‘That will soon be concluded,’ Hastings remarked. ‘We have taught them a lesson they will not forget. No, no, our problem is once again the French.’
‘Here, sir?’
Richard was disappointed. A few months before, France had declared war, seeking revenge for her defeats in the Seven Years’ War of twenty years earlier. But it was proving an entirely naval affair. The only fighting on land was in North America, where the British colonists were persisting in their criminal rebellion against the Crown. There were rumours that France might send an army to the Americas, but North America was about as far away from India as it was possible to be.
‘It would be a mistake for us to assume that, because the French East India Company failed, Mr Bryant, the Frogs are no longer interested in India. Or that they are incapable of acting against the Company. Are you not aware that nearly all the native armies with which we are surrounded are commanded by French officers? Indeed, such princes as Scindhia and Haidar Ali in Mysore have whole regiments of French soldiers who preferred to remain here rather than return to Europe. They call themselves Free Companies.’
Richard had heard of the French mercenaries, but had never considered them as anything more than extensions of the ambitions of their Indian masters.
‘There are some famous names amongst them,’ Hastings went on. ‘De Boigne, now, he commands Scindhia’s army. He is a fine soldier, and a patriotic one. If a directive were to come from Paris I doubt he would find it difficult to persuade Scindhia to march against us. Then there is Renard.’
‘The one they call Sombre,’ Richard said.
‘That is the man. A black-hearted Alsatian villain whom I would very much like to hang, after the massacre he perpetrated on our people at Patna. Do you know of that?’
‘Not enough, sir.’
‘Well, it is a simple tale, really. He descended upon the settlement, forced its surrender, then ordered the massacre of all the male prisoners. It is said even his Indian allies refused to obey that order. But it was done, nevertheless. And the women and children were sold into slavery. English women and children, Mr Bryant. That was seven years ago, and still the scoundrel has not been brought to book. More—he prospers. He has even carved a kingdom for himself south of Delhi, at Sardhana, and has been recognised as viceroy by the Mughal. He’s no patriot. But he hates the British, and if he saw an opportunity to humble us he’d seize it quickly enough. Oh, we have enemies a-plenty on our doorstep, Mr Bryant. Which is why I am seeking permission to increase our military establishment, both here and in Madras and Calcutta. When that permission comes, as it will, I will have your name in mind, Mr Bryant.’
‘For which I should be most grateful, sir.
‘Providing you have not changed your mind.’
‘I’ll not do that, sir.’
‘Why, then, look forward to the arrival of the Indiaman. She’s overdue. These ships are always overdue. But she may well bring what I seek. What we both seek. Good day to you, Mr Bryant. Look for the ship.’
*
Looking for the ship was one of the great pastimes in Bombay.
The Indiamen arrived approximately every third month; returning home a few weeks later, after they had been round Ceylon to Madras, thence to Calcutta, and thence to the small British colony of Penang on the coast of the Malay Peninsula. The great vessels, as large as a line-of-battle ship and nearly as heavily armed, brought mail and news, English cheeses, French and Spanish wines, memories of the good things which had been left behind.
They also brought new faces, new writers seeking their fortunes under the Pagoda Tree, new merchants seeking to acquire the wealth of the Indies, sometimes even new young women, also seeking wealth through marriage to a respectable husband. Few white men who had lived any time in the East could still be called respectable, but as long as they were wealthy, what did it matter?
The ships were invariably late. The first week or so could be put down to contrary winds, or not enough wind. After a fortnight factors began to become anxious, and parading the seafront armed with telescopes became even more popular an afternoon entertainment than polo or cards.
‘This ship will bring my niece,’ confided Jonathan Smythe. ‘Her father, my brother, is dead, and she is to live with Mrs Smythe and myself, as our daughter. Charming girl, charming.’
Richard and Albert Forsythe exchanged glances. It was difficult to suppose any relative of Jonathan Smythe’s could be charming, as the adjective certainly could not be applied either to the merchant or his wife.
Still, a young, unmarried woman, who was also already well connected financially...
‘You can forget her,’ Albert recommended, as the group broke up. ‘I’ll wager Smythe has her husband already picked. And it won’t be one of us.’
‘I was not giving Miss Smythe the slightest consideration,’ Richard assured his friend. ‘Marriage is not for me. Not with my commission all but certain. It is purely for that reason that I seek the ship.’
‘Do you suppose Hastings even remembers your name?’
The interview was several weeks in the past, and the Governor-General had long departed for Calcutta.
‘I am sure of it. He had the look of an honest man.’
Forsythe gave a shout of laughter. ‘And it is well known that he is an even bigger rogue than Clive, when it comes to fleecing the natives.’
‘He will remember me,’ Richard insisted. Never had he felt so confident that his dream was at last about to become reality.
Someone was shouting, and pointing, and people were clustering at the stone parapet, levelling their telescopes.
‘A sail!’ they shouted. ‘A sail.’
‘Your glass, Albert, I beg of you!’
His friend handed it over readily enough, and Richard levelled it. Undoubtedly there was a sail out there, and growing larger.
‘The Indiaman,’ he breathed.
And all your dreams come true,’ Albert said with a grin.
‘Well, as to that, whatever despatches she carries for the Governor-General will have to await Calcutta, of course. But I truly feel close to success.’
*
The watchers on the shore waited until it was too dark to make out more than the ship’s lanterns, then they went home to bed. She was safe now. Next morning, when they again hurried to the shore—little Company business was done the day an Indiaman arrived—they saw her all but to anchor, her topsails already furled, as she glided before the light south-westerly breeze into the harbour, her yellow-varnished topsides, studded with black gunports, glowing in the morning sun, her afterdeck a mass of people, staring at the island which they had elected to make their home.
Richard reminded himself that now she was here his personal anxiety was over, yet he joined with everyone else to watch the bumboats put out from the shore and the passengers begin their transfer to land. Jonathan Smythe and his wife actually went out to the ship on one of them, taking advantage of his privileged position. They were some time in returning—‘They’ll be taking coffee with the master, I’ll be bound,’ Albert said—but when they did they were accompanied by a young woman.
She was indeed charming, in a froth of pale blue muslin and a pale blue straw hat with dark blue ribbons which floated down to below her tight waist. This much was obvious from a distance. But as the boat approached the dock, it could be made out that she possessed ringlets of auburn hair, a complexion of the most perfect peaches and cream, deep blue eyes, and lips ripe for delicious wickedness.
Most of the writers had gathered on the dockside, together with several army officers; Richard made out Berkeley Ford, standing with two other red-coated young men. All were staring at the approaching boat with expressions of rapt wonderment.
Albert Forsythe turned to Richard, his eyes alight. ‘The man was telling the truth. She is an utter charmer. By God, but Bombay has suddenly become the most splendid place on earth.’
Richard was inclined to agree with him. His earlier pretended indifference to th
e ship and her passengers quite forgotten, he moved forward with the rest of the young men as the boat came in to the steps. Smythe was already ashore, handing his niece across the gunwale, and protesting to the pressing crowd of spectators.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ he protested. ‘My niece has had a long and trying voyage. Why, she hardly understands the feel of dry land beneath her feet.’
And indeed at that moment the young lady gave a little lurch, and all but fell into the arms of her uncle.
Mrs Smythe was left to scramble ashore with the aid of an Indian sailor, while the waiting men sighed as they watched the factor put his arm round his niece’s waist.
‘You’ll call, as you wish,’ Smythe told them. ‘You’ll call.’
Miss Smythe, having regained her balance, was slowly ascending the steps to street level. She allowed her gaze to wander over the expectant faces, a polite, impersonal smile fixed to her lips. Her eyes were somewhat glazed, and it was evident that the spectators were all just a blur to her. But then they reached Richard, and seemed to flicker. She looked at him again, and smiled.
He wanted to throw his hat into the air for joy.
‘By God!’ Albert Forsythe remarked. ‘She likes the cut of your jib, my friend.’
‘Yes,’ Richard breathed. ‘Oh, yes.’
He watched the young woman being escorted towards a waiting phaeton, above which a huge parasol nodded.
‘Seems a pity you’re off on campaign,’ Albert observed, slyly.
Richard glanced at him. ‘That won’t be for months yet. Even if Hastings remembers my name.’
Diary of Miss Barbara Smythe, 5 September 1779
I am in Bombay. I am in India!
I write this in my own bedroom, in my uncle’s house on Malabar Point.
Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Lucy are older than I expected, at least fifty! But they are warm-hearted and very kind.
When I asked Uncle Jonathan to show me a pagoda tree, he roared with laughter. Obviously I must be careful not to appear too ridiculous by my innocence.
Lord, how the room goes up and down and sideways! Captain Reid warned me that I would suffer from land-sickness. I should not have drunk that fourth glass of port after dinner.
Uncle Jonathan drinks a bottle a night, when not entertaining! How many does he drink when he has company?
The house is very grand. It does not command much acreage, but Uncle Jonathan said it is impossible to have much land in Bombay, because the island is so small and there are so many people. This I can believe. I have never seen such a crowd as was gathered to welcome the ship. To welcome me! I felt like a queen.
The native people are swarthy, with a most curious smell. Aunt Lucy says it is the coconut oil they use on their hair. She also says that they think we have a funny smell. Well, really!
I shall never get used to the smells! There is one in particular which positively titillates the nostrils. Aunt Lucy says it is called curry, and that it is a mixture of a great number of Indian herbs, in which they cook their food. She says it is very tasty and I shall have some tomorrow.
I have seen my first elephant! It was not as large as I had expected and was terribly dirty. There was a man sitting on its head!
But what of the young men? There were at least forty on the quayside when I arrived. Quite a few of them were soldiers, very smart. The others were writers, Uncle Jonathan says. I believe he means clerks in the Company. Uncle Jonathan says clerks are of no account, because they are very poor. When I asked him if Mr Clive had not once been a clerk, he said there are exceptions to every rule.
And when I asked him if he had not once been a clerk, he changed the subject!
I believe he wishes me to marry a soldier. But surely soldiers are even more destitute than clerks?
But that young man…what can I say? What dare I say? He is tall, and he had a look about him.
He made me feel quite faint! But it may have been the heat.
Will he call? Uncle Jonathan says every young man will call, or he will want to know the reason why! Even the poor destitute writers.
Is that young man destitute? I suppose so. But I do hope he calls. I should like to know his name.
2: The Fatal Bullet
Very little work was done in any of the Company’s offices the day after Barbara Smythe arrived. Instead the writers lined up to deliver their cards.
Even Albert Forsythe, for all his disparagement of any of their chances, disappeared from his desk for an hour.
Richard remained in his place all morning, even if he did very little work himself; concentration was intensely difficult. He was following a plan. He had no wish to mix with the rest, nor did he feel he was allowing any of them an unfair advantage. His was the only face she had even noticed! He could hardly believe his good fortune. Of course, he might have been mistaken, but Forsythe had noted it too. Of course, his friend was right, that Jonathan Smythe would certainly never dream of permitting his niece to marry a penniless writer.
But Barbara Smythe had the face of a woman who would not easily be coerced.
‘Stepping aside, eh?’ Forsythe asked when he returned. ‘Very wise, too. I can’t imagine why we are all wasting our time.’
‘Did you meet the lady?’
‘Good heavens, no. I was given to understand that she was still abed. Delicious thought, eh? Still, you know, I think you ought to leave a card, Dickie my lad. There is talk of a reception. You’d not want to be left out, now would you?’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Richard agreed, with feigned reluctance. ‘It’s all but mid-day. I might stroll along there now.’
It was the time he had selected last night. The rush would be over, and even young ladies who needed to catch up on their sleep were usually up by noon.
As befitted Bombay’s principal factor, Jonathan Smythe’s mansion was situated on Malabar Point, where it obtained whatever breeze there was, and where, with the sea to one side and the bay to the other, it was most secluded from noise and unpleasant odours. Richard had naturally been there several times during his residence on the island. He had left a card when he had first arrived, and since then had been invited to the odd supper party as well as to celebrate the King’s birthday.
It was a place of green lawns separated by tall hibiscus hedges; of pathways and drives made of crushed shells; of coolie women who squatted, skirts pulled up to their thighs, gold bangles gleaming round their ankles, as they chipped at the ground with sharp-bladed knives; of huge shade trees, mangoes and tamarinds, poinsettias and jacarandas.
Richard’s hired mare high-stepped nervously as she was surrounded by a mass of barking dogs, but instantly yardboys were clustering to seize her bridle, others to dust Richard’s shoulders as he dismounted.
He was pleased to see that there were at this minute no other horses tethered at the steps.
A bowing major-domo, resplendent in a cloth-of-gold turban and tunic over a white dhoti, but with bare legs and feet, ushered him into the hall, and gestured to the silver salver on the table. Richard peered at it. As Forsythe had indicated, it was absolutely full of cards, most of them a good deal more ornate than his. But his would be on top, the first she would see. He placed it there, and the butler bowed again.
‘Mrs Smythe is well, I hope?’ Richard inquired.
‘Indeed, sahib.’ Another bow.
‘I should be pleased if you would give her my regards.’
‘I will do so, sahib.’
‘And Miss Smythe?’
‘Why, I am very well indeed, sir,’ she said. ‘The better for being off that heaving ship.’
Richard turned so sharply he all but knocked the butler over. His heart was behaving so strangely he almost felt sick.
Barbara Smythe had entered the hall from the verandah. She wore a white cotton gown, absolutely plain, and her hair was also undressed, secured on the nape of her neck by a ribbon. It was really the most magnificent thing about her, mahogany in colour, with a slight wave, and far longer
than he had expected.
He did not dare allow himself to look at the gown, beneath which she appeared to be wearing but a single chemise—and she possessed a very full figure. Instead, he kept his eyes level with hers. Her face was even more handsome than he had thought it yesterday. Her features were too strong for fashionable beauty—but the invitation to meet, and perhaps master, that strength was the greatest of her attractions. Yesterday she had been curious, excited, and exhausted. Today she was rested, her features and eyes calm. Yet there was a curious expression of defiance about her. No doubt she understood that she was stepping away from propriety in personally greeting one of her male callers, and did not care.
What a delicious thought.
‘You must forgive me,’ she said, ‘for appearing thus. But dear Aunt Lucy assures me ladies often appear en deshabille in the tropics.’
‘I am sure your aunt is right, Miss Smythe,’ Richard said, relieved that he could articulate coherently.
She stepped past him, and a delicious fragrance hung on the air. She picked up his card, and looked at it, then at him. ‘Mr Richard Bryant. A splendid name.’
He bowed. Damn it, why could he think of nothing to say? ‘You were at the dock yesterday morning?’
‘I was indeed, Miss Smythe. So were a great many others.’
She dropped his card, dug her fingers into the pile, lifted them up, and let them drop again. ‘I am enormously flattered.’
‘Bombay is enormously flattered, Miss Smythe, to have you in its midst.’ Could he really do no better than utter such platitudinous tripe?
‘Do you really think so, Mr Bryant?’
‘I would say you are by far the most attractive woman ever to set foot in the presidency, Miss Smythe.’
She had been idly flicking the cards as they spoke. Now she raised her head to stare at him.
‘You are very kind,’ she commented.
He simply had to take advantage of the situation, which had after all been created by her, and which might never recur if he did not. At this moment he had totally outflanked any possible rival.
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