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IX
During the next fortnight a great deal happened.
The feud between U Po Kyin and Dr Veraswami was now in full swing. The whole town was
divided into two factions, with every native soul from the magistrates down to the bazaar sweepers
enrolled on one side or the other, and all ready for perjury when the time came. But of the two parties,
the doctor’s was much the smaller and less efficiently libellous. The editor of the Burmese Patriot
had been put on trial for sedition and libel, bail being refused. His arrest had provoked a small riot in
Rangoon, which was suppressed by the police with the death of only two rioters. In prison the editor
went on hunger strike, but broke down after six hours.
In Kyauktada, too, things had been happening. A dacoit named Nga Shwe O had escaped from the
jail in mysterious circumstances. And there had been a whole crop of rumours about a projected
native rising in the district. The rumours–they were very vague ones as yet–centred round a village
named Thongwa, not far from the camp where Maxwell was girdling teak. A weiksa, or magician,
was said to have appeared from nowhere and to be prophesying the doom of the English power and
distributing magic bullet-proof jackets. Mr Macgregor did not take the rumours very seriously, but he
had asked for an extra force of Military Police. It was said that a company of Indian infantry with a
British officer in command would be sent to Kyauktada shortly. Westfield, of course, had hurried to
Thongwa at the first threat, or rather hope, of trouble.
‘God, if they’d only break out and rebel properly for once!’ he said to Ellis before starting. ‘But
it’ll be a bloody washout as usual. Always the same story with these rebellions–peter out almost
before they’ve begun. Would you believe it, I’ve never fired my gun at a fellow yet, not even a dacoit.
Eleven years of it, not counting the War, and never killed a man. Depressing.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Ellis, ‘if they won’t come up to the scratch you can always get hold of the
ringleaders and give them a good bambooing on the QT. That’s better than coddling them up in our
damned nursing homes of prisons.’
‘H’m, probably. Can’t do it though, nowadays. All these kid-glove laws–got to keep them, I
suppose, if we’re fools enough to make ’em.’
‘Oh, rot the laws. Bambooing’s the only thing that makes any impression on the Burman. Have you
seen them after they’ve been flogged? I have. Brought out of the jail on bullock carts, yelling, with
their women plastering mashed bananas on their backsides. That’s something they do understand. If I
had my way I’d give it ’em on the soles of the feet the same as the Turks do.’