XLVITHE 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 sawFyatt 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!”
Fyatt turned to Cobden, shouting staccato sentences: “Didn’t catch what you said. Teaching Amritsar a lesson! Plover says we ought to take a thousand for one! Teach them to assault women——”
“Isn’t the lesson taught?” This time Dicky didn’t yell.
“They haven’t dispersed yet.”
“Dead men can’t disperse, General. The rest can’t get out——”
Dicky walked away. He had looked again at themaidan. Everything was overturned. The thousands were prone or kneeling.... If one steel rifle bullet plows through sixteen inches of oak—how many human bodies will it plow through? How many will 1650 steel bullets?... No shots wasted since the first minute or two. They couldn’t be all down—wounded or done for. Suddenly Dicky realized that many of the people were now praying. He was back at the head of the lane, moving in circles like a man who has been beaten on the head.... A black-coated Englishman with a clergy’s vest, grasped him by the arm, peering into his face—eyes gone utterly daft. He shook Dicky’s arm and pushed it from him; then ran to a soldier near by and peered again.
“Tell it to the General,” Dicky called absurdly, but his words weren’t heard.
Now he saw one of the elder civilians who had escaped a few moments before, coming back. This person scrambled upon the mound from the lane side and inquired of the earth and sky:
“I say—can’t he stop?”
“He’s dispersing the people,” Dicky answered.
The firing was desultory now. He heard orders for it to cease entirely.
“We might need a cartridge or two in the streets going back——” a voice behind him said.
“We’ve got the armored cars——” another answered.
Then Richard Cobden happened to look at the west and found the sun still high in the sky. This struck him as altogether peculiar.