwali
– with Gurdial, barely six months earlier. Bissen Singh had walked by, as he always did – on his
way to the post office to collect a letter that never seemed to arrive.

‘Did you fight like a tiger, Bissen-ji?' Gurdial had shouted at him.

‘A tiger?' Bissen had asked.

‘I bet you didn't feel a single ounce of fear, did you?'

Bissen had stopped and stared into Jeevan's innocent eyes. ‘In the midst of battle,' he had told him, ‘the fool is the one who has
no
fear.
Fear
is what kept me
alive
, son. Fear and God . . .'

Jeevan snapped back into the present and nodded at Bahadhur. Bissen Singh had seemed such a hero only a matter of months earlier – a brave, strong man who had gone to the white man's land to fight for freedom. But then Jeevan had learned the truth from Hans Raj. Bissen was a traitor – a lapdog to his masters. Where was the honour in fighting and dying for the king of another country? Better to fight for your own land than for one that belonged to another. Jeevan looked at Pritam, who was shouting, almost foaming at the mouth.

‘. . . our women any more! There will be no more running to satisfy their every whim! Let today be the day when the story of the new India began. Let the imperialist dogs run back to their king with their tails between their legs!
India zindabaad! India zindabaad!
'

The rest of the gang joined in, and after a moment, with Ram Singh's huge hand on his shoulder, Jeevan followed suit.

‘Do not spare anyone who gets in our way,' Pritam said as they got ready to leave. ‘Any white person you see is a legitimate target, and if some dirty, traitorous Indian gets in the way, then they die too!'

Rana Lal let out a blood-curdling scream and ran into the alleyway – still gloomy despite the sun's height. One by one the rest of the gang followed. Jeevan came last; on his way out he enquired after Hans Raj.

‘He will meet us later,' Pritam told him. ‘There is something he must do first.'

As Jeevan ran out into the main road, he wondered what was so important that it could keep their mentor away. After all, this was the day Hans Raj had predicted, with such spooky accuracy, for so long. What was it that could be
so
important?

CAPTAIN MASSEY REFUSED
to look at the mob that had gathered on the city side of the two railway bridges. The last thing he needed was to panic. Instead he checked on the men he had deployed to prevent the crowd from crossing the bridges. One was a narrow footbridge: Massey realized that there was no way that they could hold it. He had asked for infantry, but instead of men standing shoulder to shoulder, he had been given a mounted detachment. The horses, scared to death by the approaching mob, whinnied and snorted, their haunches slick with perspiration. They would not stand still. Massey cursed his luck.