WITH THE CALCUTTA POLICE.
"The City was of Night--perchance of Death,
But certainly of Night."
--_The City of Dreadful Night._
In the beginning, the Police were responsible. They said in a
patronising way that they would prefer to take a wanderer round the
great city themselves, sooner than let him contract a broken head on his
own account in the slums. They said that there were places and places
where a white man, unsupported by the arm of the Law, would be robbed
and mobbed; and that there were other places where drunken seamen would
make it very unpleasant for him.
"Come up to the fire look-out in the first place, and then you'll be
able to see the city." This was at No. 22, Lal Bazar, which is the
headquarters of the Calcutta Police, the centre of the great web of
telephone wires where Justice sits all day and all night looking after
one million people and a floating population of one hundred thousand.
But her work shall be dealt with later on. The fire look-out is a little
sentry-box on the top of the three-storied police offices. Here a native
watchman waits to give warning to the brigade below if the smoke rises
by day or the flames by night in any ward of the city. From this eyrie,
in the warm night, one hears the heart of Calcutta beating. Northward,
the city stretches away three long miles, with three more miles of
suburbs beyond, to Dum-Dum and Barrackpore. The lamplit dusk on this
side is full of noises and shouts and smells. Close to the Police
Office, jovial mariners at the sailors' coffee-shop are roaring hymns.
Southerly, the city's confused lights give place to the orderly
lamp-rows of the _maidan_ and Chowringhi, where the respectabilities
live and the Police have very little to do. From the east goes up to the
sky the clamour of Sealdah, the rumble of the trams, and the voices of
all Bow Bazar chaffering and making merry. Westward are the business
quarters, hushed now; the lamps of the shipping on the river; and the
twinkling lights on the Howrah side. "Does the noise of traffic go on
all through the hot weather?" "Of course. The hot months are the busiest
in the year and money's tightest. You should see the brokers cutting
about at that season. Calcutta _can't_ stop, my dear sir." "What happens
then?" "Nothing happens; the death-rate goes up a little. That's all!"
Even in February, the weather would, up-country, be called muggy and
stifling, but Calcutta is convinced that it is her cold season. The
noises of the city grow perceptibly; it is the night side of Calcutta
waking up and going abroad. Jack in the sailors' coffee-shop is singing
joyously: "Shall we gather at the River--the beautiful, the beautiful,
the River?" There is a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard below. Some of
the Mounted Police have come in from somewhere or other out of the great
darkness. A clog-dance of iron hoofs follows, and an Englishman's voice
is heard soothing an agitated horse who seems to be standing on his
hind legs. Some of the Mounted Police are going out into the great
darkness. "What's on?" "A dance at Government House. The Reserve men are
being formed up below. They're calling the roll." The Reserve men are
all English, and big English at that. They form up and tramp out of the
courtyard to line Government Place, and see that Mrs. Lollipop's
brougham does not get smashed up by Sirdar Chuckerbutty Bahadur's
lumbering C-spring barouche with the two raw Walers. Very military men
are the Calcutta European Police in their set-up, and he who knows their
composition knows some startling stories of gentleman-rankers and the
like. They are, despite the wearing climate they work in and the wearing
work they do, as fine a five-score of Englishmen as you shall find east
of Suez.
Listen for a moment from the fire look-out to the voices of the night,
and you will see why they must be so. Two thousand sailors of fifty
nationalities are adrift in Calcutta every Sunday, and of these perhaps
two hundred are distinctly the worse for liquor. There is a mild row
going on, even now, somewhere at the back of Bow Bazar, which at
nightfall fills with sailormen who have a wonderful gift of falling foul
of the native population. To keep the Queen's peace is of course only a
small portion of Police duty, but it is trying. The burly president of
the lock-up for European drunks--Calcutta central lock-up is worth
seeing--rejoices in a sprained thumb just now, and has to do his work
left-handed in consequence. But his left hand is a marvellously
persuasive one, and when on duty his sleeves are turned up to the
shoulder that the jovial mariner may see that there is no deception. The
president's labours are handicapped in that the road of sin to the
lock-up runs through a grimy little garden--the brick paths are worn
deep with the tread of many drunken feet--where a man can give a great
deal of trouble by sticking his toes into the ground and getting mixed
up with the shrubs. A straight run-in would be much more convenient both
for the president and the drunk. Generally speaking--and here Police
experience is pretty much the same all over the civilised world--a
woman-drunk is a good deal worse than a man-drunk. She scratches and
bites like a Chinaman and swears like several fiends. Strange people may
be unearthed in the lock-ups. Here is a perfectly true story, not three
weeks old. A visitor, an unofficial one, wandered into the native side
of the spacious accommodation provided for those who have gone or done
wrong. A wild-eyed Babu rose from the fixed charpoy and said in the best
of English, "Good morning, sir." "_Good_ morning. Who are you, and what
are you in for?" Then the Babu, in one breath: "I would have you know
that I do not go to prison as a criminal but as a reformer. You've read
the _Vicar of Wakefield_?" "Ye-es." "Well, _I_ am the Vicar of
Bengal--at least that's what I call myself." The visitor collapsed. He
had not nerve enough to continue the conversation. Then said the voice
of the authority: "He's down in connection with a cheating case at
Serampore. May be shamming insane, but he'll be looked to in time."
The best place to hear about the Police is the fire look-out. From that
eyrie one can see how difficult must be the work of control over the
great, growling beast of a city. By all means let us abuse the Police,
but let us see what the poor wretches have to do with their three
thousand natives and one hundred Englishmen. From Howrah and Bally and
the other suburbs at least a hundred thousand people come in to Calcutta
for the day and leave at night. Then, too, Chandernagore is handy for
the fugitive law-breaker, who can enter in the evening and get away
before the noon of the next day, having marked his house and broken into
it.
"But how can the prevalent offence be house-breaking in a place like
this?" "Easily enough. When you've seen a little of the city you'll see.
Natives sleep and lie about all over the place, and whole quarters are
just so many rabbit-warrens. Wait till you see the Machua Bazar. Well,
besides the petty theft and burglary, we have heavy cases of forgery and
fraud, that leave us with our wits pitted against a Bengali's. When a
Bengali criminal is working a fraud of the sort he loves, he is about
the cleverest soul you could wish for. He gives us cases a year long to
unravel. Then there are the murders in the low houses--very curious
things they are. You'll see the house where Sheikh Babu was murdered
presently, and you'll understand. The Burra Bazar and Jora Bagan
sections are the two worst ones for heavy cases; but Colootollah is the
most aggravating. There's Colootollah over yonder--that patch of
darkness beyond the lights. That section is full of tuppenny-ha'penny
petty cases, that keep the men up all night and make 'em swear. You'll
see Colootollah, and then perhaps you'll understand. Bamun Bustee is the
quietest of all, and Lal Bazar and Bow Bazar, as you can see for
yourself, are the rowdiest. You've no notion what the natives come to
the police station for. A man will come on and want a summons against
his master for refusing him half-an-hour's leave. I suppose it _does_
seem rather revolutionary to an up-country man, but they try to do it
here. Now wait a minute, before we go down into the city and see the
Fire Brigade turned out. Business is slack with them just now, but you
time 'em and see." An order is given, and a bell strikes softly thrice.
There is a rush of men, the click of a bolt, a red fire-engine, spitting
and swearing with the sparks flying from the furnace, is dragged out of
its shelter. A huge brake, which holds supplementary horses, men, and
hatchets, follows, and a hose-cart is the third on the list. The men
push the heavy things about as though they were pith toys. The men
clamber up, some one says softly, "All ready there," and with an angry
whistle the fire-engine, followed by the other two, flies out into Lal
Bazar. Time--1 min. 40 secs. "They'll find out it's a false alarm, and
come back again in five minutes." "Why?" "Because there will be no
constables on the road to give 'em the direction of the fire, and
because the driver wasn't told the ward of the outbreak when he went
out!" "Do you mean to say that you can from this absurd pigeon-loft
locate the wards in the night-time?" "What would be the good of a
look-out if the man couldn't tell where the fire was?" "But it's all
pitchy black, and the lights are so confusing."
"You'll be more confused in ten minutes. You'll have lost your way as
you never lost it before. You're going to go round Bow Bazar section."
"And the Lord have mercy on my soul!" Calcutta, the darker portion of
it, does not look an inviting place to dive into at night.