The Devil's Circle, page 25
“On the charge of waging war against the King-Emperor, may I direct this court’s attention to another man who was a soldier in the service of the Crown. He campaigned with the British Army against the King’s enemies. But when Great Britain’s rule over his country became oppressive, his people rose against the colonial power. This man joined the revolution and rose to lead it. His name was George Washington.
“The custom of nations recognises the right of a colonised people to fight for their freedom. The custom of nations also allows soldiers to struggle against an occupying power, as General Washington did. Great Britain has indeed confirmed that custom during the War. General de Gaulle refused to lay down his arms despite the orders of his government. He created a government-in-exile and a Free French army. That government and army were recognised, hosted and supported by Great Britain, as were so many other governments-in-exile of countries under occupation by hostile powers.
“We have also heard the testimony of Miss Sim Moy Yin. She is a Japanese subject. But she took up arms against the power that occupied and colonised her country. She fought for her country, side-by-side with the patriots who came back to Malaya at the behest of the British, and who gave their lives in the cause. Miss Sim is not a traitor. She is a freedom fighter and has been recognised as such by the allies of Great Britain, China and America.
“Lieutenant Habibullah Khan is not a traitor to the Crown. He was a member of an army that fought against Great Britain, that is true. But that army owed allegiance to the Azri Hukumat-e-Azad Hind, the Provisional Government of Free India, a government properly constituted by the law of nations, albeit in opposition to Great Britain. That government and that army were allied to the Empire of Japan, but this fact alone does not make them illegal. The Azri Hukumat-e-Azad Hind was as much a legitimate government-in-exile as that of General de Gaulle. The Azad Hind Fauj was the army of that government. Lieutenant Habibullah Khan was a member of that army. He fought honourably as a soldier in a proper uniform, in a regular unit, in open battle with the forces of Great Britain. We may decry his choice of allies, but this alone does not make him a traitor. He is a prisoner of war. He should be treated as such.”
There was an attempt at applause from the gallery at the conclusion of d’Almeida’s speech, but that was suppressed instantly. The judges rose and left the courtroom. There was nothing to do but wait. And wait we did for most of the afternoon. By 4 o’clock my stomach was growling for tea and I had given up hope of a verdict that day. Then came the news that the judges were ready. We hurriedly resumed our seats. Outside, the rain came down in torrents and the thunder shook the building.
Colonel Huntly’s face was set in granite as he took his place. Habibullah was instructed to stand. He rose and stood stiffly to attention, his empty sleeve flapping slightly under the fan.
“Lieutenant Habibullah Khan,” intoned Colonel Huntly solemnly, “ you have been charged with the wilful murder of your commanding officer Lieutenant-Colonel Reginald Holmes. This court has considered the evidence tendered both for and against you very carefully. It is our unanimous opinion that you are not guilty of the charge.”
There was a hubbub of approval, quickly suppressed.
“On the second charge of waging war against the King-Emperor, we have also considered the evidence on both sides. It is accepted that you took up arms against the Crown in an attempt to rid India of its current sovereign. Your counsel has eloquently put the case on your behalf in terms of a struggle for independence. However, these fine words cannot change the fact that you have betrayed the trust placed in you as an officer of the Indian Army in time of war. Whatever your motives may have been, it is clear beyond doubt that you have waged war against His Majesty the King-Emperor. The penalty for this is death …”
The watching crowd erupted in total pandemonium.
* Literally, leaky mouths.
31
IT took the combined efforts of the redcaps and the Paras to restore order. For a moment I thought there would be a riot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Nisar Ahmad exit the courtroom along with a dozen others before the doors were shut. Habibullah remained totally calm throughout. He had been expecting this. Selwyn-Jones looked triumphant. D’Almeida was inscrutable. As far as I knew, this was the first time that a client of his had been sentenced to death. He betrayed no reaction. He was practically the only one.
When things had settled down somewhat, Colonel Huntly resumed. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” he continued, glaring severely at the spectators in the gallery, “this court finds Lieutenant Habibullah Khan guilty of the charge of waging war against the King-Emperor. The penalty for this is death. But we are fully cognizant of the circumstances under which Lieutenant Habibullah Khan joined the Indian National Army. We have heard of the assistance that he provided to the anti-Japanese resistance in Malaya. We are satisfied that he has spoken the truth when he said that he did not share the war aims of the Japanese. It is reprehensible that he should have turned his back on his former comrades and fought against them. We understand why he did so, but we cannot condone it. Nonetheless, in view of the extenuating circumstances so forcefully urged upon this court by counsel for the defence, it is our unanimous verdict that the sentence of death shall be suspended …”
There was a collective gasp from the gallery. Colonel Huntly stopped and stared around the room. A hush descended.
“The sentence of death shall be suspended and the accused shall be banished from India. As long as he does not set foot within the bounds of India and the Crown Colony of Ceylon, the sentence shall remain suspended. Should he be apprehended within those limits, the full sentence will be carried out. He is to be dishonourably discharged from the service of His Majesty the King-Emperor and forfeit all pay, privileges and honours.”
“In view of the sensitivity of this trial, we have taken the unusual step of informing the Supreme Allied Commander, Southeast Asia of our verdict before announcing it in open court. We trust that counsel will not think us lacking in courtesy in so doing.” Here Colonel Huntly paused to look at d’Almeida, who stood and responded, “We are very much obliged to your Honours.”
Huntly nodded in acknowledgment and continued, “We were informed by the Supreme Allied Commander that a letter has been received from His Highness the Rajah of Bhurtpore, asking that the life of the prisoner be spared on condition that he remain in exile. It is with satisfaction that we note that our verdict accords with the wishes of His Highness. The Supreme Allied Commander has indicated his concurrence. The prisoner is hereby discharged.”
The court rose. This time there was no containing the outpouring of elation. The crowd surged forward towards Habibullah, who had descended from the dock. Hands were patting him on the shoulder, on the back, shaking his good hand. We fought our way through the scrum towards the door, the MPs pushing the mass of humanity aside. The torrent of rain hadn’t dampened the spirits of the crowd, who were chanting in Hindustani. That and the din of the rain and thunder made conversation impossible. At last we reached the Registry and practically fell through the door. “Congratulations,” I said breathlessly to Habibullah, having had the wind squeezed out of me by the press of humanity. He sat in a chair with d’Almeida, almost in a daze. “Am I free to go?” he asked unbelievingly.
“Yes,” replied d’Almeida, “as soon as the paperwork is done. It should not take more than an hour or so.”
“Mr d’Almeida,” said Habibullah quietly, “I owe my life to you. What can I do to repay you?” Beneath the exterior calm I could see that his emotions were boiling.
“There is nothing that I wish for myself,” replied d’Almeida, “but you can be of great service to a certain young person.”
JUNE was already at the steps of d’Almeida’s house when we got back, waiting in anticipation. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Habibullah with us. No one had any real hope that he would cheat the gallows, even with d’Almeida defending. “Where is Miss Barron?” d’Almeida asked her immediately as we got out of the car.
“In the garden,” replied June, “Some wild man with red eyes who could not speak came to the gate just before you arrived. He gave me a note for her. She cried and went off to the bower with her favourite Tennyson book.”
“That must have been Nisar Ahmad,” said Habibullah. “When you brought him to me I gave him a farewell note to pass to her. Forgive me Mr d’Almeida, I thought there was no hope at the time.”
“That Tennyson book,” d’Almeida asked June with a look of grave concern, “is it the The Lady of Shallot?”
“Yes it is, why?” she replied.
“I trust we are not too late,” he said in a voice tinged with alarm, “we must hurry. You have secured all the poisons and ropes?”
“Yes, as you instructed, but why? What is going on?” asked June plaintively as we rushed out into the garden.
“Do you know the poem?” responded d’Almeida. June shook her head. He quoted,
“For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
“The bower is surrounded by oleander shrubs. The leaves are poisonous. I fear the worst.”
D’Almeida had four acres of garden. The bower was as far from the house as it was possible to get. The path to it was deliberately winding, edged with bamboo and shrubs to give it privacy. It seemed an eternity before we got there. She was sitting with her back to us. In her hand was a mug. She lifted it up.
“Stop!” yelled Habibullah. “For God’s sake, don’t drink that!”
It was too late. She had swallowed the contents of the mug. She turned in wide-eyed surprise as Habibullah bounded into the bower.
“You’re alive!” she exclaimed. She buried her head in his chest. “I’m so glad. When the note came … I thought … I thought it was all over.”
“Oh Marge, Marge,” he cried, holding her tightly, “why did you have to do it? Why did you drink that infernal brew?”
She raised her head in astonishment. “That infernal brew? Horlicks? I always drink Horlicks when I’m upset.”
We practically collapsed with relief.
WE were all gathered in the library, Ahmad included. D’Almeida was speaking.
“Miss Barron, I know that this is very sudden, but we could not put it to you before this afternoon. In the eyes of the common law you are still a minor. But as far as Shariah law is concerned, you achieved your majority with puberty. By Shariah law you have capacity to marry. Enchik Ahmad, your wali, has indicated his consent. If you choose to marry, there will be no question of your aunt Miss Rider taking you into her guardianship.”
Habibullah spoke. “Marge, my dear,” he said, “it did not cross my mind to ask you before, with the sentence of death hanging over my head. Now that that threat is gone, there is nothing I would desire more than for you to accept me as your husband.”
Marge hesitated. “You’re just asking because he told you to,” she answered in a soft voice.
“No,” replied Habibullah with emotion, “not just because Mr d’Almeida asked. It is true that it did not occur to me until he suggested it. But now that it has been suggested, I ask you sincerely to be my wife.”
“But I don’t … I don’t love you,” she said in an even softer voice.
“Could you learn to do so?” he asked earnestly. “That is all that is necessary. I promise to protect and take care of you. It would kill me to see you taken back to England against your will.”
“Take your time, Miss Barron,” said d’Almeida. “A decision like this should not be rushed. But please remember that the sands are slipping through the hourglass. Your aunt Miss Rider has applied to have you taken into custody as soon as possible. My information is that the application has already been approved.”
Marge looked up suddenly. “I’ll do it,” she said.
“Are you sure?” asked June gently. “No need to decide just like that.”
“Yes,” she said determinedly, “I … I’m sure.” She turned to Habibullah. “I know that we haven’t known each other long, but I feel that you’re a good man. I don’t love you, but I could learn. Is that enough for you?”
He took her hands in his. “It is enough for me, my dear,” he said tenderly. “You will be the flower of my life from henceforward.” There was something of the Persian poet in his soul, which I had not seen before.
She turned to Ahmad and asked in Malay, “Ayah, do I have your blessing?”
Ahmad’s eyes were moist. “You have my blessings, my child. Go in the hands of God. May his peace be upon you.”
It was all very touching. D’Almeida broke the spell. “Now,” he said decisively, “we must act. The wedding cannot take place in this house. Indeed, it would be hard to hold it anywhere in the Colony. We must get you both out.” He turned to me. “Come,” he said, “we have much to do and little time to do it.”
WITH the rain dusk had come early that day. We belted out the gate of d’Almeida’s house without headlights and without looking out for traffic. We barrelled past the two jeeps before they could react. The old Morris was straining. Ahmad had done wonders over the months, carefully rebuilding the engine. Now we would see what the old girl could do.
The jeeps were on tail soon enough. If the weather had been clear we would have had no chance at all. But the canvas covers on the jeeps hardly kept the rain out. The drivers were deluged and blinded. The windscreen wipers on the Morris were working at full blast but I still could hardly see the way ahead. Bukit Timah Road was under six inches of water in some places. At one point the water extended for a couple of hundred yards on either side of the road, like a great marsh. It was difficult to determine where the road ended and the canal began. Fortunately, there were street lamps on one side. I kept as close to the centre as I dared, hoping that the engine wouldn’t stall. We ploughed through the flood in a wave of white water.
At the junction with Holland Road another jeep joined our little procession. This one was better weatherproofed but we had a head start and maintained our lead. We were heading due north towards the Causeway and Johore. Johore was legally a sovereign state, not British territory. All we had to do was make it over the halfway point on the Causeway. We would then be in the Sultan’s dominions. The British wouldn’t dare try anything there, given the delicate state of relations after the furore over the Malayan Union proposals.
The road was in almost total darkness. The only light was provided by our anaemic headlamps. We passed the occasional cluster of houses, which allowed us to see the road better. Beyond Bukit Panjang, the houses disappeared. There were rubber plantations to either side of us. It was impossible to see anything except the thin sliver of road illuminated by the weak light of the headlamps. The darkness was our ally; I knew the road well enough, but our pursuers had to be careful not to stray onto the soft clay on the verges. That kept their speed down. The road was slick with rain and potholes appeared out of the night with alarming suddenness. We rounded a bend and there in the distance was the bright ribbon of the Causeway ahead of us, lighted along its length in a way that had not been seen for many years. My worry was the petrol gauge; the needle moved inexorably towards “empty”. The rain had ceased. I coaxed the engine into one last heroic spurt.
There were no checkpoints or guards on the Causeway. Both ends were in friendly territory. No artificial frontier separated Singapore Island from its hinterland. On either side of the road was the sea. The railroad and water pipes ran alongside into the gloom at the farther end. We reached the marker in the centre and I eased off the accelerator, not wanting to burn up what little remained of our fuel. It was a mistake. The lead jeep roared past us and pulled up ahead, blocking our way. I jammed on the brakes. The two other jeeps screeched to a halt just behind, disgorging half a dozen soliders with sten guns at the ready. A figure emerged from the front jeep, revolver in hand.
“Out!” he commanded. I recognised him. It was Major Ridley. When I showed no signs of moving, he pointed his gun at me and repeated, “Get out now!”
I got out of the car slowly, my hands in the air. “You’ve no right to do this,” I said heatedly, “we’re not in the Colony anymore.”
Without a word Ridley went over and wrenched open the passenger door. “Get out!” he commanded again.
My passenger emerged, her tudung clapsed around her face like a veil. I protested once more, “You’re overstepping your authority, Ridley. You can’t arrest us here. We’re in Johore. The Sultan will have your guts.”
“Don’t try any of your lawyer’s tricks,” he addressed me belligerently. “I know exactly where we are. The moment my lads told me that you and the girl had taken off I knew where you were going. I don’t give a hoot whether we’re still in the Colony or not. It’s all British territory. Now Miss Barron, we’re going to take you home where you belong, with your people and not with this sorry lot.”
At that moment, the wind caught the tudung and blew it wide. Ridley recoiled. “Why do you stop us?” demanded June. “We have done nothing wrong.”
THE rain had died down to a light drizzle. Ridley had slunk off with his tail between his legs, still snapping though. “You think you’ve been very clever,” he growled between clenched teeth. “Next time this happens, we’ll put the girl in a convent first.”
