City of Ghosts (16 page)

He searched out Lieutenant Dickie, the officer in charge of the mounted unit. His mount was rearing up and refusing to follow commands. Massey shouted to him, ‘Hold them still!'

Dickie reined his horse in but it was too frightened.

‘I'm trying, man!' he shouted back. ‘Call for reinforcements. Now!'

Massey knew that there were no extra men. He went to his car and took out his spare pistol. He was going to need it. When he next turned towards the bridge, he saw one of the mounted men turn and gallop away from the skirmish. Stones began to rain down on the men who had stayed.

‘Who the hell is that riding away?' he demanded.

One of his men told him that it was Beckett, the assistant commissioner.

‘Coward!' Massey shouted after him.

But no one heard him. The crowd began to bay for blood and more stones flew through the air, pelting men and horses ferociously. The front line gave way and the crowd surged towards the bridge.

‘Good God!' shouted someone from behind Massey.

‘
Shoot them!
' screamed Massey as he ran forward.

On the bridge some of the troops took aim and fired. The crowd stopped. People gasped. Several protestors fell to the ground, blood pouring from their wounds. Massey took aim with one of his pistols and fired again. A torrent of blood exploded from a man's chest. He slumped to the floor, dead.

‘
Push them back!
' Massey cried out.

More shots rang out; more protestors fell. And then a strange calm descended. For a moment there was silence. In that short space of time, Massey realized that they were in trouble. The crowd was tens of thousands
strong. There weren't enough bullets to shoot them all.

Then all hell broke loose . . .

Jeevan stood aside as some men carried a body back to the city. The injured man was young, his hair a tight mess of black curls. The front of his shirt was covered in blood and his mouth was open, pink tongue hanging out.

‘
BASTARDS!
' shouted the crowd. ‘
DEVILS!
'

The surge was sudden and seemed to have the force of a thousand horses behind it. Jeevan felt himself fall sideways, but before he hit the ground, the crowd bore him up. He stumbled forward and a powerful hand took his shoulder. Jeevan turned to see Ram Singh at his side again. Behind him, the rest of his gang strained against the tide, trying to stick together.

‘Move out to the left!' ordered Pritam. ‘We need to get away from the middle!'

Ram Singh led the way, pushing with all his might and parting the crowd. One by one the others followed, until they were free of the mob.

‘
To the station!
' ordered Pritam.

Jeevan looked at Bahadhur Khan. ‘I thought we were heading for the other side of the bridge . . .'

Bahadhur shrugged.

‘The station,' repeated Pritam. ‘The British won't let us cross the bridge. We'll take the railway station instead.'

The gang murmured their agreement and moved as
one, quickly and quietly. But before they had even reached the goods yard, just inside the station compound, they had been joined by nearly a thousand others. Jeevan ran for the first shed he could see and pulled open the door. There was little inside, save for some suitcases and trunks.

‘Take them out and burn them!' cried a voice.

Suddenly there were dozens of people in the shed. Hammers, axes and swords were used to lay waste to the building. Then someone set fire to it.

‘
Run!
' shouted Bahadhur.

Jeevan turned and saw the gang heading for the main part of the station. He followed them. There were people everywhere; destroying anything they could lay their hands on. As Jeevan joined his comrades, Pritam let out a cry.

‘
There!
' he shouted, pointing to the farthest shed in the goods yard.

‘What is it?' asked Rana Lal.

‘A
gorah
!' Pritam spat out. ‘Are you ready to begin the revolution?'

‘
YES!
' shouted the rest of the gang in reply; all except Jeevan.

Pritam raced for the shed, brandishing his thick wooden club. Jeevan ran after him, thinking that the man in the shed couldn't be a soldier. The soldiers were at the bridge and behind the lines. It had to be a civilian. Pritam set about smashing the shed doors open. One by one, the gang joined in. Very quickly the wood
had been splintered and the old, rusting lock smashed.

Once inside Pritam quickly cornered the white man. It was one of the station guards, a harmless-looking man whom Jeevan had seen before. He was on his knees, cowering and crying.

‘Please,' he begged. ‘For the love of God . . .'

Jeevan's mind began to play tricks on him. He wanted to kill the man and yet he wanted to help him too. Part of him asked what the lowly guard had ever done to hurt Mother India. The other part told him that all white people were enemies. But surely this poor man, this wretched soul . . . surely he couldn't be the—

Pritam sniggered like a madman and swung his club. It caught the guard square on the temple. He slumped to the side and assumed the foetal position. Pritam roared in hatred and swung his club again. The second blow caught the top of the guard's head with such force that it tore his scalp away. Blood – bright, viscous blood – spurted from the wound. Jeevan fell to the ground, waves of nausea overtaking him. He threw up again and again.

‘Let it out,' Pritam told him. ‘Do not let the fate of this
dog
turn you from the cause.'

Jeevan looked up at his mentor.

‘
With us or against us!
' yelled Pritam. ‘You decide. This is what being against us will get you . . .'He grinned, his mouth drooling, eyes fixed. ‘Let me show you what it means to be a revolutionary!' he whispered.

Before anyone else could move, Pritam began to rain
down blow after blow. The guard's head caved in. Fragments of skull flew off in every direction; his eyeballs popped out; his nose disappeared back into his skull. Only when there was nothing left but a mess of blood and bits of bone did Pritam let up.

‘One down,' he spat, his face slick with gore.

He turned and ran for the door, wiping away the blood, eager to find his next victim. Jeevan stood and looked at the guard. Two contradictory voices fought for space inside his head.
Follow your family; they are all you have
, said the voice he most wanted to follow. But then the other voice caught him and held him back.

‘What have I become?' he asked.

‘A
man
,' replied Ram Singh. ‘Now come on!'

Jeevan stumbled after the gang, his heart and his stomach no longer ready for the fight. Only fear kept him going. Fear of what Pritam might do to him if he backed out, and fear of losing his new family.

Zardad Khan, in command of the 54th's detachment, stood at the entrance to the railway station with his men, who held their bayonets and rifles at the ready. The mob had managed to reach the station ten minutes earlier. Khan and his men had arrived very soon after, saving the station master's life. Five minutes later and he would have been dead. Now, having driven the mob off the platform, Khan and his men had to hold the station. If the mob managed to take it, then Amritsar was doomed.

A young soldier, barely eighteen years old, approached Zardad Khan. ‘Sir – there is a small gang of protestors circling Mr Pinto's quarters,' he said.

Khan looked across towards the telegraph master's house. He couldn't see anyone. ‘There is no one there, Singh,' he told him.

‘Perhaps they have gone round to the back?' suggested Singh.

Khan thought for a moment, then turned to his second-in-command, a tall, thin man called Sawar. ‘Hold the line here,' he ordered. ‘I'm going to check on Mr Pinto with Singh.'

Singh wanted to smile. Zardad Khan was a hard taskmaster. He very rarely took junior soldiers with him when he went on a mission. Only those he deemed worthy.

Sawar nodded. ‘Yes, sir!' he replied.

‘Come on, Singh,' said Khan. ‘Let's go and see what all the fuss is about.'

They ran towards the telegraph master's house, wary of the mob. But the troops of the 54th had done a good job. The people were fifty yards away and the line was holding. Insults and a few stones flew towards the two soldiers but nothing more. As they approached the front of the house, Khan heard the sound of splintering wood.

‘
Come on!
' he shouted to Singh.

He raced round to the back, his bayonet at the ready. Singh ran after him. As they rounded the corner, Singh saw a gang of youths running away from the scene;
Pinto was being dragged out by a giant of a man.

Khan ran across. ‘
Let him go!
' he ordered. ‘
NOW!
'

Pinto's attacker ignored the command and continued to drag his victim away. Khan let out a cry of rage and ran forward, the sharp edge of his steel ready. He drove the bayonet into the giant's chest, and then into his side. The man let go of Pinto and fell to the ground – though he refused to give up the fight. He went for the blade tucked into his waistband. As Singh approached, he realized that this giant was merely a boy. A boy with a neck as thick as an ox's and hands like spades.

‘
Don't do it!
' Khan warned.

But the boy didn't listen. He smirked and raised his knife, ready to strike. Khan said a silent prayer and drove his bayonet in one last time.

As Ram Singh took his last breath, he cried out for his mother.

JEEVAN SAT SILENTLY
as Pritam spat out more words of hatred. The gang had made it back to their little room and everyone bar their leader looked shattered. Ram Singh's death hung in the air like a ghost. No one had mentioned it but it was still there, gnawing at them, making them angry and sad at the same time. Only Pritam seemed to have put it out of his mind. Instead of reflecting on the death of a comrade and friend, he was trying to rally the rest of them.

‘Rest a while,' he told them, ‘and then let's get back out there and find some more enemies. Amritsar will burn today and there will be no stopping it. Let us rejoice, brothers!'

Jeevan wished to God that he had the courage to stand up and tell Pritam what he really thought. To tell him that he was nothing more than a psychotic madman – a murderer. But courage was something that
Jeevan lacked. It had ebbed away during the day, along with his humanity. As terrible images flashed through his mind – images of things he had seen and things he had done – Jeevan felt himself grow cold. Nothing could save him now. All the lessons he'd been taught – teachings about brotherhood and love – all were gone. All that remained was a vicious, cold-hearted thug; a murderer.

But at least he belonged now, said another voice. Instead of daydreams about his family and fleeting memories of his mother's smile, he had something real, something concrete. Pritam aside, Jeevan had the rest of the gang, the family he had always longed for; and he had Hans Raj, who would surely have stopped Pritam's excesses if he'd been there. After all, he'd promised to look after him, hadn't he? How Jeevan longed for him to appear now, to offer words of wisdom and love.

Pritam told the gang that they were going to drive the white people from the city before sunset. ‘By the time we go to our beds not a single
gorah
will remain in our beloved city. Let them take refuge in the fort; tomorrow we will drive them out of there too!'

Rana Lal, Sucha Singh and Bahadhur Khan murmured their approval as he finally mentioned their fallen comrade.

‘Ram Singh was a man of honour, a man of courage,' he told them. ‘He lived and died for the greater good, just as his father did before him – for the freedom of our beloved mother.'

‘We will avenge him!' Rana cried out.

‘Yes!' replied Pritam, before turning to look at Jeevan. ‘Are you still with us, brother?' he asked.

Jeevan looked up and nodded. What choice did he have but to continue? What could be worse than what he had already done? He looked down at his hands, smelled the kerosene on his clothes and remembered the bank managers . . .

Two hours earlier the gang had found themselves in Hall Bazaar – Amritsar's main street. After Ram Singh's death they had fled from the station and followed the rest of the mob back to the city centre. They had joined in, looting and burning as they went, angered by the death of their comrade. Thousands of protestors had taken to the streets. All around them people raged, venting their anger on the buildings most closely associated with the British. The post offices, missions and churches – all destroyed and set alight. And the banks . . .

Pritam had led the gang into the National Bank, intent on leaving it gutted. Here they had found two Englishmen – the managers. Pritam and Rana set about them, raining down blow after blow, until both men had been beaten unconscious.

‘
Take them into the street!
' Pritam had demanded.

Jeevan had hoped not to be involved. He'd tried to stay out of the way. But outside, the two Englishmen were thrown to the dusty ground. A man whom Jeevan didn't know had produced a can of kerosene, ready to
set fire to the desks and chairs and files that were being flung out too. Pritam took the can and handed it to Jeevan.

‘
Burn them!
' he'd ordered, thrusting a sharp knife in the direction of the two men. ‘Let them taste the heat of a funeral pyre.'

Jeevan had hesitated, his hands shaking, his heart thumping in his chest. The sounds and smells of anarchy overcame his senses. His eyes searched frantically, hoping to see policemen or soldiers. But there was no one to rescue the bank managers. No one to stop the madness.

The other rioters began to pile broken furniture on top of the semi-conscious men. The wood was followed by ledger books and papers bearing the details of the bank's customers. From behind Jeevan, someone threw in a painting of the British king. Pritam raised his knife to Jeevan's face. His eyes were filled with murderous intent. They held no semblance of life. Death lurked behind them, waiting . . .