Life in an Indian Outpost Part 13

The cold-blooded manner of the crime horrified me. The murderer had coolly fired at a huddled ma.s.s of blankets. The listening sepoys around us were awed into silence as he calmly related the details of his foul deed.

"What did you do then?" I asked.

"I reloaded my rifle to shoot anyone who tried to stop me, thus putting one cartridge in the chamber and leaving eight in the magazine. I ran out of the room and stood outside near the building until the sepoys began to come out. Then I went to the back gate. While I was climbing it the bolt of the rifle dropped back and let the cartridge in the breach fall out. So you will only find eight in the magazine. Soon I heard the gate open and saw you come out with two men. I got behind a tree and watched you pa.s.s within five yards of me."

"Why did not you shoot me?" I said.

"Oh, I had no desire to kill you, Sahib, as long as you did not discover and try to capture me. If you had I would have shot you."

He spoke as coolly about killing me as if it were a most ordinary matter. I was less indifferent, and felt thankful that I had not blundered on him in the dark. I realised fully what a narrow escape I had had.

"Why did you take your rifle with you when you went off?" I asked.

For the first time his indifferent manner vanished. A malevolent gleam shone in his eyes.

"Because my greatest enemy still lived," he said. "The man I most wanted to kill was the subhedar-major. I had gone to his room first that night and tried to enter it. But, luckily for him, the door was bolted. So, as I was determined to shoot someone, I went to the barrack-room and killed Shaikh Bakur. But I took my rifle; for I resolved to escape, hide in the jungle until the pursuit was over, then return at night and kill the subhedar-major."

He announced his murderous intention with the utmost calmness. I thanked G.o.d that we had been able to capture him; for if he had returned and shot his native officer, he would then have run amuck and killed until slain himself.

"How did you get away?" I said.

"After you had pa.s.sed me, Sahib, I went down the zigzag path. I meant to get on to the road to Santrabari, but heard the patrol pa.s.sing down it below me and knew that you had cut my retreat off that way. So I sat on the hill until daylight and then made my way through the forest to Jainti."

I asked him if he had any accomplices. He denied that he had; and, when I refused to believe him, he said:

"Why should I tell a lie now? I know that my life is forfeit."

"Yes," I replied. "You'll hang for this."

"I don't care. My father has five other sons and can spare me. But my one regret," he said, and again a baleful light shone in his eyes, "is that my worst enemy still lives."

I turned away from him and interrogated Ranjit Singh about the capture.

When the havildar learned that the man he was pursuing had crossed the river after he had been seen in Hathipota, he followed with the two men of the patrol. On the other side they picked up his trail, which led to another village. Near it they met some peasants and learned from them that Farid Khan was in this village. Approaching cautiously they dodged from hut to hut until they saw him sitting on the ground before a _bunniah's_ shop, eating food which he had just bought. His rifle lay beside him. They crept up behind him, for they were resolved to take him alive, rushed on him suddenly and tumbled him over before he could seize his weapon. As they held him down and bound him, he said:

"It was lucky for you, havildar, that I did not see you first. I had my magazine full and would have shot you all."

After his capture he seemed resigned to his fate and scarcely spoke again until he was brought before me. I praised Ranjit Singh and his patrol warmly and then fell in my men. We marched back to Hathipota, where we halted for the night. Next day we reached Buxa.

I was determined that our prisoner should not cheat the gallows by escape or suicide. So night and day for the two months that elapsed before he was brought to trial a guard was mounted over him in his cell. All through those weary weeks of waiting his indifferent demeanour never changed. I visited him every day. To my inquiries as to whether he had any request to make, he always replied respectfully. But he never acknowledged that he had had any accomplices in his crime; and I was never able to bring his comrade Gulab Khan to trial.

At last the orders came to conduct Farid Khan to Calcutta to appear before a general court martial. We marched out of the fort and down to Buxa Road Railway Station with the prisoner in the centre of a guard of six men with fixed bayonets. By one of his wrists he was handcuffed to a burly Rajput over six feet high. These precautions were necessary, as the journey would take a day and a night and necessitated many changes; and I was determined to give Farid Khan no chance to escape. At Gitaldaha we had to wait for some time for another train which brought us in the early morning to the banks of the River Ganges. Across this we were taken in a steamer, the pa.s.sage occupying over an hour. Our appearance excited much interest among the pa.s.sengers on board, some of whom were American tourists returning from a flying visit to Darjeeling.

My party, including the witnesses and the escort, was quite a large one; and I heard one fair daughter of Uncle Sam remark:

"Wa'al, it takes a lot of soldiers to guard that one poor man."

One of her male companions, who addressed me as "Officer!" questioned me as to the prisoner's crime, and seemed quite disappointed at learning that it was only murder.

On the other side of the Ganges we entrained again and reached Calcutta by noon. I handed over my prisoner to the care of a regiment quartered in Fort William; and he was safely consigned to their guard-room cell.

On the bank of the broad River Hugli, which flows through the city of Calcutta and up which the ships come from the sea, stands this large fort, which dates back far into the days of the Honourable East India Company. One face fronts the stream, the others look on the _maidan_, a broad open s.p.a.ce, tree-studded and seamed with roads, which lies between the frowning, embrasured walls and the nearest houses. Within the wide precincts of the fort, a city in a city, are found barracks, the a.r.s.enal, houses for military and civil officers, a church, and the official residence of the Commander-in-Chief, all separated by broad squares and green lawns.

Here next day in the garrison library, a large recreation-room for soldiers, Sepoy Farid Khan faced the court martial which was to try him for his life. When I had given him his choice in Buxa of having either British or Indian officers as his judges, he answered unhesitatingly:

"I want to be tried by Sahibs, of course."

And so, in accordance with his wish, nine British officers in white full-dress summer uniform, swords at their sides and medals on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, sat in judgment on him at a long table. Behind them was a stage on which military amateur actors strut their hour in the garrison theatricals. The drop curtain was up, showing a pretty English country scene. It seemed an incongruous setting for the grim drama of real life which was now to be enacted.

Near the members of the court sat another officer, the deputy judge advocate general, who was present to see that the trial was conducted in accordance with the rules of military law, and to advise the court on legal points. At a small table to one side Captain Balderston took his place as prosecutor. Then the prisoner, his handcuffs removed, was marched into the room by the guard of the regiment in whose cells he was confined. He walked in with an erect and soldierly bearing and stood to attention as the president of the court read out the charge to him and called on him to plead. And to this charge of "Murder" he answered composedly "I am guilty." But, since with this plea no evidence in his defence or in extenuation of his crime could be given, the court, with the extreme fairness of a military tribunal, advised him to withdraw it and plead "Not Guilty." Then the native witnesses who testified to his desertion of his post, his flight and capture, gave their evidence in Hindustani. After them I repeated his confession of the crime to me. I spoke in English, my evidence being translated to the prisoner by a British officer who acted as interpreter. But I noticed that Farid Khan did not seem to understand this officer, who spoke a purer and correcter Urdu than did the prisoner himself.

I stated my belief to the court. The president, who spoke the vernacular, asked Farid Khan if this were so.

"Yes, it is true. I cannot understand what that Sahib says," he replied; "but I can understand my own major Sahib," pointing to me.

Then, with the court's permission, I repeated to him the evidence I had given.

"Yes, that is all quite true," he said.

Then the president bade me ask the prisoner if he wished to question me on my evidence. I did so.

"No, Sahib," he replied. "What you have said is correct. I only wish to say that on that night I intended to kill the subhedar-major first. I tried his door first but----"

I told him to be silent, as he was only committing himself deeper. Then the court asked me what the prisoner had said and I answered that it was something to his disadvantage; the president told me that in that case I need not interpret his words.

The trial lasted two days and ended in a verdict of guilty. But in accordance with military law it was not announced at the time, as the whole of the proceedings of the court had to be first carefully scrutinised at army headquarters; so that if any illegality had been committed, or the verdict was not justified by the evidence, the case could be quashed and a fresh trial ordered. But in due course the decision of the court martial and the sentence of "Death by hanging"

were published. But long before this I had left Calcutta with my party and returned to Buxa, Farid Khan remaining a prisoner in Fort William.

His father and a brother came across India from Rajputana to visit him; and, probably acting on their advice, he appealed for mercy to the Viceroy.

But his appeal was rejected. One night at eleven o'clock the adjutant of the regiment which had him in charge was handed a telegram to that effect and informing him that the prisoner was to be hanged next morning at eight o'clock. The officer went at once to the condemned man's cell.

Farid Khan was asleep. The adjutant woke him up and said:

"You are to die to-morrow morning."

"Very well, Sahib," was the unconcerned reply; and the prisoner lay down again and was asleep before the adjutant had quitted the cell.

I had feared that Farid Khan would be sent back to Buxa Duar, so that the execution could be carried out in presence of his comrades. But the last act of the tragedy took place in the courtyard of the civil jail in Calcutta. Detachments of all the regiments, British and Indian, in that city were formed up in front of the gallows.

When the condemned man was marched into the courtyard, the adjutant asked if he had any last request to make.

"Yes, Sahib," he replied. "I want to know how many men you have told off to bury me."

"Two," said the officer.

"That is not enough, Sahib; I should like eight."

"Very well, you will have them."

"Thank you, Sahib," replied the condemned man cheerfully. Then with a firm step he mounted the scaffold. As the rope was adjusted round his neck, he looked down at the adjutant and called out to him with a smile: