Two hundred miles away in Port Victoria, the Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Pharamaul was also speaking his mind. But he, at least, had no hostile audience. He was briefing his staff, at the beginning of what might well be a new and critical phase in the affairs of Pharamaul; and his staff, all five of them, were (with only a stray reservation here and there) united in his support.
Lucky was the man, thought Aidan Purves-Brownrigg, fanning himself with a draft Order-in-Council, who could command such a dutifully captive audience. Apart from successful whoreshops and schools for very small boys, there must be very few of them left, anywhere in the world.
Idly, watching the staff assemble, greet the Governor, and settle down in their armchairs, Aidan wondered which of those two categories best suited the present company. It was a point verging on the moot … But for good or ill, this was the team which had to run Pharamaul. At the top there was the old gentleman, and himself. They both did their best, thought Aidan wryly, but it didn’t seem terribly good … There was Captain Simpson, Royal Navy, a four-striper fish out of water among these land-borne dilemmas. There was David Bracken, in love with Nicole Steuart; and Nicole, in love with David. If they could just detach their naughty little minds from that particular subject, their contribution was not ineffective. Finally, there was Stevens, who was ineffective.
That was all there was, to deal with a hundred thousand revolting Maulas – except for a handful of outlying players up at Gamate, who were making (at the moment) a monumental balls-up of the whole thing.
His sombre thoughts were interrupted by the Governor, sitting trim and birdlike behind his desk, seemingly unaware of the sticky heat which neither drawn blinds nor whirring fans could relieve.
‘Everyone comfortable?’ asked Sir Elliott, looking round him. ‘Let’s make a start, then …’
Aidan sat back in his chair. Captain Simpson allowed his mouth to drop open slightly. David winked at Nicole, and Nicole bent her head, a slight smile on her lips. Stevens took out a notebook and a ballpoint pen.
‘I’ve asked you to come along,’ said Sir Elliott, elbows on desk, palms gently placed together, ‘because I want us all to be up-to-date about what’s going on in Gamate. Not much good not knowing what’s going on, what? We don’t want to get the wires crossed …’
He looked down at the memorandum pad tucked into one corner of his blotter. On it was written:
Press in London, critical
Dinamaula here, unco-op
Macmillan report, very bad
Order-in-Council
To Gamate
The Governor cleared his throat.
‘Some of you,’ he began again, ‘will have seen the telegrams we’ve had, containing excerpts from the London Press, dealing with what’s going on in Gamate. They are highly critical, most of them – unfair, of course – and – er – highly critical … This is the sort of thing.’ His voice rising several tones higher, he read from a selection of headlines contained in one of the previous night’s telegrams. ‘“Chief Spirited Away from Gamate”. “Dinamaula Hi-jacked, Leaves Under Protest”. “No Time to Pack”. “Dinamaula To Be Sacked”. “Tribe Robbed of Chief on Eve of Coronation”.’
Sir Elliott paused, while his staff waited in varying degrees of expectancy. I don’t think much of those headlines, thought Aidan, examining his nails. I could produce much better ones, given this shoddy situation … The RAPE of Gamate. Chief Dinamaula Absolutely KIDNAPPED by Government Gangsters. Official BEASTS At Work …
‘The Secretary of State is naturally disturbed,’ went on the Governor, reasonably, ‘though I hope to be able to reassure him. The facts are, of course, that Dinamaula wasn’t “spirited away”, or any nonsense like that. He was invited to come down here for talks with me. In view of the disturbances in Gamate, that was entirely justified … As for “No Time to Pack”–’ he smiled briefly, ‘–the phrase is quite inaccurate. He actually refused to pack anything … Very important point, that.’
For Christ’s sake, thought David Bracken, suddenly jerking to attention, abandoning the sensual contemplation of the curve of Nicole Steuart’s shoulder – for Christ’s sake, if he really thinks that that’s important, we might as well be walking up and down the Residency garden playing the bagpipes, for all the progress we’re making in Pharamaul … Not for the first time during the past few weeks, David was conscious of the ineffectiveness, the basic ineptitude, of what the Government team was doing in Pharamaul, when contrasted with what the situation demanded. They had right on their side, but they never bothered to explain how and why, in clear and explicit terms. They were getting an atrocious press all over the world, and somehow they never caught up with it, never fought back at all.
They were trailing the headlines all the time, and the headlines, brutally one-sided, were steadily widening their divorce from the facts. There was an official version of what was going on in Gamate, and it could be made convincing. The Governor, when put to it, was efficient and capable. He was also, at all times, scrupulously just. But if they were going to worry about such pinpoints of truth as whether Dinamaula had packed or had not packed – worse still, if they were going to waste time kicking these minute cloudy bubbles around in closed session, instead of producing their own daily, definitive account of what they were doing and trying to do in Pharamaul – then they would be sunk, and they would deserve to be sunk; sunk in general infamy, sunk under a flowing tide of prejudice.
He awoke, despairingly, to the Governor’s next sub-heading.
‘I saw Dinamaula yesterday, as you know,’ continued Sir Elliott. ‘He was very unco-operative … I hoped that he would play, but he won’t play. Not at the moment, anyway.’
Play, thought Nicole Steuart. Now there’s a funny word … She had a sudden, irreverent vision of Dinamaula, in a loincloth, playing leapfrog with Sir Elliott Vere-Toombs, in cocked hat and spurs; they gambolled together under bright sunlight, while a crowd of loyal Maulas stood around, smiling and clapping their hands. From there, they would go on to skipping, while the Maulas chorused ‘Salt – pepper – mustard – vinegar!’ in benevolent glee. But Dinamaula, alas, wouldn’t play … I mustn’t be unfair, thought Nicole contritely. It was just an Old Boy’s expression, after all. He’s doing his best, and his best can be first-class. I love David Bracken, anyway.
‘Dinamaula won’t play at all,’ repeated the Governor, as if he could scarcely believe what he was called upon to tell them. ‘I can’t understand what’s got into him … You know the background, of course. He’s been talking a lot of guff about reforms in the Territory, and that sort of thing, and he’s also said–’ he paused, glancing momentarily at Nicole Steuart, ‘–that he intends to get married, and that he’s going to marry a white girl … All of which adds up to a very confused situation in Gamate, with a lot of violence and rioting on the surface, and an undercurrent of continuous passive resistance to authority … Macmillan tells me that, as far as he can judge, the majority of the tribe are pretty solidly behind Dinamaula, and that they’d even accept a mixed marriage, if otherwise it meant losing him as chief … I must say that Dinamaula himself seemed pretty set on it.’
But was that strictly true, the Governor wondered privately, as he paused in his recital. Certainly Dinamaula, in their interview the day before, had preserved an unbroken front of non-co-operation. But he had not taken a firm stand on any particular aspect of policy or action. The most he had done was to produce one phrase, which he had repeated over and over again. ‘I do not understand,’ Dinamaula had said, ‘why I have been taken away from my people.’
Sir Elliott had done his best to explain the official point of view to him, with statement, question, restatement, and challenge. Was it not true (he had asked) that the chief intended far-reaching reforms, irrespective of what Government planned? Dinamaula did not wish to answer that question. Was it not true that the chief planned to marry a white woman? That was his (Dinamaula’s) private affair. Surely the chief must see that his present attitude was disrupting the tribe? Dinamaula did not agree. How could he be allowed to return to Gamate when his presence obviously increased the threat of disorder? Dinamaula did not recognize the problem, and wished to be restored to his people. But how could he be proclaimed chief, in the present circumstances? That was a matter for the tribe, and the strict laws of inheritance.
It had been a very difficult interview, with a young man who disdained to gain a single inch of ground, and yet, by refusing argument on all matters of disagreement, had presented the Governor with an impenetrable opposition. It had been like talking to a brick wall.
Dinamaula was not bitter, he was not directly mutinous. He was simply there – an enigma, a blank denial, an undoubted focus of strength. Towards the end, the Governor was left with the conviction that he no longer understood the Maulas – or the younger generation.
When at last he had said, prepared to bargain, stepping down in tone and approach: ‘We don’t want any sort of crisis, Chief. Will you undertake to leave all these questions to negotiation, later on?’ Dinamaula had answered: ‘I will promise nothing. I will undertake nothing. I wish to return to Gamate.’
‘But he won’t return to Gamate,’ said the Governor suddenly, ending his reverie, answering his own thoughts with such conviction that all his staff looked up with new attention. ‘Not under the present circumstances, at least. And that brings me to my next point … Andrew Macmillan rang me up late last night, and again this morning, just a few minutes ago. Gamate is full of rumours about Dinamaula – that he’s imprisoned, or going to be hanged – all sorts of things like that. There was some very bad rioting last night – the worst so far, in fact. I’m sorry to tell you that a policeman was killed.’
‘Who?’ asked Captain Simpson, jerking to sudden attention. ‘Not Keith Crump?’
‘No, no,’ answered the Governor testily. ‘A policeman – a Maula corporal.’
‘Oh …’ said Simpson. ‘But that’s a pretty bad show, all the same.’
‘Things are a great deal quieter this morning, I’m glad to say,’ Sir Elliott continued, ‘but there are still gangs of people roaming about, shouting for Dinamaula, and huts are still being burnt here and there. Macmillan has enrolled every available man as a special constable, and he thinks he can get things under control in a couple of days. But he is adamant–’ the Governor repeated and stressed the odd word, ‘–adamant that Dinamaula cannot be allowed to return at present. And so am I.’
The Governor paused. He did not enjoy talking at such length and in such detail. Almost always, by now, he would have given himself a respite by asking a question, or by inviting someone else’s point of view. But in the present case he was the only one who could submit this comprehensive account.
After a moment, he continued: ‘It’s quite obvious that, if he went back to Gamate, Dinamaula would continue to be the centre of revolt, either active or passive – he couldn’t help it. He must therefore stay here in Port Victoria. With that in view, I am issuing this Order-in-Council.’ He looked round his desk, riffled through some papers. ‘Now where is it?’
Aidan stood up. ‘Here, sir. I was having it retyped.’
‘Oh, yes …’ The Governor took the sheet of stiff blue foolscap. ‘This is modelled on an Order-in-Council which we had to use about fifty years ago, and another which was prepared – though we didn’t have to use it – at the time of the tax troubles in 1951.’ He adjusted his spectacles. ‘“In pursuance of the powers vested in me under Section Seventeen of–” well, that’s just the usual preamble, “–Be it therefore enacted as follows. ONE. A State of Emergency is declared within the Township of Gamate, and within a prescribed zone extending one hundred miles in any direction therefrom. TWO. This State of Emergency shall continue until the Governor in Council is satisfied that the necessity therefore no longer exists. THREE. Chief-designate Dinamaula, by reason of his refusal to co-operate with the Resident Commissioner, Gamate, in matters affecting the future of the Maula tribe, is hereby declared a Prohibited Person under Section Eighteen of the foregoing, and is prohibited from entering the prescribed zone affected by the State of Emergency. FOUR. Chief-designate Dinamaula is hereby directed to reside within the metropolitan limits of Port Victoria, until the Governor in Council shall decree otherwise. FIVE. The Native Authority in the Township of Gamate shall continue to be the Council of Regents.” That’s all.’
‘Sir,’ said an unexpected voice, after a brief pause. It was Stevens.
‘Yes?’
‘Hadn’t we better give him his full name? I think it ought to be “Chief-designate Dinamaula Maula”.’
‘True,’ said the Governor. He made two careful corrections to the Order-in-Council. ‘Thank you, Leonard. We can’t afford any procedural mistakes … Has anyone else got any questions or suggestions?’
There was another pause, which lengthened gradually to a receptive silence; it was as if no one in the room cared to add anything to so well-rounded a chapter. Once again, David Bracken was aware of a prickling uneasiness. There was a gap here – the same gap as before; the Government side were planning to do something, something pretty clear-cut and decisive, and they weren’t bothering to explain why. Once again, they were bound to make more enemies than friends in the process.
‘Sir,’ he said tentatively.
‘Yes, David?’ said the Governor, turning.
‘Couldn’t we issue a statement to the Press about this? They’ve been very active, as you know–’
‘I know that,’ answered the Governor fussily. ‘Two of them actually followed Dinamaula down from Gamate. Extraordinary. They interviewed him immediately after he’d seen me – badgered the poor chap into telling them all sorts of things that were really confidential.’
‘That’s why, sir,’ pursued David, ‘I think we ought to try to put our side of the thing across.’
‘Put it across?’ repeated the Governor fastidiously. ‘What an odd notion … Why should we do that? Our business is to restore order in Gamate. This–’ he tapped the Order-in-Council, ‘–is how we are going about it.’
‘But we’re lagging behind all the time, sir.’ David was aware of the others watching him, and especially of Nicole’s face, gravely speculative, hearteningly lovely. He drew a deep breath. ‘We really must explain why Dinamaula is being barred from Gamate. Otherwise the newspapers will automatically take his side, as they have done all the time, without bothering to find out our reasons, or give them any space.’
‘But we’ve stated our reasons,’ countered the Governor. He peered down at the Order-in-Council, and read out: ‘“By reason of his refusal to co-operate with the Resident Commissioner” … There you have it, in black and white.’
‘Sir, that’s a single sentence – not very explicit – in a fairly long document. It makes us sound so – so inhuman … The Press have already said that we tricked Dinamaula into leaving Gamate. Now they’ll say that we never had any intention of allowing him to come back. He’s banned from Gamate, he’s directed to live in a specific place, he’ll be under police surveillance here. Unless we explain why, in much more detail, it will look as if he’s being bullied and badgered by the officials, just because he won’t obey orders.’
‘Ridiculous!’ exclaimed the Governor. His blue eyes, a trifle frosty, formidably direct, regarded David steadily. ‘How could anyone in their right senses formulate such a view? I hope no member of my staff–’ his voice tailed off; though he continued to stare at David with level persistence. Suddenly he said: ‘What sort of statement have you in mind?’
David gulped. ‘Nothing elaborate, sir. It would need to cover three things–’ he thought rapidly, ‘–the explosive situation in Gamate, the fact that we think it’s due to Dinamaula talking too freely about reforms, and the obvious necessity of removing him, as a disturbing element, at least temporarily …’ He smiled, aware of an inner relief. ‘It could be made quite convincing, sir.’
Across the room, Aidan spoke: ‘I think David’s right, sir. We’ve got a case. We ought to state it more clearly.’
‘But will anyone print it?’ asked the Governor dubiously. ‘Last time we tried to put our side of the case, as you call it – at my Press conference – it seemed to make things worse than they were before.’
After a reflective silence, Aidan said: ‘I still think it’s worth trying, sir. Shall I put up a draft?’
The Governor sighed, unconvinced. But a draft was something he understood, something manageable. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let me have it as soon as you can.’
Nicole Steuart spoke suddenly, a rewarding enthusiasm in her voice. ‘Perhaps we could issue it simultaneously with the Order-in-Council.’
‘The Order-in-Council is an administrative legal instrument,’ replied the Governor precisely. ‘It would be very unusual to accompany it by a – a statement of any kind.’
‘It would give us the initiative, sir,’ said David.
‘I don’t think,’ said Aidan, joining in the delicate task of tipping the Old Gentleman off balance, ‘that there would be any harm in issuing an interpretive statement at the same time. In fact,’ he said, ad-libbing freely, ‘the papers might appreciate it.’
‘Very well,’ conceded the Governor again. ‘Perhaps, considered in that light …’ He glanced down at the slip of paper on his blotter. There remained one more item. ‘That takes care of Dinamaula. It still leaves Gamate. I’m not quite satisfied–’ he spoke carefully, ‘–that we’re doing all we can to impress on the tribe the necessity of returning to normal again. Andrew, of course, is very overworked … But if the Regents won’t co-operate, it’s possible that their powers will have to be suspended, and Andrew declared the sole Native Authority … I propose to go up to Gamate myself, in two days’ time, and hold an aboura to explain matters to the tribe.’
He looked round the room. Only Aidan had known in advance of this move; the faces of the others reflected their surprise.
‘It will be a full-dress affair,’ said the Governor. ‘I shall want you to come up with me–’ he looked at Captain Simpson, indubitably a full-dress individual, ‘–and you too, David. Uniforms, of course, and – er – swords. We’ll leave by train tomorrow night … I think that’s all,’ he said, looking round him, relaxing somewhat. ‘Thank you for coming along.’
‘Well done,’ said Aidan unexpectedly, outside the Governor’s room. ‘It was about time we struck a blow for our side.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ said David. ‘I didn’t think he’d fall for it.’
‘Oh, the old gentleman’s doing all right,’ answered Aidan. ‘Much better than I expected.’
‘Have you got a sword?’ asked Nicole.
‘No,’ said David.
‘I have,’ said Stevens. ‘It belonged to my father. He was a District Officer in Basutoland. I’d be glad to lend it to you.’ Noting David’s hesitant expression, he added reassuringly: ‘You’ll find that the pattern hasn’t changed at all.’