A STRANGE PARTY
The road to Ham turned off the main highway south of Aire. It was a
narrow clay road in unspeakable condition. The car wallowed along.
Once we took a wrong turning and were obliged to go back and start
again.
It was still raining. Indian horsemen beat their way stolidly along
the road. We passed through hamlets where cavalry horses in ruined
stables were scantily protected, where the familiar omnibuses of
London were parked in what appeared to be hundreds. The cocoa and
other advertisements had been taken off and they had been hastily
painted a yellowish grey. Here and there we met one on the road,
filled and overflowing with troops, and looking curiously like the
"rubber-neck wagons" of New York.
Aside from the transports and a few small Indian ammunition carts,
with open bodies made of slats, and drawn by two mules, with an
impassive turbaned driver calling strange words to his team, there was
no sign of war. No bombarding disturbed the heavy atmosphere; no
aëroplanes were overhead. There was no barbed wire, no trenches. Only
muddy sugarbeet fields on each side of the narrow road, a few winter
trees, and the beat of the rain on the windows.
At last, with an extra lurch, the car drew up in the village of Ham.
At a gate in a brick wall a Scotch soldier in kilts, carrying a rifle,
came forward. Our errand was explained and he went off to find Makand
Singh, a major in the Lahore Lancers and in charge of the post.
It was a curious picture that I surveyed through the opened door of
the car. We were in the centre of the village, and at the intersection
of a crossroads was a tall cross with a life-size Christ. Underneath
the cross, in varying attitudes of dampness and curiosity, were a
dozen Indians, Mohammedans by faith. Some of them held horses which,
in spite of the rain, they had been exercising. One or two wore long
capes to the knees, with pointed hoods which fitted up over their
great turbans. Bearded men with straight, sensitive noses and oval
faces, even the absurdity of the cape and pointed hood failed to
lessen their dignity. They were tall, erect, soldierly looking, and
they gazed at me with the bland gravity of the East.
Makand Singh came hastily forward, a splendid figure of a man, six
foot two or thereabout, and appearing even taller by reason of his
turban. He spoke excellent English.
"It is very muddy for a lady to alight," he said, and instructed one
of the men to bring bags of sacking, which were laid in the road.
"You are seeing us under very unfavourable conditions," he said as he
helped me to alight. "But there is a fire if you are cold."
I was cold. So Makand Singh led the way to his living quarters. To go
to them it was necessary to pass through a long shed, which was now a
stable for perhaps a dozen horses. At a word of command the Indian
grooms threw themselves against the horses' heads and pushed them
back. By stepping over the ground pegs to which they were tethered I
got through the shed somehow and into a small yard.
Makand Singh turned to the right, and, throwing open the low door of a
peasant's house, stood aside to allow me to enter. "It is not very
comfortable," he explained, "but it is the best we have."
He was so tall that he was obliged to stoop as he entered the doorway.
Within was an ordinary peasant's kitchen, but cleaner than the
average. In spite of the weather the floor boards were freshly
scrubbed. The hearth was swept, and by the stove lay a sleek
tortoise-shell cat. There was a wooden dresser, a chimney shelf with
rows of plates standing on it, and in a doorway just beyond an elderly
peasant woman watching us curiously.
"Perhaps," said Makand Singh, "you will have coffee?"
I was glad to accept, and the young officer, who had followed,
accepted also. We sat down while the kettle was placed on the stove
and the fire replenished. I glanced at the Indian major's tall figure.
Even sitting, he was majestic. When he took the cape off he was
discovered clothed in the khaki uniform of his rank in the British
Army. Except for the olive colour of his skin, his turban, and the
fact that his beard--the soft beard of one who has never shaved--was
drawn up into a black net so that it formed a perfect crescent around
the angle of his jaw, he might have been a gallant and interested
English officer.
For the situation assuredly interested him. His eyes were alert and
keen. When he smiled he showed rows of beautiful teeth, small and
white. And although his face in repose was grave, he smiled often. He
superintended the making of the coffee by the peasant woman and
instructed her to prepare the table.
She obeyed pleasantly. Indeed, it was odd to see that between this
elderly Frenchwoman and her strange guests--people of whose existence
on the earth I dare say she had never heard until this war--there was
the utmost good will. Perhaps the Indians are neater than other
troops. Certainly personal cleanliness is a part of their religion.
Anyhow, whatever the reason, I saw no evidence of sulkiness toward the
Indians, although I have seen surly glances directed toward many of
the billeted troops of other nationalities.
Conversation was rather difficult. We had no common ground to meet on,
and the ordinary currency of polite society seemed inadequate, out of
place.
"The weather must be terrible after India," I ventured.
"We do not mind the cold. We come from the north of India, where it is
often cold. But the mud is bad. We cannot use our horses."
"You are a cavalry regiment?" I asked, out of my abysmal ignorance.
"We are Lancers. Yes. And horses are not useful in this sort of
fighting."
From a room beyond there was a movement, followed by the entrance of a
young Frenchman in a British uniform. Makand Singh presented him and
he joined the circle that waited for coffee.
The newcomer presented an enigma--a Frenchman in a British uniform
quartered with the Indian troops! It developed that he was a pupil
from the Sorbonne, in Paris, and was an interpreter. Everywhere
afterward I found these interpreters with the British Army--Frenchmen
who for various reasons are disqualified from entering the French Army
in active service and who are anxious to do what they can. They wear
the British uniform, with the exception that instead of the stiff
crown of the British cap theirs is soft, They are attached to every
battalion, for Tommy Atkins is in a strange land these days, a land
that knows no more English than he knows French,
True, he carries little books of French and English which tell him how
to say "Porter, get my luggage and take it to a cab," or "Please bring
me a laundry list," or "Give my kind regards to your parents," Imagine
him trying to find the French for "Look out, they're coming!" to call
to a French neighbour, in the inevitable mix-up of the line during a
_mêlée_, and finding only "These trousers do not fit well," or "I
would like an ice and then a small piece of cheese."
It was a curious group that sat in a semicircle around that peasant
woman's stove, waiting for the kettle to boil--the tall Indian major
with his aristocratic face and long, quiet hands, the young English
officer in his Headquarters Staff uniform, the French interpreter, and
I. Just inside the door the major's Indian servant, tall, impassive
and turbaned, stood with folded arms, looking over our heads. And at
the table the placid faced peasant woman cut slices of yellow bread,
made with eggs and milk, and poured our coffee.
It was very good coffee, served black. The woman brought a small
decanter and placed it near me.
"It is rum," said the major, "and very good in coffee."
I declined the rum. The interpreter took a little. The major shook his
head.
"Although they say that a Sikh never refuses rum!" he said, smiling.
Coffee over, we walked about the village. Hardly a village--a cluster
of houses along unpaved lanes which were almost impassable. There were
tumbling stables full of horses, groups of Indians standing under
dripping eaves for shelter, sentries, here and there a peasant. The
houses were replicas of the one where Makand Singh had his quarters.
Although it was still raining, a dozen Indian Lancers were exercising
their horses. They dismounted and stood back to let us pass. Behind
them, as they stood, was the great Cross.
That was the final picture I had of the village of Ham and the Second
Lahore Lancers--the turbaned Indians with their dripping horses, the
grave bow of Makand Singh as he closed the door of the car, and behind
him a Scotch corporal in kilt and cap, with a cigarette tucked behind
his ear.
We went on. I looked back, Makand Singh was making his careful way
through the mud; the horses were being led to a stable. The Cross
stood alone.