By Eastern windows

by Gretta Curran Browne

  Finally, Lachlan turned his attention to Jane's little Indian maid, Marianne. He was at a loss to know what to do with her. Marianne was now almost fifteen, an age when most Indian girls were married and preparing for motherhood.

  Since returning to his duties at Headquarters he had leased a house on the Ramparts in Bombay, in which he now lived with Marianne, George Jarvis, Bappoo and a few other household servants. Only one person was missing from his usual happy household, and without her, Marianne had no role to play.

  What was he to do with Marianne?

  As Lachlan studied Marianne, he noticed for the first time that she was very pretty, with that small oval face so popular in India. Indeed, everything about her was small and delicate and dainty. He watched her move gracefully around the house and garden, dressed in her colourful saris with a billowing gauze veil hanging from her head. She was, he realised, the perfect picture of India's idea of beauty. And let loose in the world she would be swiftly snatched up by a Maharaja or European as a concubine.

  What should he do with Marianne? She had no family, having been abandoned long ago by her starving mother who had sold her for the price of a bowl of rice. But that was India, the darker side of India, where if the yearly crop failed and famine set in, the people were driven by starvation to seaports like Cochin or Bombay where a mother could sell her daughter into slavery for the price of a bowl of rice, and a father could sell his wife and all his children for fifty rupees.

  Marianne had been sold at the age of four. Since then she had been sold numerous times as a servant to various families, the British residents of Bombay being liable to move on every few years.

  Marianne's last household had been that of the Morleys, but Maria Morley had asked no price when she passed the girl on. She had simply given Marianne to Jane as a wedding gift.

  He had two options, the first of which might appeal to Marianne herself. Firstly, he could try and arrange for her to be married to some respectable and personable Indian male, for which he would supply the bride dowry.

  But then, he realised, no respectable Indian male would agree to marry a Hindu girl who lived out of her caste and had spent most of her life as an Angrezi slave. She would be considered unclean, unworthy, fit only for work as a servant or a concubine, but never a wife.

  And somehow, as he thought about it even longer, he had an uneasy feeling that bestowing Marianne with a dowry in order to secure a speedy marriage to an Indian of the lower castes was not what Jane would have wanted.

  A second option remained. He could arrange for Marianne to go into service with yet another British military household, or the household of a British nabob of the East India Company.

  No – not with a nabob! So many of them had their own little zenana quarter of concubines hidden away somewhere at the back of the house, under the guise of `servants' quarters. And poor little Marianne – just the thought of some fat, over-curried nabob touching the child filled him with revulsion. And she was just a child. He knew he would never forgive himself if she were unwittingly placed into bad hands or with anyone that would use her ill.

  Finally, he decided to discuss the situation with Marianne herself.

  She came into the room in answer to his summons and greeted him with the familiar salaam of `Namaste,' palm joined to palm.

  He bade her to sit down.

  In one graceful movement she dropped into a lotus posture on the carpet. She wore a peacock-blue silk tunic over fitted pyjamas crinkled at the ankles. Her flimsy veil slipped from her head and slid down to settle around her shoulders, but she made no move to return it to its former position. Her dark eyes were riveted to his face.

  He started by speaking to her casually, conversationally, but she was shy with him and smiled demurely without answering, her small rosebud mouth pursed coyly like two crimson petals.

  He persisted speaking casually, because he knew her so well, knew all her little ways. He talked to her about Britain, knowing how much she loved hearing about Belait. He poured himself a glass of brandy and listened to her giggling as he told her about the Grand Gala Balls in London where men in white stockings and ladies in enormous gowns danced in couples all night long. She shook her head in laughter and refused to believe it.

  Why dance themselves and not pay others to do it for them, she wanted to know. In Hind, no people of any worth or consequence danced themselves. If dancing was needed for entertainment, then dancing girls were hired to do it! She found it very amusing that the people of Belait had servants to do their cooking and cleaning and serving, but when it came to the evening entertainment, they had to do all the dancing themselves!

  ‘Kyo?’

  He confessed he didn't know why.

  She thought it hilariously funny, and presently she was laughing and chattering. He then brought the conversation back to India, and asked her what would she like to do now? There was no longer a mistress in his house for her to serve. Would she like to go to another English lady? Would she like to be married to a young Indian male? Whatever she wanted, he assured her, is what he would try to arrange for her.

  Marianne said nothing. Lachlan watched her dark eyes widen until they looked huge in her small face.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  She bowed her head and sat very still. The length of the silence became oppressive. He had to repeat the question. ‘What would you like to do?’

  Slowly her head lifted and her dark satin eyes regarded him nervously. ‘I like to go to English school,' she whispered.

  Astonished, he stared at her. ‘You want to go to England?’

  ‘No, no, stay in Hindustan, but go to English school.’

  ‘The English school in Bombay?’

  ‘She nodded tensely.

  He sat looking at her. My God – it was the best solution of all!

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes, I think Jane would like that.’

  ‘I think too,’ Marianne whispered.

  The days that followed found him arranging for Marianne to be boarded at the English school in Bombay and educated and cared for at his expense.

  Two weeks later Marianne was all packed and ready to leave. She could not, of course, be housed in that part of the school reserved for the daughters of Europeans, but in a wing that housed the half-caste daughters of soldiers and officials who had married Indian women, and were termed under the category of ‘mixed blood.’

  Now the time for departure had come, Marianne looked nervous and apprehensive. Lachlan assured her that he would keep in constant touch with her. She must write to him often, in Hindi at first, but then, hopefully, in perfect English. He had also arranged with her schoolmistress that he be sent correspondence every week to inform him of her progress and welfare.

  Then, finally, he handed her an important-looking legal document that was sealed with red wax. In his other hand he held an identical document.

  ‘This one I will give to your schoolmistress, Marianne, but the other you must keep safely yourself. Both are documents which confirm that you are perfectly free, and nobody's servant or slave.’

  Her lips quivered, she attempted to control them, bowing her head and keeping it bowed.

  ‘But as a free person,’ he said, ‘you are required by law to have more than one name. So I have given you the name of Marianne Jarvis. Is that acceptable to you?’

  ‘Yes, my father,’ Marianne whispered. Her head stayed bowed as she knelt down and went to the trouble of unstrapping her box and unpacking all the clothes she had so carefully packed, removing each item one by one until she could hide the document at the very bottom, as if it was some valuable treasure.

  George Jarvis, who stood watching her return the clothes to the box, fully understood why Marianne had handled the document as if it was priceless. It was, after all, a certificate from her employer and guardian – the Major-Sahib Macquarie of the British Army and British Raj – and who in all Hind would dare to harm her on seeing that!

  But George himself was
feeling very frightened, his eyes over-bright and nervous. He realised that Marianne was speaking shyly to him, saying she was sorry they all must part now, so sorry.

  ‘I too,’ George whispered. ‘I sorry we all part, too.’

  Under normal circumstances, a Hindu girl would never mix freely with a Muslim boy, but Marianne had never lived the life of a true Hindu. From too early an age she had grown up with the Angrezi. Nearly all her life had been spent with the Mems in their houses, and George now spent all his time with the Sahibs of the Army. Neither truly fitted into any race anymore. Both had been sold as slaves, and both would still be slaves, if it were not for the kindness of Lachlan-Sahib whom they both loved and whom they referred to as ‘Father’ in the respectful tradition of reverence as used in the East, and not the paternal tradition of the West.

  ‘Shall we go? Don't forget to say goodbye to Bappoo.’ Lachlan walked over to the waiting Tonga while Marianne moved to stand before Bappoo with hands joined in a salaam and whispering a shaky farewell.

  Bappoo sighed, smiled, sighed again, and wiped a big hand over his face as if he too felt sad at saying farewell to the little Hindu girl. Then, with a sudden smile he broke all traditions and patted Marianne affectionately on the cheek.

  ‘Khudaa haafiz,’ he said tenderly. God protect you.

  Lachlan sat beside Marianne in the Tonga. As it drove away her eyes filled with tears and she turned back, waving tearfully to George and Bappoo.

  George Jarvis stood with hand raised, feeling sick with terror. He knew it was his turn next to be either sold off, or sent away.

  But George's turn never came. As the days passed into weeks and then months his constant presence at the side of Major Macquarie seemed to be taken for granted.

  And two years later, in 1801, when the British Prime Minister decided that the French must now be driven out of Egypt in order to protect the British possessions in India, Lachlan and the 77th Regiment sailed out Bombay, destined for the Port of Suez, and George Jarvis went with them.

  SEVENTEEN

  After an absence of fifteen months, and after scoring a triumphant victory against the French Army at Alexandria, a huge welcoming crowd gathered at Bombay harbour as the British troop ships returned from Egypt.

  Disembarking with George Jarvis into a masoolah boat which cruised swiftly towards the dockside, Lachlan saw a number of friendly faces waiting to greet him: John Forbes, Colin Anderson – and there also was the huge bulk of Corporal McKenzie, furiously shouting to the jostling crowds of coolies, ordering them to stand back.

  ‘Stand back, ye bastards, stand back!’

  From his seat in the masoolah boat, Lachlan found himself eyeing McKenzie with suspicion, thinking to himself sarcastically, ‘Well, his voice is still loud enough,’

  McKenzie – upon hearing of the Egypt campaign – had immediately suffered a heart attack, and had been declared unfit for the gruelling march of the desert, escaping orders to prepare for battle, on the grounds of ill health.

  Lachlan had doubted the veracity of McKenzie's heart-attack, certain that the big Jock was faking it all the way, but he had let it go, deciding that McKenzie would be more of a hindrance than a help out in the desert. His complaints alone would be enough to kill any officer unfortunate enough to be in charge of him.

  As soon as the boat reached the shore McKenzie was the first to reach down and give Lachlan a hefty hand ashore.

  ‘Welcome back, sir, steady on yer feet now, safe and sound on dry land again. Every day I was fearful for ye in that desert, sir, certain ye might suffer the death o' sunstroke.’

  Lachlan looked at him wryly. ‘Still, I see you have recovered fine and well, McKenzie. In fact, I don't think I have ever seen you looking so hale and hearty.’

  McKenzie, suddenly remembering his heart attack, knew what the major was hinting, and immediately changed his demeanour.

  ‘Och, no, sir, it's just me puttin’ on a brave face to welcome ye back,’ he said wearily. ‘I'm not fet for much, as ye can surely see. The truth is, sir, I'm a done man.’

  Lachlan might have said more if Colin Anderson had not touched him on the shoulder then, and from there on he was greeted with handshake after handshake from his fellow officers.

  ‘Bappoo! Bappoo! Assalaam alaikum!’ George Jarvis shouted excitedly, breaking into a run, pushing through the crowds until he reached Bappoo who hugged him like a young brother home from the war.

  ‘George Jarvees!’ Bappoo, in his voluminous pantaloons and a new green turban, jiggled and laughed like an hysterical child. ‘Vaalaikum salaam!’

  Still laughing, they pulled back and stared at each other for signs of change, but only George had changed; he was at least three inches taller, and now that he was almost seventeen, he was showing signs of approaching manhood.

  ‘Aappaa kyaa haal hai?’ Bappoo asked eagerly.

  ‘Shukriiyaa, mai Thiik hui.’ George shrugged nonchalantly. He was well, fine, excellent, he assured Bappoo.

  The crowds of soldiers and coolies on the docks began to thin, baggage was carried off, and officers subsided into palanquins or tongas and were jogged away in the direction of the fort.

  Lachlan and his entourage ended up at John Forbes's house where an extravagant dinner was served. The talk centred on Egypt and the French, and finally the recent Treaty between Britain and France.

  When dinner was over, and while conversation buzzed, General Balfour slipped Lachlan a military dispatch. ‘I could have waited and given this to you tomorrow, dear boy, but I wanted you to have it as soon as possible.’

  Curiously, Lachlan unfolded and read the letter which was from London, from Colonel Brownrigg, informing him that His Majesty was graciously pleased to appoint him to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.

  Balfour was at his happiest, as he always was when something good happened to one of his own. ‘Well done, dear boy,’ he said, blue eyes crinkling, enjoying Macquarie's surprise. ‘Good news, eh what?’

  Lachlan smiled. ‘Very good news.’

  ‘Splendid! This calls for more claret I think. More claret, Gupta!' Balfour called gaily to the khidmatgar by the table. He called all the Indian servants Gupta if he didn't know their name, but he was ever courteous. ‘More wine, Gupta, if you please.’

  *

  In the servants' quarters at the back of the house, Bappoo was sitting cross-legged on the floor, opposite George Jarvis. George had finished eating but Bappoo was still tucking into a huge dish of spicy meatballs and yellow rice.

  Throughout the meal Bappoo had listened silently to everything George Jarvis had told him about Egypt, occasionally nodding his head in understanding as he ate his food without pause and with relish.

  At last, Bappoo paused in his eating, took a long drink of sherbet, smacked his lips, then looked keenly at George Jarvis and asked the most important question of all – the only thing he wanted to know about Egypt.

  ‘Khaanaa kaisaa lagaa?’

  George sighed, and told Bappoo that the food was not good at all. And even when it was almost good, it was nowhere near as good as the food in India. Cus-cus was all the Arabs seemed to eat. Bowls of cus-cus – a grain that was tasteless and not spicy like pilau rice.

  Bappoo was smiling, no longer envious. ‘Oh well,’ he said happily, reaching for more rice, ‘it was written then, by a kind God, that I not chosen to go to Egypt and left here to take care of Lachlan-Sahib's house.’

  George assured Bappoo that if he had been chosen to go to Egypt he would surely have died during the Army's ten-day march across the burning desert.

  ‘From Suez we were forced to march for ten days across the desert to the Nile,' George explained. `For ten days, Bappoo, all that was required of us was to suffer. Such barrenness! Such solitude! All of us so tired, staring at a scenery that never changed.’

  ‘Bad, bad ...’ Bappoo kept eating.

  ‘A flat open plain without one palm tree for shade from the sun,’ George continued, ‘and no living creatures �
� not even a lizard or a serpent – the usual creatures of the desert, not one did we see. Even the birds hated that desert, Bappoo, in all ten days of the long march, no bird did we see flying above. Not even a vulture.’

  ‘Good! No vultures! Vultures are bad birds,’ Bappoo said carelessly, not totally believing George's dramatic tale.

  George knew what Bappoo was thinking, but every word he had said was true. After marching forty miles from Suez and then twenty miles into the basin of the desert, all their water had gone, and not a sign of a well. No water to drink, and no water to cook the rice.

  And the heat!

  Even the suffocating heat of India in the hot season could never compare to the blinding dry heat of the silent desert. But the torture of the heat was nothing to the craving thirst, a gravelly thirst so painful some of the soldiers began to cry just to lick their own tears.

  There was even a time when George thought he might die from the thirst, until he remembered an old Arab trick taught to him in his childhood by his mother from Morocco – to carry a small stone in the mouth to keep the tongue moist when thirst was bad. Quickly he had searched for a stone, and found one, and passed the trick on. Within hours every soldier was searching for his stone, and even if it did not quench the thirst, it greatly helped to ease the mouth from dryness.

  Two days later they had found the first of only two wells on that hundred-mile passage across the Egyptian desert; but by then, the desert had claimed three dead soldiers from the 77th.

  ‘For two long days, Bappoo,’ George said in all truth, ‘I have no water, no food. For two days all I have in my mouth is a small stone to suck.’

  ‘A stone!’ Bappoo stared at George in horror, and then slowly his face moved into a disbelieving smile.

  ‘Chut!’ said Bappoo, and threw back his head and roared with laughter, delighted with life and even more delighted with George Jarvis who, in the past, had tried to convince him that he was not a rascally son of slave, but the son of a prince and a descendant of kings! And even now George was still making up his funny and fanciful tales.