By Eastern windows

by Gretta Curran Browne

  The slave-trader was too shocked to answer, his head pressed back against the wall, his eyes quivering with fright as his quivering hand loosened its grip on the rope. Lachlan snatched it and began to back away, taking the boy with him. He watched the crowd of staring eyes and knew none of them would dare to challenge him. Taking a man’s property without payment was against the law, but all knew that the British ruled Cochin now, and the British were the law.

  *

  That same afternoon Lachlan was back at work, and then found himself on duty for five long days consecutively, in command of a detachment of the 77th on duty inside the Fort.

  Almost collapsing from want of rest, he was finally relieved from his five day command, but only in order to discharge his duty as a Paymaster of the Regiment, and give the soldiers their pay.

  ‘Put an extra few rupees in, Captain!’ a bright young spark shouted as Lachlan sat at a fold-table under a tree and began paying the lines of soldiers.

  Lachlan smiled a polite response, but the foolish young soldier, standing halfway down the line, made the mistake of becoming more familiar and bold. ‘I mean, Captain,’ he said with a laugh, ‘all you officers will be getting a nice rich reward for taking Cochin, won't you?’

  ‘Take that soldier's name, Sergeant,’ Macquarie said, without looking up.

  ‘But, Captain!’ the soldier argued, ‘I was only saying – ‘

  ‘Don't you dare argue with me. Take his name again, Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh bugger me for speaking!’ the soldier muttered.

  Lachlan put down his pen and looked directly at Sergeant McGinnis. ‘How many times is that now, Sergeant?’

  `Three times, sir. He’s answered ye back three times.’

  ‘Then this afternoon, Sergeant, let him take three hours of double-drill or whatever other punishment you think fitting.’

  The soldier almost collapsed; involuntarily his mouth opened again but was stopped by the soldier behind him who hissed impatiently. ‘Shut up Berwick, or I'll stuff a mango in your gob! Some of us are waiting to be paid.’

  Sergeant McGinnis looked severely at Berwick who had come out to India with a new detachment of soldiers, and had been sent down to Calicut only a few months previously. Berwick was a likable lad, but very cheeky, and reputed to be hopelessly in love with the captain's wife of all people, Mrs Jane Macquarie.

  The Sergeant muttered in an undertone, ‘Ye, my laddie, are even more stupid than I gave ye credit for.’

  ‘What's to be my punishment, Sarge?’ Berwick quavered, almost in tears. ‘Not double-drill, Sarge, please! I'll do anything, but not three hours double-drill!’

  Sergeant McGinnis regarded him with a look of lofty rectitude. ‘And why not?’ he demanded. ‘If I say ye'll spend three hours running round the parade-ground under full pack, then ye will!’

  ‘But Sarge – ‘

  ‘No whining, Berwick, no whining if ye please. We don't like whining lads in this regiment. And I hope them's not tears I see in your eyes! If they are tears, then ye know the punishment – a collection to buy ye a baby's rattle!’

  Berwick's eyes blinked rapidly as he jerked up his chin.

  Sergeant McGinnis clasped his hands behind his back, did a slow strut up to the top of the line, about-turned, and strutted back down again. He paused, and stood looking sideways at Berwick, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  ‘Not three hours drill,’ he said finally, in a more gentle tone. `Not for ye, Berwick. It's been a good campaign and so I’m going to be kind to ye.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  ‘So, this afternoon, Berwick, I want ye to spend your time writing three letters to your friends back home on the subject of – "Why I joined the Army."’

  The soldier behind Berwick spluttered.

  ‘And when ye have written them,’ the Sergeant continued, ‘I want ye to write a last letter, addressed to the Commander-in-Chief, on the subject of – "How I learned not to be cheeky and argue with an officer who has just done a five-day spell of duty and is badly fatigued and in need of a rest, but can't have one because he has to spend a further day paying out wages to the men which includes cheeky young buggers and good soldiers alike!"’

  Berwick was staring, while the soldiers in front and behind him were endeavouring to control their shaking bodies.

  ‘I couldn't write all that, Sarge!’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘I never learned writing.’

  Captain Macquarie glanced up as a number of soldiers down the line erupted into laughter, and Sergeant McGinnis looked up at the sky as if wishing he was dead.

  *

  At last it came, the time to leave. Captain Macquarie paid off the casual servants and coolies who had joined his company on the march overland from Calicut, and gave them all an extra few rupees to carry them home to Tanore or Paniani or wherever they had been hired along the way to Cochin. Their service with the British Army was no longer needed. A regular garrison was now installed at Cochin under the command of Colonel Petrie, and everyone else was leaving the tented field and going home to base at Calicut or Bombay.

  In order to prevent the fortune-tellers, the conjurers, the cooks and horse-keepers, the boot-shiners and silversmiths, and all the other trades that made up the camp-followers, and especially the prostitutes, from swarming after the soldiers and their pay, a ship had arrived to take the 77th back to Calicut by sea, and was due to leave in three days time.

  Lachlan couldn't wait that long.

  He went to the extravagance of hiring a pattamar boat and two nights later he was back at Calicut, arriving there in bright tropical moonlight.

  He had left his horse at Cochin to be transported on the troop-ship. Arriving at Calicut he hired a horse and was soon speeding a further four miles up the coast to the British station and Jane.

  In the quietness of the military settlement, the sound of his horse had been heard from a half a mile away. He briefly acknowledged the sentries with a touch of his hat as he rode past them, slowing his speed as his horse picked its way up the narrow path towards the officers' bungalows.

  Turning his head sideways, he murmured over his shoulder, ‘Almost home.’

  ‘Yes, Sahib,’ whispered the boy sitting behind him.

  As he neared the house he heard footsteps running along the veranda ... and there she was, his beloved girl. He smiled and swung down to her.

  *

  Bappo, Marianne, and the other household servants seemed almost as excited as Jane to see Lachlan again. None seemed to notice the small boy sitting motionlessly in the darkness above the horse, until Lachlan turned back and lifted him down.

  The boy was now dressed decently and wore a small dark blue turban on his head. ‘This is George,’ Lachlan said, leading him into the light on the veranda. ‘A new addition to our household.’

  Jane stared at the boy. Her hands rested on his shoulders as she looked into his face. ‘Oh, he's beautiful!’ she exclaimed.

  The boy smiled back at her happily.

  ‘And so sweet!’ Jane added.

  Lachlan nodded. ‘I had a suspicion that's what you would say.’

  ‘But why – ‘

  ‘Not now, he said. ‘Let's get this wee laddie some food and off to bed and then I'll tell you everything.’

  As soon as George had been taken off to the servants' quarters, the questions poured out of her. Had he eaten? What? Good gracious! He had not eaten since that morning!

  Lachlan insisted that he was not hungry, but she would have none of it. He must eat! And immediately!

  Bappoo agreed with her, clapping his hands for the two household servants to see to the Captain-Sahib's food.

  While he ate, Jane sat at his left hand and continued to ply him with eager questions, which he attempted to answer between mouthfuls of food.

  He told her about the conquest of Cochin, which had been won with only two deaths on the British side.

  He told her about the slave-trader and the Mussulman,
and how the boy seemed to have no proper name as his mother had always called him her ‘Prince’ because his ancestors were kings. And that had given Edward Grant the idea of calling the boy George, after King George, which the boy had liked very much – although he had to be persuaded that he could not be called ‘King George’ but simply George.

  He told her about the Jews of Mattancheri and Mr. Wredé. The only thing he did not tell her about was the night he had been invited by Colonel Petrie to join his staff on an official visit to the Hindu Palace of Mattancheri.

  The Hindus didn't seem to care which set of Europeans ruled them, so long as their customs and religious practices were not interfered with. Although they accepted the British with more resignation than they did the Dutch, because it had been predicted by the Brahmins that the British would rule India for not less than one hundred years before the sword could be raised against all feringhis in a war for Hind to rule herself.

  He didn't tell her that on arrival at the Hindu Palace of Mattancheri, the British officers were all graciously welcomed and, once luxuriously seated in a chamber of silk cushions, dishes of opium had been handed round to them in the same easy manner that snuff or tobacco is offered in England; although she would not have been too surprised at that.

  He didn't tell her because of her questioning and curious mind, and if he had once in conversation led her through the doors of the Hindu palace, erotic frescos painted on every wall and ceiling, she would want to know everything – absolutely everything – in true Jane style.

  And how could he tell her about the black-eyed, bare-breasted, dancing girls who had later been brought into the all-male chamber for their entertainment. Young beauties of considerable personal charms who had danced before them, bells jingling on their ankles and wrists, expressing with every movement of their hands and hips all the delights of passion and pleasure that all lovers know and which needed no translation or language.

  He suddenly laid down his fork, took a drink of his wine, then rose and pushed back his chair.

  Jane frowned at his unfinished plate. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘Bed,’ he said with a brief smile. ‘And so are you.’

  NINE

  Jane's maternal instinct, which was growing stronger every day, was now being poured over George, the little Cochin boy whom she had taken to with a strange sense of possession, mothering him in the same loving way that Mammy Dinah had mothered her.

  George's initial attachment to Lachlan had now transferred completely to Jane whom he had fallen head over heels in love with, literally; for his favourite trick was doing spinning cartwheels from one end of the garden to the other when his happiness overcame him.

  And George's greatest happiness came when Jane decided he must possess more than one name, and gave to him her own maiden name of Jarvis, even going so far as to write to her lawyers instructing a legal deed to that effect.

  From that day on, George, a proud boy, insisted that he was always called by his two names of George Jarvis, and not just George.

  Bappoo was appalled at the behaviour of his mistress. He thought it disgraceful that this boy – this slave boy – should be treated almost like the son of a sahib and not like a servant, which is what he was, a rascally servant.

  ‘Yes, by God, by Jove, my dear!’ Bappoo admonished George severely. ‘You unworthy of name George Jarvees. You only rascally servant! You son of slave!’

  `My father was a prince and my ancestors were kings!' George answered proudly, then ran behind Bappoo and cheekily tugged hard on his baggy pantaloons.

  A moment later Lachlan stepped into the garden to be met with the astonishing sight of Bappoo's enormous bare brown backside as he bent to pull up his pantaloons – gasping out a hail of Hindi curses against the slave boy and every member of his ancestry.

  Lachlan listened with a straight face to Bappoo's angry complaints about the boy, but only until he was forced to excuse himself and stride back into the house, ostensibly to find George, but really to find a safe haven where he could throw himself onto the cushioned sofa beside Jane and laugh and laugh until she thought his hysterical laughing must be the result of an oncoming bout of heat-fever.

  ‘You spoil that boy, he told her in the end, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘Soon he will think he is the Burra-Sahib and will be telling us all what to do.’

  ‘He deserves a little spoiling.’ Jane moved closer to him on the sofa and slipped an arm across his waist. ‘I want a child of my own, Lachlan,' she said quietly. `A child that is half you and half me.’

  He looked at her wryly. ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘Our child,’ she whispered. ‘That's all I want, Lachlan, nothing more. I don't even ask for two or three. I would be ecstatic with even one.’

  She gazed at him seriously. ‘Why has it not happened yet? Why am I still not pregnant? Do you think there could be something wrong with me?’

  He could only look back at her and wonder. He had tried not to notice the months and years passing without a sign of Jane becoming pregnant, but he had told himself it did not matter. He would prefer her without a child to another woman who might give him a brood. He had not married her for the purpose of breeding children, just as he had not married her for her money. And now it seemed that what he had not sought, he was not to gain.

  ‘What if we never have a child,’ she said anxiously. ‘Some couples never do.’

  He sat thoughtful, not knowing how to answer her. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, and when he did not, she confessed that for a long time now she had been secretly pining for a child, secretly longing to add to their marriage with the start of a family.

  ‘Why secretly?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I think...’ she said in a breaking voice, ‘after all this time there must be something wrong with me, and we will never have a baby of our own.’ Slow silent tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  He pulled her against his chest and held her tightly. She held him as desperately. It was a mystery that united them, a shared bewilderment.

  ‘Kooie-hai!’

  They broke apart and stared at the small figure of George Jarvis standing in the doorway with hands joined in a humble salaam as he apologised most profusely for his bad behaviour to the noble and honourable Bappoo – who was standing smugly behind him with arms folded like a Moor king.

  ‘Bugger off!’ Lachlan snapped.

  The two turned and fled like terrified children.

  TEN

  Throughout his young life George had always believed that the world began in Surat, and ended in Cochin; and when the Captain-Sahib had taken him on another boat journey, lasting two days and two nights, to this place called Calicut, he believed he had reached the very edge of the world.

  And he liked it here. He was so happy here. But now Mem-Jane was saying he must go on a boat again to some place even farther away, and he would have to stay on the boat for five days.

  ‘No, no, I not go,’ George wailed. ‘The boat fall off edge of world and I die!’ His agitation was so great that Jane had to hug him tightly for a long time, assuring him that the boat would not fall off any edge and he would be very safe, before his body finally stopped trembling and his tears ceased.

  She drew back and looked into his beautiful black eyes. ‘Have you never heard of Bombay?’

  George shook his head.

  ‘Well, Bombay is where the British Sahibs have their headquarters. Would they do that if it was not a safe place? Would I be going on the same boat if it was not safe? Would the Captain-Sahib?’

  Jane smiled at the sudden change of expression on George’s face as he asked, ‘The Captain-Sahib go on boat too?’

  ‘Yes, George, we are all going, Bappoo and Marianne too. But it is for just a short time, no more than a few weeks, and then we will return here to Calicut.’

  George’s faith in his safety on the boat was restored, but still his heart feared something else. ‘The Captain-Sahib – he no s
ell me there?’

  A great gush of sadness swept through Jane, and for moment she could not speak. Her eyes remained fixed on him very seriously as she said slowly, ‘No, George, we will never sell you to anyone, in any place. You are one of our household now, one of my children. That is why I gave you my own name of Jarvis. And I give you my promise that I will never allow anyone to harm you, or take you away from me. Do you understand that?’

  George looked back at her with eyes like burning lights. He did understand, and her promise to him sounded like a promise from Heaven itself.

  ‘I promise you,’ she repeated.

  George was so overcome with joy he fell to the ground and began covering her shoes in small kisses of gratitude. She smiled and was about to reach down and pull him to his feet when the sudden scud of footsteps in the hallway made them both turn to look towards the open doorway as Bappoo appeared, breathless and furious.

  ‘You rascally son of slave! Where you hide my new turban?’

  George let out a yelp of laughter and sped across the room and past Bappoo like a flash of lightening.

  ‘Now I kill you!’ Bappoo yelled, and bundled after him.

  Next morning, as they boarded the ship in time to catch the early tide, Jane noticed that Bappoo’s head was adorned in a bright red turban, instead of the usual white one. He looked as proud as a peacock. She smiled at him. ‘You found it then, Bappoo, your new turban?’

  Bappoo heaved a despairing sigh and waved his hand vaguely in the direction of George Jarvis. ‘Slave boy very wicked, Mem-Jane, slave boy naughty naughty. I tell him you sell him to nabob in Bombay and get the Captain-Sahib’s rupees back!’

  ‘The Captain-Sahib not pay!’ George said indignantly. ‘He take me – with gun!’ He raised his hand and pointed an invisible gun at Bappoo. ‘Like this!’