Part 15

The Oriental smiled. “It is not the provocation that we deal with, but the losing of oneself in anger. Nothing remains to us but the fact that Amritsar lost its self-control.”

“You think the Little Man will be unhappy about what has happened, when he comes?”

“Mahatma-ji was arrested this morning at Kosi, served with an order not to enter Punjab, nor the district of Delhi, but to confine himself to the Bombay Presidency.”

Dicky studied his friend. He couldn’t help feeling if Nagar had been at the Hallgate Bridge---- Finally he spoke:

“I’m just a reporter, Nagar. I’m not granting that Gandhi knows it all or that the natives to-day are all right, and the English all wrong. Still, I can’t help wondering at what you ask of your people--as a reporter would ask, you understand. They turned the other cheek! They took the first volley and the second. I was there. No man has three cheeks. I saw it all in that minute between the second and third firing.”

Nagar’s hand pressed his and Dicky lowered his voice, though his tone had not been loud.

“Anything might have happened that instant had there been a bit of leadership,” he added. “The people wanted to talk to their father--the Deputy. You would have wept for their forbearance, or stupidity, as you like. Their dead were at their feet, the cries of the wounded in their ears, and still they weren’t maddened. They only wanted to show their _faryad_. If there had been the right Englishman on the spot--why, the crowd would have been allowed to go forward with its document. I’ve an idea that it was something dangerously like funk that caused that third volley, and that nobody will ever be so sorry for what happened to-day, as England herself. I call it human the way your people lost their heads.”

“Mahatma-ji’s ideal isn’t human, Richard. It is of the Soul. We shall suffer and India shall suffer--for to-day.”

“I’ve got a lot to learn about this man’s India. I can see that,” the American said queerly.

XLIV

THE SLATE AND THE SPONGE

PIDGE was choosing a serial for _The Public Square_. The choice lay now between two manuscripts on the desk before her eyes. One was by a maker of the “new” American literature, named Carver, who had dared to perform the work in one sustained, slow movement, bound to ward off excessive popularity, a thing of drabs and tans and grays, but earnest, even in its hopelessness. It consistently portrayed a cross section of life, a fine piece of human observation, but altogether unlit with intuition.

The other book was a novel of New York, by a woman whose name was entirely unheard of. This manuscript had been refused several times as a serial in the past year, and several times as a book prospect. The letters of refusal from the different editors were also on Pidge Musser’s desk. One said, “This book is too much of a gamble for an unknown name.” The united opinion of all professional readers was that this story was unquestionably an augur for the future of the novelist, rather than a compelling announcement of her arrival.

In her own heart, Pidge believed that the woman’s story would interest more readers than Carver’s. Also, _The Public Square_ would be saved considerable money in taking the woman’s story, for Carver stood out for rather a high price for his first American serial rights.

“It isn’t the freedom of ignorance,” she said at last, about the lower-priced book, “but it isn’t the freedom of knowledge, either. ‘A man is crippled while he’s learning technic.’... No, I can’t take the chance!”

So the novel by the unknown woman went back to Harrow Street with its refusals, and found a resting place in the drawer under the mirror that waved; and only Miss Claes and the author, herself, knew who was hurt.

* * * * *

Mr. Adolph Musser, in New York with his daughter, began to have callers. The two small upper rooms in Harrow Street were not adapted for callers, even in the adaptable Village. Especially this was so because an adopted male child of one year was rooted and ramifying in the place. One of the ramifications was a female lodger and one-time nurse who looked after the child while Pidge was away at the office. Mr. Musser, during his first week in New York, before he found an apartment in the Sixties, had pronounced this woman too heavy-footed to live with.

Though Pidge had received an important increase of salary, dating from the first of this year of 1919, she did not find herself in a greatly improved condition when the additional expenses of nurse and her father’s separate maintenance were considered. However, something happened which she had not foreseen. Mr. Adolph Musser became rapidly self-supporting. According to his predictions, New York proved to be suffering from a “biological hunger and thirst” for his very sort of metaphysic. Los Angeles had been sated. One had merely to move from temple to temple in Los Angeles. Cultists of all colors were there; light-bringers from all lands. Mr. Musser, according to predictions, found New York a virgin oil field and he was not long in getting his derricks up.

Late in May there was a letter from Richard Cobden, mailed at Bombay in early April. Though it was written to Pidge personally she saw in it Dicky’s first real work, his first actual grasp and retention of essentials, to her idea. It opened to her, also, the lineaments of the Big Story they had talked so much about. She read the letter through twice on the day it arrived, and that night took it home to read to Miss Claes, who came to the upper room in the latter part of the evening, as she had come to hear _The Lance of the Rivernais_, over five years ago. Their faces were close together, and Pidge read low and rapidly:

I have been with Gandhi several times in the past three days, and early to-morrow I start north for Amritsar to join Nagar. I hadn’t thought of writing this until just now, on my way to bed, and the subject of the Little Man suddenly filled me. I feel an unadulterated American to-night, and there may be an advantage, at least an angle, in a study of Gandhi from that point.... He is very ill, can scarcely stand, but more than ever full of his kind of light and power. In the last three days with him, I have come to understand _you_ as never before--and America and the American soldier. I have found out, Pidge, what you mean by stating and living the fact, that it isn’t how much one knows that counts, but how much one does. Gandhi is a doer. I used to hear in church something about the Spirit being made flesh, and now I’ve got an inkling of what that means. Gandhi’s genius doesn’t dream. _It does._ The sun shines on all India, but Gandhi has become a lens. The rays focalize through him. The ground burns under his feet.... He is called a bigot, a fanatic, a living Blue Law, and it is all true, Pidge. He is drawn in black and white. He has no half-tones, no twilights, no afterglows. He is devoid of atmosphere as the moon. His lines of light and shadow are never blent or diffused. He is vivid noon where his light strikes, densest night where light ends.... It is not that he loathes the West, but that he knows the East. He has become a specialist, as Nagar says repeatedly. He has withdrawn his attention from the world to India, Herself. He has brought in his eyes from the future, to the Now. He sees the next step which India must take, and leaves to the dreamers of the world to point out the glories and the penalties. He stands in the road in front of India to-day, like a man before a runaway horse----

Dicky had ended the letter suddenly, saying he was sleepy, but had more to say later. The two women talked low, because of _another_ in the room. This other was not to be disturbed. They stood over him now. He would not have approved at all of their gayety and know-it-all manner, had he been awake. His lids were down, however; the black curving lashes reposed in their hollows; the world, which was the big horse he must some time ride, was away minding its own business.

“I’m glad to hear this much before I go----” Miss Claes stopped and took both of Pidge’s hands.

“Before you go--where?”

“This little slate of Harrow Street is all written over. It is to be rubbed out now, Pidge. My part is finished here--I don’t know how well, but it’s finished. I am leaving New York.”

“Why, that--that seems--insupportable!... Why, I thought anything could happen but that--to my New York!”

“Only you are to know, dear,” Miss Claes said moments afterward. “Yes, it is India----”

“To Nagar--you are to be with him--the Hills!”

“Don’t, Pidge. It isn’t for words----”

“Forgive me----”

“These are terrible days for India. It means work--work--tests for every one’s courage. Little Harrow Street is still and steady, compared.... But this is dear to me--the thought that I go ahead to make ready for you another place to come----”

“My upper room,” said Pidge softly. “My upper room.”

XLV

AMRITSAR, APRIL 13, 1919

TOWARD the end of the afternoon of Sunday, the 13th, Richard Cobden ordered a carriage. He was still bandaged about the head, his left arm in a sling. This was his first descent from the room since his hurts on the 10th, and meanwhile General Fyatt had taken control of the city, bringing in troops from nearby stations. Dicky had met Fyatt in France, and was on his way now to pay his respects to the General at his Headquarters in the Ram Bagh. He was getting it very clearly just now that if it were observed that he had any sort of affiliation with the natives, he would promptly be placed out of reach of all Punjabi events, even as a spectator.

The American was personally and intensely interested in Nagar and Gandhi, but still he did not feel that he had taken sides in the least. He looked upon Gandhi’s work as visionary, and the work of the British in India as substantial, and the more likely to endure. He had seen Nagar but a moment or two each day since the 10th, and had kept in touch with developments through the English sources.

The air was still furiously hot, though it was after four in the afternoon. The streets were crowded, this being the day of the _Baisaki_ fair, and thousands were in from the country. Dicky heard the roar of a ’plane over the city, and craned out of the window of his half-closed carriage for a glance at its flight. The pilot was making circles over a point at a little distance ahead--a low peculiar hovering.

Dicky inquired of his driver the meaning, and was told that the ’plane appeared to be hanging over the great crowd assembled in the Jallianwalla Bagh--that thousands of the visitors attending the fair were there, listening to the speakers, as well as many townsfolk.

“But didn’t the General give orders for no public assemblies?”

The driver had not heard. Dicky reflected that the ’plane didn’t appear to be there for the amusement of a crowd--no circus ’plane, but an effective bit of government property, rather, with an air of business. It rose now and vanished over the city.

The carriage continued on the way to the Ram Bagh, until it was halted for the passage of troops in the street. A half-hundred Gurkhas and Baluchees, two motor cars with English officers and civilians, the whole outfit trailed by a pair of armored cars, and moving in the direction where the government ’plane had hovered.

“Where are they going?” Dicky asked of his driver.

The man was not sure, but suggested the Jallianwalla Bagh.

“What is that place?”

“It is a _maidan_,” the man said, “a big open square, a public place.”

“Public square,” Dicky muttered. “Turn in short after the armored cars,” he commanded the driver. “Follow close.”

“Ram Bagh is not so.”

It is a difficult proceeding, requiring formalities, to alter one’s orders in Asia.

“Listen. I am changing my purpose. Not Ram Bagh, but Jallianwalla. Turn in after the soldiers--now!”

The driver obeyed, but was hurt and murmuring.

To Dicky, that afternoon, Amritsar was a place of heated and offensive stenches. As they passed through hot and narrow streets, certain of these odors startled his comprehension, because they were so subtly vindictive. The thought occurred to him, as he watched the naked children playing in the wet shadows, of what a correspondent had remarked in Cawnpore: that it was hard to tell whether the streets soiled the children, or the children soiled the streets. The movement forward was very slow, and Dicky bent to inquire at length if they were still moving toward Jallianwalla Bagh.

“Yes, it is very near,” said the driver, churning at the lines with both hands.

The American did not let himself think further. He fell into his old queer absorption; the reporter of his makeup taking him over. He shut out Amritsar from mind; the Native Idea, the English Idea, and his own that hovered between. He was just a stranger in a half-closed carriage looking out from under a bandaged brow. He heard the flies in the air. He did not seem to have any mental guard to shut out that distracting buzz--flies winging across the vapors of filth. They came to a narrow lane, a _kucha_, the driver called it. The armored cars ahead were having difficulty in this constricted place. Finally they halted and Dicky heard a British soldier on the nearest turret call out that the cars could proceed no further.

His own carriage was of course blocked. The _kucha_ appeared less than eight feet wide. He was still lame, and had not intended to do much walking about in the furious heat, but beyond the armored cars he had glimpsed the Gurkhas filing forward and the officers stepping out of their machines. He let himself to the ground, ordered the driver to wait, and followed the soldiers through the wet trampled lane.

A minute later he was in the broken ranks of the Gurkhas--little muttering men with big sprawly hands holding fast to their rifles, fingers running loosely over breech and stock and barrel. The halt had come because there was a sudden rise to the ground--a mound of earth closing the lane, and running at angles to each side. The soldiers were ordered up and deployed along the mound; equally divided to the right and left.

Now Richard Cobden, in the midst of the officers and civilians who had occupied the two motor cars, also gained the eminence with some pains; and at this point he saw the man he had started out to find that afternoon--General Fyatt, a significant picture, indeed, here in Amritsar, who had been but a small obscure exhibit in the broad gallery of France.

Fyatt didn’t see him, and the American looked over the vast assembly of natives in the burning light. On a raised frame toward the center, a Sikh speaker stood. Dicky could hear his words, but did not understand. He saw, however, that the coming of the soldiers had interrupted the tenor of the speech and that many of the people were frightened and drawing away. An English officer beside him, after listening a moment, spoke with an ironical laugh:

“_We have nothing to fear. Sarkar is our father and our mother. Government would not injure its children_----”

Dicky realized that the young officer had quoted a translation of words the Sikh speaker had just spoken to the people--from twelve to fifteen thousand in the _maidan_, he reckoned. All faces were now turned to the soldiers--waves of faces. It was as if the color of a tree had changed by a steady pressure of wind that showed the under side of all the leaves. A nervous laugh from the young Englishman who had interpreted; then from General Fyatt, the low single sentence:

“You may give the order.”

“Fire!” the young officer called to his Gurkhas.

To Richard Cobden it was quite incredible, but another officer on the far side of the lane repeated the command, and the line of leveled rifles spurted on either side. Dicky winced at the crashes. He had been in the firing pits many times, but one can never remember how these concussions close by hurt one’s head and spine.... Of course, they were firing blanks. This was Martial Law. The people had been ordered not to assemble and they had disobeyed--twelve thousand of them, or more. General Fyatt had undertaken to impress upon them that his word was Law, Martial Law. Of course, this was also the English answer to April 10th, at the Hallgate Bridge. A bit uncouth to stampede a big crowd like this.

Surely Fyatt couldn’t have realized what this firing of blanks would mean.

They were trampling themselves to death already. This wasn’t English humor. It was more like the fool who yells, “Fire!” in a packed theater.

The great open place was walled. There were no broad exits. The several narrow vents had locked of themselves by the pressing of bodies against them. “Why,” Dicky thought, with a wrench and shiver at the sight of the monster throng in the process of constricting itself, “why, this is a womb of death!”

Cries were sustained at the end of this April holiday--cries of battle and accident and pestilence, the cries from a great ship going down.

Dicky thought of a pot beginning to boil. He thought of a yard of leaves suddenly caught in a swirling wind. He thought of all the old stale similes used and over-used since bloodshed began, and his mind sank back in the hollow of hopelessness. It couldn’t be told, but his faculties tried again and again, even though his heart sobbed with the people.

A great square of colored cloths in the sunlight--from twelve to fifteen thousand human beings listening to a man who cried out against violence, who cried out that _Sarkar_ couldn’t hurt his children--suddenly being ground in the great crush of Fear, being sprayed with rifle fire--blanks, of course--but to a result almost as deadly, for the people were destroying each other. They didn’t mean to, but they were trampling each other to death. Thus his mind viewed and reviewed--all this in a matter of seconds.

Now Mr. Cobden saw something he didn’t understand. Down in the _maidan_ on the ground, not fifty feet away--a giant Sikh in white turban, running forward with raised hands, like a messenger--a close-up possibly for Dicky’s eyes alone--suddenly halted, spun and slapped limply to the ground with a curving fling. A glorious fall, if it had been a bit of acting--the fall a man makes when a bullet hits him.

But Dicky was quite possessed with the idea that the soldiers were firing blanks.

At this point, an English officer roared at his Gurkhas, who apparently had been firing high. His words were in vernacular, but the American saw the little dark men shorten their range.

Thus it dawned upon him slowly, as if he were a very stupid man, that Fyatt was punishing Amritsar indeed--in fact, that the General was making a day of it. Also at the same time it dawned upon him that the public square was walled. He had seen the wall before, partly formed of buildings, but it hadn’t properly registered in connection with the words of the twisted ascetic of Cawnpore.

Now he knew also that the several narrow throats of the walled square, none so wide as the _kucha_ through which he had entered, had become points of intensified death, because the great throng had divided to crush itself against these impossible apertures. The English officers appeared to be directing the fire of the soldiers toward these points where the maddened masses were most dense.

Almost directly across the square the wall was low, less than six feet. Hundreds were jammed against it, but their bodies were so locked by the pressure from behind that no one could climb or be pushed over into safety.

The Gurkhas looked like monkey men. They stamped queerly as they pumped. They were being told what to do and were in a great concentration to obey exactly. They emptied their magazines, each man taking his own time, and halted to fill them again, carefully avoiding with their fingers the burning metal of the barrels, as they refilled and fired.

An English civilian, an elderly man, face livid, bumped Cobden’s wounded shoulder, as he lurched past, muttering:

“My God! I can’t watch this.”

Another Englishman followed him, venting an hysterical laughter--both faces Dicky had seen in one of the motor cars. For an instant it seemed the only sane action left in the world--to rush out into the lane the way he had come, as these Englishmen were doing, to cover face and ears, to rush forth, to continue to the ends of India and the uttermost parts of the earth.

Dicky started to follow, but turned back.... No, he wouldn’t rush off to be sick. This was the wall that he was to come to. It was something else.... What was it? Oh, yes, it was the Big Story that he had been pacing up and down the world to find.... Of course, it would be like this. He would find himself in the midst of it, without knowing at first.

He ducked forward under the rifles of three _sepoys_ to reach the staff. He couldn’t go away without paying his respects to the General. Was not this what he had started out for to-day? He stumbled over a soldier on his knees--a Baluchee, vomiting with all his might. He saw Fyatt a few paces forward--Fyatt, grizzled, square-shouldered, behind a field glass. A mocking laugh rose in Richard Cobden’s heart. A man didn’t need a field glass to cover the _maidan_. One could see the faces; one could see the fallen; one could see the writhing cords of human bodies. Oh, no, one didn’t need a field glass. One could see the thousands on the _maidan_ now--as one up-turned face, the face of a child betrayed, but unable to believe. Fyatt merely chose this way to cover his own face. His back looked stiff and blocky as he swung slowly around behind the glasses. His shoulders and neck didn’t move. He turned from the hips, Dicky perceived, as he touched the General’s sleeve.

XLVI

THE HOOKED MAN

A NOTE of unison had come to the great cry from the people at this moment--one note that tugged at the white man’s soul--the deadly hurt of a child.... General Fyatt was not tall for a soldier, with square lines of figure; square of chin and temple and shoulder and elbow, pivoting on his hips. But there were two remarkable curves in the ensemble, the sidewise curve of the hooked nose and the bow of his booted legs. Now as the American stood by, a new key presented itself to the man--that hooked smile. It opened other hooks--hook of the eye-corner, as well as the corner of the mouth and the bent nose, hook of the fingers on the field glass. The face turned to him--a white welt from the glasses on the bridge of the nose.

Dicky felt the horrible slowness over everything--that somehow there was not in this man’s volition the power to order the firing to cease. No recognition showed in Fyatt’s eyes. He stared. It was like the man who had stared at him on the docks in Bombay, when he heard that America had entered the War.

“Well, sir!”

Dicky felt rebuked. Then came to his ears again the terrible drowning cry of the children, and he saw Fyatt differently--not as England; at least, not all of England--a black crooked finger operating merely--the face of England turned away.

“I only wanted to ask----” Dicky stopped and raised his voice above the tumult of shots and voices. “Cobden of New York--saw you in France!”

It was utterly ridiculous to yell one’s identity. He had forgotten that his face might look different under a bandage. The field glass that had been partly raised again was whipped down. The hooks tightened.

“Ah, Cobden. Heard you were in town. Busy, you know!”

“I see!” the American yelled back. He felt like a maniac. “I see! I merely wanted to ask, General, if you had gone mad--or have I?”

* * * * *

A young officer ran between them reporting that the ammunition was running out.

“Sixteen hundred and fifty rounds, sir. Mainly used up. Some of the men finished----”

“Ease them off back to the armored cars. Let the others finish firing--fire low.”

“Not much wasted--only at first, sir!”