‘I won’t let it happen!’ I swore, clenching my fists till my fingernails bit into my palms. ‘I won’t let it happen!’ I must have spoken aloud without knowing it.
‘Sure and what can you do, woman dear?’ Kate asked hopelessly. ‘What can any of us do?’
She stood looking down at Pearl as she spoke. We had given the child the last of the morning’s milk, though it was ‘on the turn’, but it had not been enough to satisfy her and she beat the air with small balled fists and cried for more.
‘Surely … surely there must be other goats? In fact I know there are. We must find out who they belong to and ask for some of the milk. We can pay for it. They must let us have it if we pay for it?’
Toddy shook his head.
‘No go, miss. There’s too many other children needin’ it. I heard only yesterday that Mrs Inglis had turned away one of the gunner’s wives because ’er goats are givin’ only enough for ’er own nippers. Stands to reason! She feels about ’ers as we do about ours!’ Even in that moment of despair, I warmed to Tod’s possessive plural.
‘Cows then?’ I insisted. ‘There must be some cows somewhere.’
‘All dead or dry by now, miss.’
Nonplussed, I fell silent.
‘If … oh, if only we knew someone who could act as wet-nurse,’ Kate said, but without hope. ‘Perhaps … I suppose we could enquire. I suppose we might just find someone who would be willing to …’
‘Of course! That’s the answer! Why didn’t I think of it before?’ I jumped up.
‘Oh, don’t hope too soon, Laura dear,’ begged Kate. ‘We have no certainty of help in that direction. We might not find anyone.’
‘But we have, Kate, we have. Mrs MacGregor! She … she told me that she …’ And I stammered to a halt. Mrs MacGregor had said that she had more milk than a dozen old nannies, but just in time I realized that I could not report her verbatim in the present company.
‘Mrs MacGregor will help us. I feel sure of it. I’ll go over to the Resident’s House now and see her. It is still quite quiet and the sooner we can arrange it the better, even if it means that Pearl has to stay in the tykhana for a time. I know Mrs MacGregor is a good, safe, reliable woman. I just know it.’
I owned no bonnet, but I tied on the large sun hat I had bought after our arrival and tidied myself as much as was possible for my first ‘social’ call.
‘Heavens, girl, you can’t go alone. I’ll come with you,’ said Kate, but I pointed out that someone should stay with the querulous baby.
‘I’ll take you over, miss,’ volunteered Toddy. ‘Mr Flood ’ad better stay quiet for as long as ’e’s allowed.’
But Charles had got up and was waiting for me at the door.
‘Thanks, Tod,’ he said, ‘but she’s my daughter and it’s only right that I should make this small effort on her behalf.’
‘But your back; it must be very painful,’ I demurred.
‘It will do. Come along, Laura, don’t fuss!’ he replied, and the two of us set off.
CHAPTER 10
The insurgents, still busy with their dead and wounded, spared us their fire, and the evening was almost disquietingly still.
For over three weeks I had not been more than half a dozen steps from the Gaol verandah, and what I observed around me as we walked to the Resident’s House that evening brought home to me more clearly than any words or detailed explanations the desperation of our position.
Every building was holed with shot and scarred by bullets and shrapnel. Walls had collapsed under the barrage and the rain; roofs had fallen in; porticoes stood precariously supported by half their complement of pillars; shutters hung crazily from smashed windows; balconies sloped at odd angles, and doors on upper storeys gaped open, leading into air.
We picked our way through mounds of rubble and shattered furniture, doors and window frames that had been carefully collected for fuel, edging around stinking puddles of greenish mud, and so chaotic was the destruction, so complete the transformation of the neat and orderly cluster of buildings I remembered, that had Charles not been with me, I would have been hard put to it to find the Resident’s House. As we moved through the debris, men, spent with the long day’s fighting, were already at work again, carting or carrying away the rubbish, the crumbling pillars, mounds of bricks and lumps of masonry, to be built into the breastworks damaged in the fighting. ‘We are even using files and books to stop up the gaps now,’ remarked Charles wryly as he helped a soldier to lift part of a mahogany sideboard on to a barrow.
In every nook and angle, weary men bivouacked under the tattered remains of tents or shreds of striped window-awnings; tiny fires, jealously watched, glowed in the dusk under the cooking pots, and the men’s laundry—ragged shirts and toeless socks—fluttered from strings stretched between the ruins. The shirts swaying in the windless air put me in mind, incongruously enough, of the flag, and I looked up to see it hanging inertly on the top of the tower of the Resident’s House. It had become something of a joke and latterly a challenge to keep it and its pole atop the tower. At the beginning of the siege it had been forgotten, and in the confusion of those first days, no one had bothered to lower it at sundown. So it had flown bravely through the first days and nights until, inevitably, the flag pole was shot away, when immediately it became a symbol. Now it was a matter of the utmost concern that, as soon as it came down, which happened frequently, it should be mended and replaced, and everyone, from the smallest Martinière schoolboy to the most cynical old brandy-soaked Bengal hand who had never so much as looked in its direction in the days of prosperity, was anxious to volunteer for the hazardous duty of setting it back in place.
It was difficult to keep memory at bay as Charles and I walked under the shaky portico and up the few steps leading to the entrance. There had been so many lights that November night: such a galaxy of chandeliers, such a flowering of candles in silver candelabra, well-waxed furniture, gleaming mirrors and the sheen of satin and silk. I remembered laughter, the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation—and music; the men smart in their bright uniforms, the women floating like iridescent bubbles in their extravagant skirts. I thought of it as another life lived by another woman; yet it had been less than nine months ago.
Now, a single dirty lantern smoked on the floor of the entrance hall. There was no furniture; it had been built into the defences or used to block up the windows of the first floor. The upper storeys were empty—the building being the favourite target of the pandies—and the inmates had been evacuated to other buildings or to the ground floor and cellars or tykhanas.
Stepping carefully over the recumbent forms of men who slept fully dressed on the floor, we made our way into the building and down a flight of stone stairs leading to the subterranean rooms where the wives of the men of the 32nd were quartered.
A series of large apartments opened before us, connected by great arches and ventilated only by inadequate slits set horizontally in the walls at roof level. No windows, no doors and little light combined to produce a sense of confinement. The place was like a dungeon—a densely populated dungeon.
Families crowded every inch of floor space, each huddled round some article of furniture or homely treasure—a brass bedstead perhaps, or a studded chest, or simply an old armchair losing its stuffing—that had come somehow to represent home and hearth. On mattresses laid on the bare stone the sick lay, many of them with their faces turned to the wall and away from the restless children, who ran and played noisily between and about their elders. Women nursed infants while gossiping with their neighbours; others washed the family clothing in whatever receptacle would hold water; some tended the sick, or sewed by the tiny light of a tallow dip. Some just sat apathetically on their mattresses with their hands in their laps. One old toothless woman combed her long white hair.
Moisture ran down the walls and oozed up between the flags as we trod on them, and the whole place reeked of damp and stank of ill, unwashed and crowded humanity. Comp
ared to this, the air outside was almost sweet.
But tonight the tykhanas too shared in the relief and exaltation engendered by the repulse of the assault and, with their muskets beside them, men sat among their families recounting the glories of the day. Smiles shone on proud faces and lit up tired eyes, and as we entered, someone said sardonically, ‘’Ere’s another of the ’eroes, give ’im a cheer, girls!’ A few voices cheered, more laughed and a woman said, ‘’E’s more of a ’ero than my Jim! ’E’s wearin’ a bandage. My Jim slep’ behind a gun all day!’
‘We really did for ’em today, didn’t we, sir?’ said another. ‘Do you reckon we’ll be out soon now?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ answered Charles, embarrassed by the attention. ‘We’ll have to hang on a while yet. But can you tell us where we can find Mrs MacGregor—Mrs Jessie MacGregor?’
‘Mrs MacGregor?’ The woman shook her head doubtfully.
‘Course you can, Annie!’ broke in another. ‘It’s Red Jess the gentleman means! We calls her that, y’see, sir, on account of ’er ’air.’
‘Red Jess! Oh, ’er! You’ll find ’er at the far end of the next room. Up there see, under the skylight.’
We thanked them and made our way carefully between cooking pots, bundles and babies to Jessie’s portion of the room. At first it was difficult to locate her, there was so little light and so many people. But at length we discovered her sitting bolt upright on her mattress, with her legs stretched out before her, and her skirts neatly tucked in around her ankles. She held her baby, wrapped in a shawl, in her arms.
She did not seem to notice our approach, but a woman nearby, seeing us pause beside her, came to me and touched me on the arm.
‘Ma’am, is it Jess you’re wantin’?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, while Jessie continued to stare at the opposite wall with unblinking eyes.
‘Oh, ma’am, make ’er give ’im up! Last night it ’appened, and she’s sat there like a statue all this while and let none of us lay a finger on ’im.’
‘But what … I don’t understand,’ I whispered back in puzzlement.
‘It’s her babe, ma’am, Jamie. ’E died yesterday … but she won’t let ’im go. Just sits there ’olding ’im, and whiles she sings hymnsto ’im as she used to when ’e was crying, and whiles she rocks ’im and cries ’erself. ’Taint right that ’e shouldn’t be buried proper, ma’am, like all the others!’
My heart sank, both at the information the woman gave me, and at her expectation that I should get Jessie to relinquish the little bundle. I wanted to turn away and leave the big woman to her grief. Before long she would recover from the first shock of sorrow and give up her child to her friends. I was an interloper, after all; I had no right to interfere, and I wanted more from a woman who already had given too much. But there was Pearl. I seemed to see her in her box, tossing her small body about angrily, demanding sustenance with outraged wails. I had to make the attempt. So, motioning back the woman and Charles, I went to the mattress and sat down beside Jessie.
‘Jessie?’ I began hesitantly. ‘Mrs MacGregor?’
To my surprise she answered immediately.
‘My bairn’s dead, missie! My Jamie’s left his mam.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know, Jessie. I’m so sorry—so very sorry for you.’ And I paused, not knowing how to continue.
‘He was just sleepin’, miss, and the hand of God touched him. I didna even hear his whimper. He had the fever, the doctor said, but he took the wee sup milk whiles, and I was hopeful that he’d mebbe tak’ strength. He was such a good wee bairn, missie, and so bonnie. And now he’s dead!’ She turned her large, flat face towards me for the first time, and the expression in her eyes was puzzlement more than grief.
‘Is it my wickedness that makes him tak’ them from me, miss? Three bairns I’ve borne to a good man, and all been tak’n.’
‘Oh no, Jessie, it’s not your wickedness—not anyone’s wickedness …’ But she didn’t seem to hear. Her eyes were abstracted and she spoke softly, almost wonderingly, to herself.
‘Whiles I’m a wee mite thrawn; and my temper’s nae o’ the best. But I’ve aye done my duty … and I have a lovin’ heart. The gude Lord knows I loved them a’. My man drank, but I suffered him. And when the other bairns went, I sorrowed but didna fret. Jamie was all I had left. Why did my Jamie have to be tak’n too?’
‘I don’t know, Jessie. I don’t know why any of these horrible things are happening. Our own baby, our little Pearl …’ But I could not continue. I bent my head, and tears of bewilderment, exhaustion and grief flowed from my closed eyes. I was certain that my last resource had failed. I had heard of many a woman losing her milk for lesser reason than Jessie had.
‘Ah, and is your bairn dead too then, missie?’ She bent towards me and her voice had a hint of warmth in it.
‘No, not yet!’ I managed to say between sobs. ‘But she will die—you see, the … the goat was killed. Today in the assault. We have nothing to feed her with, now that her mother has gone.’
‘Ah! Poor mite. Mebbe my Jamie’s better off after a’. Who knows what disasters are yet to come to us a’.’
‘Yes. Perhaps he is the luckier! I came here, Jessie, to see if you could … could feed her. We thought a wet-nurse, if we could find one—but we didn’t know about Jamie or I shouldn’t have bothered you just now.’
‘No, no! We must a’ think of our own first, missie. That’s only right. Ah! … poor mite, poor mite.’ And she sighed deeply, looking down at the bundle she held, so that I could not tell whether she referred to Pearl or to Jamie.
I wanted to go away and come to terms with this fresh disaster alone. But, though I had failed to receive help, there was no reason why I should not try to give it. I wiped my eyes on the edge of my skirt and sniffed.
‘Now, Jessie, we must see that Jamie is given a good burial.’ And I used the arch, hypocritical tone usually used of the dead by people unconcerned.
Jessie’s arms tightened convulsively round the macabre bundle, as she regarded me with stony eyes.
‘What is it you’re meanin’?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘We must have Jamie buried, Jessie. Won’t you give him to me? We’ll find a little box for him and put his pillow in it, and Mr Flood and Toddy-Bob will take him to the graveyard. It’s not right for you to keep him now … now that his soul has gone to God.’
I nearly choked on the words, but could think of no other way to reach her. Perhaps she was a religious woman.
‘No … No … He’s my bairn, missie. I canna let him go.’ She spoke slowly, as if she were explaining something difficult to a child. I shook my head firmly, though I had little hope of succeeding where her intimates had failed.
‘Yes, he’s your bairn, Jessie, no one denies that, my dear! But he’s gone to his Father now, and you must let them be together in peace.’ I was not at all sure whether I referred to Corporal James MacGregor or his Maker, but Jessie understood me to mean her husband.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s true,’ she agreed hesitantly. ‘He has … he has gone to his Da. They are all there together in the heavenly land, all together now—savin’ their poor old Mam!’ And all of a sudden she thrust the little body at me and collapsed weeping on the mattress.
We did as I had promised her. Toddy-Bob found a packing case, and I laid the little body in it, wrapped in its shawl with its head on the pillow. Then Toddy carried the box down to the graveyard, accompanied by Charles.
I held Pearl in my arms as I watched them take the same route they had taken with Emily’s body. I burrowed my face in the wispy down of Pearl’s hair, and wondered bitterly how long it would be before her father carried her away too. She was fretful with hunger and I could do nothing but walk her up and down the verandah in the unfamiliar peace of the night, and croon to her. After a time, she dozed, and I put her in her bed, but as I did so, she awoke again and immediately began to cry. Bending over her, in tears of despair myself, I tried ineffectually to soo
the her. I wanted to die and so escape the days to come.
And then, as I knelt weeping beside the box, a determined voice behind me said, ‘Missie, that bairn’ll no sleep till she’s supped. Let me tak her. Red Jess has all the wee girl needs to soothe her!’
And Jessie, her hair well brushed, her clothing neat, took two long strides into the room, unbuttoning her bodice as she came.
CHAPTER 11
Red Jess moved in with us on the following day, laid her mattress between our beds, stowed a small tin trunk away in a corner and thereafter was in undisputed control of the household. She never again mentioned her Jamie, and I never heard her speak of her husband and other children; but she devoted herself to Pearl with such ferocious intensity that the rest of us were soon asking her permission to fondle the child. She fed the baby, washed and dressed her, crooned her to sleep and, when the firing was heavy, sang her mournful Covenanters’ hymns, which strangely, in view of their dire content, seemed to soothe the child. Had I not been so grateful to see Pearl fed and well, I believe I would have become jealous. As it was, Kate and I would sit transfixed, watching the enormous woman nursing the little girl, or jump to do her bidding as she ordered us to take this away or fetch the other to her, while the men tiptoed around the room as if it held an invalid, and smiled and bobbed ingratiatingly whenever Jessie bent her pale eyes upon them.
A couple of days after her arrival in our quarters, she summoned me from the bedroom in which I had been trying to patch a pair of Charles’s breeches with a scrap of green baize.
‘The wee man wants you, missie,’ she announced, ‘and he looks unco’ downcast.’
Toddy-Bob stood in the doorway wringing wet, rain streaming down his face and dripping from his clothing to form a pool on the earthen floor. But the men were in this condition at least once a day, so it was not his dampness that alarmed me. I thought at first that he had been drinking, his face was so pale and his eyes so bloodshot, but a closer look convinced me he was sober, though perhaps sickening for one of the agues or fevers which had become so frequent among the garrison. So I put the pot on to boil, for our tea still held out, and I could think of no other panacea for any indisposition.
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