The Ravi Lancers Read online

  The Ravi Lancers

  John Masters

  ©1972 by Bengal-Rockland. All rights reserved.

  For Sandy Richardson, who had the idea, and faith

  Foreword

  In this book the reader will encounter a great many Indian names. It will help to remember, first, that Hindus do not use surnames, and second, that many of them share the same final honorific. In a name such as Himat Singh, for example, Himat is the man’s real name; Singh means ‘lion’--indeed all male Sikh names end with Singh. Thus there are innumerable Singhs, Dasses, and Rams, etc., who are not related to each other. Fathers and sons do not have the same names, thus a man called Puran Lall might be the son of one called Nathu Ram. When reading this book it might make it easier to ignore the final part of a man’s name and think of him solely as Himat or Puran or Krishna.

  A second problem for the reader unfamiliar with the old Indian Army is the class of men known as Viceroy’s Commissioned Officers. The ranks of King’s Commissioned Officers were the same as in other armies, i.e., general, major, captain, etc.

  The ranks of non-commissioned officers can be directly translated. In the Indian cavalry and infantry, with which we will be dealing here, the equivalents were:

  Cavalry Infantry

  Private,trooper Sowar Sepoy

  Lance-corporal Acting Lance-Dafadar Lance-Naik

  Corporal Lance-Dafadar Naik

  Sergeant Dafadar Havildar

  Sergeant Major Dafadar-Major Havildar-Major

  Between the true officers and the NCOs, however, there existed (and still exists) in the Indian Army a unique class of men who, having come up through the non-commissioned ranks, received commissions not from the King but from the Viceroy of India. They wore swords, were addressed as ‘sahib’, received salutes, and had powers of command and punishment over all Indian soldiers; but they were subordinate to all officers holding the King’s commission. In those days, when all the King’s Commissioned Officers were British and all the enlisted men and NCOs were Indian they were the vital link between the two. Their grades, to which there are no equivalents in other armies, were:

  Jemadar (cavalry and infantry): wore the same badges as a second lieutenant

  Rissaldar (cavalry), or Subadar (infantry): wore the same badges as a lieutenant

  Rissaldar-Major, Subadar-Major: wore the same badges as a major.

  In this period there was no confusion between rissaldars and lieutenants because the latter would be young men with white faces, wearing sun helmets or peaked caps; the latter would be grizzled men with brown skins, wearing turbans.

  In the cavalry, rissaldars and jemadars commanded troops, or were seconds-in-command of squadrons, and also assisted in various staff duties. The quartermaster (a captain or lieutenant), for instance, would be assisted by a Jemadar-Quartermaster; the adjutant by a Jemadar-Adjutant (in the cavalry this man had the mysterious title of Woordie-Major, ‘the Uniform Major’); and the colonel was advised on all matters to do with the men’s religions and customs by the Rissaldar-Major.

  The private armies belonging to the Indian princes, which were known as Indian States Forces, were a special case again. Here all officers, of whatever type, would receive their commissions from their own ruler. If an Indian States Force regiment was incorporated into the regular army arrangements would have to be made to give the Maharajah’s commissions the same validity as King’s and Viceroy’s commissions. In the Great War one Indian States Force regiment, the Jodhpur Lancers, did actually go to France, and I should make clear that neither that regiment nor the State of Jodhpur has any relation to my purely imaginary Ravi Lancers and State of Ravi.

  Finally, the non-military reader might reasonably wish to be informed that a regiment was a homogeneous cavalry unit of about 600 men commanded by a lieutenant-colonel, the cavalry equivalent of an infantry battalion. The regiment was split up into squadrons of about 125 men and they into troops of about thirty. Regiments or battalions were grouped by threes or fours into brigades; and three brigades, with added artillery, engineers, signallers, etc. made a division.

  This book is wholly a work of fiction, and no reference is intended in it to any person, living or dead, except for the few obvious historical characters mentioned.

  I gratefully acknowledge the enormous help given me by Lieutenant-General Moti Sagar PVSM, late Colonel of the 4th Gorkha Rifles, and by Lieutenant-Colonel George Shipway, late of the 13th Lancers.

  J.M.

  January 1914

  ‘44th Bengal Lancers ... will march past! Regiment will advance in squadron column from the right ... Walk march! ‘

  The colonel’s voice came faint on the morning breeze to the extreme left of the line, where Warren Bateman sat erect on his charger in front of D Squadron. Fainter yet as his squadron completed the wheel he heard the voice of George Johnson ordering A Squadron to halt. The ranked lances ahead began to thicken as the squadrons, each in line, closed up on the leader. In their turn he heard Tinsley and Sheridan order their squadrons to halt. He eyed the distance to the rear of C ... thirty paces, twenty-five ...

  He raised his sabre straight above his head and shouted, ‘D Squadron ... halt! ‘

  The regiment stood in a dense mass, six hundred bamboo lances resting vertical by the riders’ knees, six hundred steel lance points glittering, six hundred red and white pennons fluttering. It was January 1st, 1914, and, as on every January 1st, the Army in India was parading to proclaim, once again, that the King of England was the Emperor of India. Here at Lahore, one regiment of Indian cavalry, one battery of British field artillery, one battalion of British infantry, and three battalions of Indian infantry, were now gathered in full dress, ready to march past the major-general commanding the district. It was eight o’clock in the morning, the low sun beginning to melt the frost off the sere grass round the huge parade ground.

  Warren glanced round to see that his squadron were in line and no one’s turban had fallen off. They were a magnificent sight. The full dress of the 44th Bengal Lancers was a long tunic of dark blue, faced with scarlet and piped with gold. Round the waist officers and men wore a cummerbund ten inches deep, the officers’ being made of brocaded gold silk, which cost them a hundred pounds each out of their own pockets, and the men’s of a bright yellow silk. The breeches were of white drill, the boots of black leather, the spur chains of gilded metal (the officers’ of gold); and the officers’ scabbard slings of gold brocaded cord. On their heads officers and men alike wore a turban wound of dark blue silk, with a gold spray fan rising on the left side. The sowars held in their right hand the lance, its foot set in a leather socket on the toe of their right stirrup iron. All officers, both those holding the King’s and the Viceroy’s commission, carried a drawn sabre in a yellow-gauntleted right hand, the back of the blade now resting on the right shoulder, gold sword knot wrapped around the wrist, the acorns dangling loose.

  Glancing towards the saluting base Warren saw that the massed bands were not yet ready. There would be a few minutes wait before the march past began. Behind his squadron the artillery battery was already in position. Behind it the Royal Oxford Fusiliers were marching up, and the Indian battalions stood ready to follow. He shifted his weight in the saddle as he heard his rissaldar hurl a vicious word of abuse at some man near the right of the line. He still felt stiff from yesterday’s polo match. He saw the members of the Dragoons’ team, yesterday’s opponents, on the saluting base, in mufti. It was good of them to come and watch the parade, after a riotous night, when they might have been in bed. They were a good team, twenty-two goals, and it had been a hard game, though not as hard as against the Ravi team the week before. That old Bholanath, the Rajah’s brother, was a really good player, and rode like a demon.r />
  The massed bands reached their allotted position. The infantry were formed in close column of companies. It wouldn’t be long now. The 44th looked good. He could actually see the pride of the squadrons in front of him, and feel the panache of his own behind him. The men were hard and fit, thoroughly disciplined, well trained. Every man could ride perfectly, and the horses were as good as any in the Indian Army. But--to what end? Was the goal of all this splendour, all this efficiency, just more cold-weather manoeuvres, such as were due to start in three days’ time, and would repeat themselves every successive cold weather until his retirement? And, once every ten years, perhaps, a half-hour scrap against ragged-arsed tribesmen on the North West Frontier? Polo tournaments, pigsticking, and endless talk about horses, horses, nothing but horses? He liked horses well enough himself, but could secretly sympathize with Joan when she said that his brother officers were no more intelligent than their mounts, and a lot less handsome. She was up there now, under the shamiana beside the saluting base, with Diana and the children. He thought he could just see her big hat through the forest of lances.

  He heard his colonel’s long-drawled order and the 44th Bengal Lancers moved off in column of squadrons, all together, the black horses’ necks curved, heads tossing and champing, bits jingling, curb chains chinking. The massed bands were playing the 44th’s regimental march, the Triumphal March from Aida. The squadrons advanced in order: A--Punjabi Mussulmans; B--Punjabi Mussulmans; C--Jat Sikhs; D--Rajputs. Behind the Lancers the 41st Field Battery of the Royal Artillery was moving too, the 18-pounders grinding along behind teams of matched bays, the British gunners riding the wheel horses or sitting upright on the limbers. Dust rose like haze over a morning sea, and the bodies of the horsemen seemed to rise out of it like seaborn gods, floating inexorably forward in a dense phalanx, scarlet and blue and gold, flashing steel above and the distant city rose-red in the morning light ahead.

  Warren Bateman came level with the saluting base and shouted, ‘D Squadron, eyes ... right! ‘ He turned his own head and circled his sabre round and down. Major-General Glover raised his hand once more to the peak of his plumed cocked hat, and then was hidden by the right hand men of the squadron’s front rank. There were Joan and Diana and the children, waving to him. He counted ten and shouted, ‘D Squadron, eyes ... front! ‘

  One part of the parade over without disaster, he thought, remembering the time Sowar Chattar Singh fell off his horse slap in front of the Viceroy, or the time George Johnson rode his squadron into a battalion of infantry.

  Up in front A Squadron was forming squadron column to the left. The rest would follow in turn, until the regiment was tracking the boundary of the parade ground back to its original position, while the infantry marched past. The artillery was clear of the saluting base now and the Fusiliers coming on. The bands switched to their regimental march, Lillibulero.

  Warren stifled a yawn. After his years with the Burma Military Police peacetime soldiering with the regiment lacked any real incentive. One did the same things over and over again, and of course in the end did them perfectly ... but that was boring, and who could be sure they were doing the right things? One certainly had more independence than in the British service, but all the same, for a captain of thirty-four, with fourteen years’ service, to be worrying about how to account for two lost stirrup leathers, worth 8 rupees 4 annas, was ridiculous. The officers were a band of brothers, all right, trusting one another to the hilt, but ... the mental horizon was narrow compared with his lonely years with Joan in Burma, when there seemed to be no limit to the discoveries they could make about the country, and its people, and even about themselves. He’d tried to range as far here in India but--from inside the regiment--it was difficult. Perhaps he’d retire and study Indian history and literature. But what would he live on? Joan kept on saying it didn’t matter, something would turn up, she would make a fortune writing poetry or painting pictures ... alas, none of that could be relied on to educate Louise or send Rodney to Wellington.

  ‘C Squadron ... halt! ‘

  He started, and hurriedly shouted, ‘D Squadron ... halt! ‘ He had almost repeated George Johnson’s gaffe. Major Boyd-Carter was shouting at him from behind the squadron, ‘You went too close, Captain Bateman! Hold back when the gallop past begins, to your proper distance.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he called.

  He wheeled Ploughman round and surveyed his squadron, while the big black gelding shifted and fidgeted under him. The line was good. ‘Look to your stirrups and girths, lads,’ he called out in Hindustani. The men transferred their reins to their lance hands and felt under their saddles, first on one side then the other, to make sure girths and stirrup leathers were secure and tight. A gallop-past by a full regiment of cavalry was an exhilarating affair to take part in and an awesome spectacle to watch, but it was also damned dangerous. It was twelve years since a slipped girth had thrown a sowar off during a gallop-past, but everyone knew what had happened to him: instant death under the hoofs of the rear rank.

  ‘Sab thik hai, rissaldar sahib?’

  ‘Sab thik hai, sahib,’ the rissaldar responded from behind the squadron.

  The bands were playing Lutzow’s Wild March at a hectic speed.

  The green-clad mass of Gurkhas, who marched at that pace, was approaching the saluting base. Five minutes later the bands fell silent. Artillery and infantry lined the left side of the parade ground, a wall of blue and scarlet, Frontier-drab and Rifle green.

  Colonel Woodward sang out the long-vowelled orders: ‘44th Bengal Lancers will gallop past! By the right, walk ... march! ‘

  The band again struck up Aida. Ploughman’s powerful quarters tensed and he began to move as though he had understood the colonel’s distant order. The sun was a hot arm across Warren’s shoulders now, and dust blew away in dancing spirals down the length of the parade ground towards the city.

  ‘Trot!’

  The squadrons jingled into a trot, and Warren thrust himself deeper into the saddle. The bands changed into the Light Cavalry Overture.

  ‘Canter! ‘

  His legs squeezed Ploughman’s flanks and the huge horse bounded forward. Ahead the rigid lines of the squadrons bent, and at once straightened again, like bow strings. The dust towered higher than the horses’ heads, the thunder of hoofs blurred the blare of the bands. Quarter of a mile to go, his black-mustachioed Rajputs galloping shoulder to shoulder behind him, the bearded Sikhs ahead. Now he was racing past the stand, the frenzied trumpets of Light Cavalry loud in his ears. He felt a momentary exhilaration ... But this was all make-believe. Would he ever see enemy ahead, the lances lowering, his sabre slashing down?

  The commands filtered down ... Trot! ... Walk march!... Form troop column! The review was over, the regiment riding back to its lines. The sun was high and he had a tolerable thirst on him.

  An hour later he was sitting at the head of the dining-room table in his bungalow, dressed now in dark grey flannel trousers and a light-weight tweed jacket, with a white shirt and the tie of his old school, Marlborough. A copy of the day’s Civil & Military Gazette lay beside his plate and the khitmatgar was helping him to grilled kidneys, bacon, and fried eggs. His wife Joan sat on his right and his sister Diana on his left, both already eating. The children sat in high chairs at the foot of the table, with ayah standing between them, helping them to eat.

  ‘That was a wonderful thing to see, Warrie,’ his sister said. ‘The gallop past. But it was frightening, too.’

  ‘And probably quite useless,’ Joan said, lifting her tea cup. ‘The army always gets ready for the last war but one.’

  Warren said, ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’ll still be cavalry charges.’

  Joan said, ‘Tribesmen aren’t going to stay and be charged at, and any European army would have guns and machine guns. But let’s not talk about war. It’s such a bore, almost as bad as horses. What time are we going to Shalimar?’

  Warren pulled out his watch, and said, ‘Noon? Is that al
l right?’

  Joan nodded, her mouth full of bacon. The two women were as different as could be: Joan tall and long-nosed, willowy, dressed now--as on the parade ground--in a diaphanous white gown gathered high under her bosom, her hair down, loosely controlled by a broad scarlet ribbon. She looked like a Greek poetess or a prominent courtesan of the French Directory, anything but what she was, the wife of a captain of Indian cavalry. Diana, two years younger, was built more like himself, not short but giving an impression more of solidity than of height, her dark brown hair neat, her clothes inconspicuous in browns and dull greens, her rather large hands now resting on the table. She’d spent six months with them now, here in Lahore and in the hill station of Dalhousie, but no luck. Most of the eligible bachelors weren’t attracted, seeming to want something more flashy; and to the only one who showed any interest, Diana was polite but distant. ‘She doesn’t really want to get married,’ Joan had said to him one night, ‘not unless she can find another Warren.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ he’d replied; but perhaps there was a bit of truth in it. Diana had always worshipped him.

  A small brown fox-terrier face, with a white eye patch, peered round the open door from the hall. Warren pointed his finger and said, ‘Out, Shikari! You know you’re not allowed in the dining-room.’

  The face disappeared. Diana got up, ‘I’ll take him for a little walk ... and Louise and Rodney. Come on, children.’

  The khitmatgar stood motionless against the wall behind Warren. Joan gestured for more hot water and he silently disappeared. Warren said, ‘We’d better start thinking about what you’re going to take home. There’ll only be a fortnight after I get back from camp ... You’re going to find Shrewford Pennel rather lonely, I’m afraid. No one to talk to. Not your sort of people, I mean.’

  Joan said, ‘There’s Ralph. He was hardly more than a boy when I met him, but he seemed interesting ... unusual, anyway.’