“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 the maidan. 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?”