By Eastern windows

by Gretta Curran Browne

  After a pause, Dr Anderson nodded tiredly. ‘Very well, I shall arrange it with Colonel Balfour.’

  ‘Aye, do that,’ McKenzie said. ‘An’ while you're at it, mebbe ye could arrange for a couple of coolies to come an' help me clean up this place.’ He looked disdainfully around the hut. ‘This will no' do for ma lieutenant. This will no' do at all!’

  ‘I'll send some coolies,’ Anderson said, turning to leave.

  ‘An` blankets,’ McKenzie called after him. ‘He'll be needing' a few more clean blankets to keep him comfortable when the shivering gets really bad. An` water! I'll need water to keep his face freshly sponged and cool. Ye'll see to that an all, will ye?’

  At the door, the young military surgeon abruptly stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at the audacious private, eyeing him up and down as if unable to believe his insolence.

  ‘Oh – an` some tae!' McKenzie added. ‘If I'm stayin' here awhile I'll need a drop of the auld life saver.’

  Dr Anderson turned and thrust himself out the door before his patience and temper escaped him.

  *

  When the doctor returned some hours later, the interior of the hut was as clean as a corporal's kit. A kettle was boiling on a small oil stove and McKenzie was ladling a spoon of the East India Company's tea into a pot of boiling water.

  ‘Oh, this is much better!’ Anderson said with surprise.

  ‘Aye.’ McKenzie nodded. ‘But I had to promise them two lazy coolies that I'd give `em the last of ma bescet ration before they would even make a start to help me. Will ye have a drop o' tae, sir?’

  Dr Anderson shook his head and moved over to his patient. When he turned back some minutes later, he saw McKenzie sitting with a contented expression on his face as he dipped a biscuit into his tin mug of tea.

  ‘My, my,’ the doctor said dryly. ‘I thought you said you had promised the last of your biscuits to the coolies!’

  ‘Aye, I did, sir. But not until they had done one final job for me.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘The Last Post, sir. I told them to go and find the Last Post and give it a good scrub down. Make it nice and clean. And no' to come back until a corporal or sergeant had signed a chit confirming they had done so.’

  McKenzie dipped another biscuit in his tea. ‘I told them any soldier would tell `em where to find the Last Post.’

  It was an old trick pulled on very young and raw recruits. Dr Anderson could not help smiling as he pictured the faces of the soldiers who would very kindly send the two coolies running here, there, and everywhere, in search of the Last Post – a military bugle call sounded at sunset and military funerals.

  McKenzie sniffed. ‘I made a guess that ye'd already paid them to do the work, sir.’

  ‘Your guess was correct.’

  ‘So they had a reet cheek bargaining for ma bescets as well!’ McKenzie exclaimed. ‘That's why I sent them to the Last Post.’

  Dr Anderson turned to leave. ‘Well, McKenzie, if you look after Lieutenant Macquarie as efficiently as you look after your biscuit ration, then I think we may have no fear about his safety and welfare.’

  ‘No fear,’ McKenzie agreed. ‘I'll treat him like a brother.’

  ‘You most certainly will not!’ Anderson snapped in final outrage. ‘You, man, will treat him like an officer!’

  McKenzie stared at the young surgeon's furious face and, not wishing to jeopardise his new career as an officer's aide, hastily assumed a look of sublime contriteness. ‘Yes, sir, like an officer, sir. I'll salute him day and night, sir. Every time he wakes up, sir.’

  At the door Dr Anderson looked back at the soldier coldly, ‘Damn you and your thickheaded insolence, McKenzie. I sincerely hope that when Lieutenant Macquarie gets better, he will have the good sense to boot you and your audacity back to whence you came!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  McKenzie's face remained complacent. Such expressions of endearment from the officers were routine.

  ‘I’ll be back at three.’

  ‘Verra good, sir.’

  *

  In the week that followed McKenzie cared endlessly and tirelessly for his lieutenant while the fever raged, forcing the required doses of mercury and opium into him; finally smiling happily when he managed to spoon-feed a cup of boiled rice down his patient's throat without it coming up again.

  ‘Och, ye'll soon be in fine fettle, sir,’ McKenzie said cheerfully. ‘A few more days and ye may even decide that a drop of the army's brandy would be a better medicine for ye than mercury. Aye, brandy's a gleg medicine for easing' the shivers. I'll order the brandy for ye now, sir, if ye like?’

  It was an order that McKenzie had already attended to. As soon as his lieutenant had again fallen into a sleep, he slyly produced the small flat metal flask from inside his tunic, took a long drink and smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Scotland for ever!’ he gushed, and downed another gulp before returning the bottle to its hiding place.

  A week later Lachlan had recovered enough to move into more comfortable accommodation in Tellicherry, procured for him by Dr Anderson, in the house of an elderly official of the East India Company and his wife. And McKenzie, as his official servant, went with him.

  Lachlan spent the first night luxuriating in a hot soapy bath, his mood thoughtful as he contemplated his life since he had left his home on Mull to travel to India. What had he gained since then?

  Nothing but malaria.

  He lay in thoughtful stillness and let his mind drift home to Scotland and his family. He thought of his mother, still working her farm, and still depending upon financial assistance from her son in India. And poor Donald, working from dawn to dusk and constantly keeping an eye on the hilltop for his brother’s return.

  Lachlan climbed out of the tub, dried himself swiftly, knotted the towel around his waist, and searched through his leather holdall, the only possession he had not lost on the Ghauts, and wrote a short letter to his mother.

  He chose his words carefully, because as his mother was unable to read, he was forced to write to her through the medium of his Uncle Murdoch who – when he had the time – would ride over from Lochbuy to read the letter to her.

  His letter was short and cheerful, telling her of the wonderful and carefree life he was enjoying in India. Then he counted what money he had. It was not much for an officer in India, but a fair amount to a Scottish widow.

  He walked to the door, opened it, and rang the bell on the floor outside which brought an Indian servant rushing to serve him. ‘My aide, Private McKenzie,’ he said in Hindi. ‘Please ask him to come at once.’

  When McKenzie arrived he was surprised to find his Lieutenant sitting on the bed, dressed in only a towel. ‘Och, sir! This will no' do! This will no' do at all! Ye've just had the fever and must keep warm after a bath. An’ that is a fact!’

  Lachlan held out the money. ‘First thing in the morning, I want you take this money and get a bank draft, signed and guaranteed by the Army, and made out to this name. Do you know where to go?’

  McKenzie shook his head. ‘But it'll no' take me long to find out.’

  When McKenzie had gone Lachlan added a postscript to the letter, asking his uncle to see that the draft was cashed on behalf of his mother.

  Then he sat and added it up. He had nothing left. He had just given away every rupee he possessed, but somehow he felt richer for it.

  *

  The following morning McKenzie woke him with his breakfast and the bank draft. Lachlan sealed the draft inside the letter and ordered McKenzie to arrange for it to go in the mail on the next boat out.

  An hour later he received an order to report to his commanding officer. As always, Lachlan dreaded the worst. During the last year out in the field, whenever Colonel Balfour had sent for him, it was usually to reward him with some filthy job that kept him building batteries or roads, or standing to arms throughout the night on piquet duty in the rain, while other officers lounged in their tents and complained of the ha
rdship of running out of claret.

  For some reason Balfour seemed to be testing him more than any of the other officers, but he was determined not to waste time on resentment or complaint, not even inwardly to himself, because what would be the point? The British Army and the wage it gave him was the only thing that kept his mother and his poor beloved brother from complete impoverishment, and for this reason alone, whatever Balfour heaped upon him he was determined to respond with grit and resolve.

  Colonel Balfour greeted him with his usual effusiveness. ‘Ah, Lieutenant Macquarie, how are you, dear boy?’

  ‘Back in good health, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so.’ Balfour smiled and spoke gently. ‘But now, let us get straight to the reason why I have sent for you. You did very well out there, Macquarie. We are all very pleased with you.’

  Lachlan responded with the usual answer in return for praise. ‘Just doing my duty, sir.’

  ‘Of course, but you did your duty very well, Lieutenant. It must have been a tough old sweat building the roads and hauling those guns up and down the slopes, eh, what?’

  ‘The men are to be congratulated, sir. They worked exceptionally well.’

  Balfour eyed him shrewdly. ‘Tell me, did any of the men under your command make complaints about going under harness in replacement for the bullocks hauling the guns? Or at any time, in any other circumstances, refuse to obey any of your orders?’

  ‘No, sir. Every man pulled his weight as best he could. And if I may say so, each and every one was a credit to the 77th.’

  ‘Good, good!’ Balfour smiled in genuine happiness. ‘Always good to hear our lads are not bad lads! In fact, General Abercromby and myself were discussing your work with the men only last evening...’ Balfour's voice tailed off as he looked at a paper on the table before him. Lachlan glanced up at the ceiling in weary resignation. Here it came, the sting in the tail, another of their damned rewards.

  When it came, Lachlan could only stare at Balfour in astonishment. The Command had rewarded him with a Captaincy.

  *

  Private McKenzie was sitting on a wooden bench outside his lieutenant’s quarters, his head back and eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face.

  ‘McKenzie.’

  ‘Sir!’

  McKenzie jumped up as Lachlan approached and gave him the good news. ‘Lord Cornwallis has been pleased to announce that from the money paid by Tipu Sultan, he intends to pay the Army a handsome gratuity in lieu of prize money, as well as pay and allowances.’

  McKenzie was astounded into incoherence. He stood staring blankly, his mouth open and his body hunched like a huge bear. Finally his senses returned and he endeavoured to speak sense. ‘Eh, wha' sir? What for, what way, what did ye say?’

  Lachlan repeated the news that the army was to receive a gratuity amounting to six months extra pay.

  ‘Six months extra pay!’ McKenzie exclaimed. ‘Even the men?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or just the officers?’

  The officers were getting an even larger gratuity, but Lachlan did not tell McKenzie that. ‘Every man in the army is to be rewarded. Even you, McKenzie, even you.’

  ‘Ye're no' jesting me now, sir?’ McKenzie expostulated. ‘Pay and allowances and six months extra batta on top for every man?’

  ‘And two week's extra pay for you, McKenzie, as a personal gratuity from myself to my head servant.’

  McKenzie looked around him in a searching motion, then again stared at his lieutenant uncomprehending. ‘Head servant? But I'm your one and only servant, Lieutenant Macquarie!’

  ‘That is true.’ Lachlan nodded agreeably. ‘And that is why I can afford to give you an extra two weeks pay, whereas poor Major Jones can only afford to give his eight servants a mere one weeks extra pay in return for being such good and faithful servants throughout this campaign.’

  ‘Thank ye, sir. It's verra kind o' you,’ McKenzie purred, his eyes dilating with exultation. ‘I'm grateful to ye. I'm beholden. I'm indebted. And losh – I'm rich!’ He could contain himself no longer. ‘Heck, sir, for the first time in ma life – I'll be rich!’

  ‘Don't get carried away, McKenzie. A private's pay, even with six month's extra on top, can hardly be described as riches. And by the way, it’s no longer lieutenant, but Captain Macquarie.’

  ‘Wha’? Ye mean … ye’re getting’ pay an’ allowances an’ six months extra of a captain's batta? Och! Sweet Jesus! Ye’ll be richer than me, sir! Rich as a rajah!’

  ‘Oh I doubt that,’ Lachlan smiled. ‘Now get your senses and head in order and go and give the good news to your comrades.’

  ‘Aye, I will, sir.’

  ‘And tell them the 77th are shipping out first thing in the morning.’

  *

  At daybreak the 77th started out for home. Home being Bombay. All were relieved to breathe the sea air again as they set sail on board the Hercules. All were older, all were somewhat richer, and six days later all were very glad to view once more the sight of Bombay harbour, its water shimmering under the saffron glow of a sunset, just as it had done on that first day of their arrival in the East.

  It seemed as if the entire British community had travelled out to greet the returning Army and welcome it home after its long absence in the field. A band played thumping military tunes and the harbour was all bustle with coming and goings from small boats.

  Lachlan stood by the ship's rail gazing at the crowd. A soldier's voice rose up from the back of the deck, declaring a wish that it was the people of Glasgow welcoming them home, not those of Bombay.

  For a moment Lachlan found himself thinking of the stark and eerie beauty of the western islands of Scotland: of green mountains and blue lochs and silent, tranquil glens. He saw again red deer on the crags, and an occasional golden eagle on sail above the hills. He heard the whistles of the shepherds as they brought the sheep home to pen, the calls of the drovers as they herded the longhaired Highland cattle.

  But it was just a moment, one of a thousand homesick moments all soldiers knew, and minutes later he was preparing to disembark and continue his life in India.

  TWO

  The town of Bombay contained rows upon rows of high brown houses but few European residents, the houses being hot, closely built, with projecting upper stories over narrow streets.

  The British civilian population had established their own settlement in a garden suburb two miles away, a peaceful and tranquil place dotted with pretty bungalows and handsome houses built in the European style of architecture, with the addition of a veranda or covered piazza to shade the rooms from the sun.

  In the cantonments of Colaba the soldiers of the 77th sweated through exercises forced upon them by their drill-sergeant, whilst their officers relaxed in their quarters or sipped drinks on the shaded veranda of the San Souci Club.

  General Sir Robert Abercromby had been promoted to the post of Governor-General of Bombay. To celebrate, he decided to hold a ‘Grand Ball’ at Government House.

  ‘You, Captain Macquarie, have been chosen as manager of the event,’ Colonel Balfour told Lachlan in a proud voice.

  No, you have been chosen to manage it, Lachlan thought wearily, but you can’t be bothered, so you are delegating it down to me.

  ‘You will, of course, have the assistance of a platoon of duty aides,’ Balfour added. ‘And we shall want a good show. Plenty of dancing and feasting and no expense spared. Something to delight the women and give them something to write home about, eh?’

  Balfour paused. ‘But also … General Abercromby has also asked me to come up with some form of entertainment, yet I’m damned if I can think of anything. Any ideas, Captain? A young man like you should be able to come up with something exciting.’

  Lachlan thought, and shook his head. ‘No, sir, I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Nothing at all? Nothing that would delight and entertain our civilian guests?’ Balfour pursed his lips in disappointment, and then began to fume. ‘Why is it that none of m
y officers are capable of coming up with a single idea of any kind?’

  Because they are soldiers, not entertainers, Lachlan thought wryly. The battlefield was hardly instructive in the ways of civilian socialising. The battlefield was a place … Lachlan’s eyes became fixed and distant for a moment as a sudden idea came to him.

  ‘How about a fireworks display, sir?’

  ‘A fireworks display?’

  ‘It would be very easy to arrange. And it would give our civilian guests some idea of the rocket flares and cannon explosions on the battlefield.’

  ‘A fireworks display! Why, that’s an excellent idea!’ Colonel Balfour beamed. ‘We are the military after all, and I’m sure General Abercrombie will approve.’

  Balfour rubbed his hands together in anticipated pleasure. ‘Well, I shall leave all the arrangements in your hands, Captain, while I attend to the business of choosing plenty of good claret – wonderful stuff for making an evening jolly!' He gave a chuckle of approval. ‘And it will do us all good to have some time in the company of women. Too long since we have had any time to spare for women, dear boy.’

  ‘Yes, sir, too long.’

  ‘Oh, damned if I forgot – ‘ Balfour swatted an invisible fly, ‘but being on duty on the night, Macquarie, you won't be able to dance with any of the young ladies, will you?’

  ‘No I bloody will not, you bastard,’ Lachlan thought, but his face showed only a slight smile. ‘Regrettably not, sir.’

  ‘Such a pity!’ Balfour exclaimed. ‘Still, duty first.’

  *

  The arrangements and organisation for the ball at Government House were carried out with all the precision and efficiency of a battle campaign. On the night, a guard of sepoys stood to attention around the lawns of the house while inside a battalion of uniformed native servants waited in readiness to serve.

  At precisely seven o'clock the guests began to arrive in streams: officers resplendent in scarlet coats with gold loops and chains, others in the pale blue and gold of the Light Cavalry or the green of the Rifle regiments; all every bit as colourful as the ladies in their shimmering gowns of every shade and hue.