by Kate Gray
imagine that, if you have been twice, and are telling me about it, that the problems they have fall into your realm of expertise?”
He poured a tot of the whisky into the same tin cup Macconnach had drunk from, swirling its contents briefly, before tipping it back. He seemed to be genuinely and carefully tasting it. Somewhat surprising, in view of the usual officers’ predilection for port. Granted, Abington was not the usual officer.
“I did hand-select you for this posting, at the very least to provide my daughter and myself with another individual who thinks and behaves as we do. That is to say, someone bound by conscience, and not by class. We Europeans tend to have our predispositions and mores, but here…in this place, it’s far better that we abandon those notions.”
He sat heavily on the cot, next to Macconnach. “Oh, I know, my feelings on this country and of its native population are in the very small minority. Isabel is, perhaps, even more of a staunch defender than I, but I would say, in my own defense, that I must necessarily keep up some appearances, or risk losing my position here. I doubt I would be doing very much good to the nearby villages by allowing myself to be replaced by some swaggering lord with a chip on his gilded shoulder.”
“We’re meant to have a permanent fortress here as well, is that what you’re driving at, sir?” Macconnach thought he was beginning to grasp the implications of what the general was saying.
Abington was hoping to leave Macconnach in command of this place once he, what, retired? It was difficult to imagine Lord General Abington poncing about with the rest of London’s retired brass.
Sitting in a club, slowly becoming lost to history in a cloud of tobacco smoke; no, Macconnach could no more imagine that than he could imagine himself doing it.
“Indeed, we are meant to. And so, here we are, and you shall face your first challenge. Ha, ha, I did say I would care for a demonstration, did I not?” Abington fell silent, staring out the tent flaps.
“Was there something else, sir?”
“Oh, you know. All this business we have here in this country. Sometimes I wonder why we are here at all. Expansionism, and all that, lovely, lovely. I can’t shake the feeling that the we choose to colonize based on our vices. Tea and rubies, in this case, I daresay.”
“We are an arrogant race. I presume this is why you feel so great a responsibility.”
“Just so, just so. There is obviously a great deal more that I feel concerned about. You’ve perhaps heard all the fuss and rumblings about the King’s poor health. We cannot know for certain what may happen when he is succeeded by his niece. There may be panic and instability throughout the kingdom, even spreading as far as India. We must be prepared for any eventuality.”
Abington had no especial love of the Company, it seemed. “It is of especial concern to me that we are in the land of the largest presidency. The Sepoy ranks grow ever-larger, day by day, and the Company struggles to maintain its authority with the Bengalis, I have come to hear. However, as we support the Company, and they mind the interests of the Crown, very little shall alter unless there is some sort of crisis.”
It was a matter of some internal ridicule, in fact, at the lengths the Company would go to to please the Sepoys, the catering to of their religious beliefs, their demands for concessions, et cetera.
The armies of the Crown were a bit disdainful of what they called kow-towing, in spite of how well-oiled a machine the Company’s forces had become. Macconnach happened to agree with some of the Company policies, even though he’d decided long ago not to join their ranks.
He’d wanted to see more of the world than just the Indian subcontinent, for one thing. For another, he already had family wealth, and thought it best to leave the rank and file piracy to those who needed it more.
As it was, Gordon Macconnach had not been entirely in favor of his father’s decision to purchase a majority for his son. It had come to roughly twelve hundred pound, a sum which staggered even him, who had grown up watching his father expand his businesses farther and farther afield.
The distillery business itself, that had been a mere hobby thirty or so years ago. The Macconnach family had hardly needed the income, but Father was a wizard with barley mash.
The Excise Act and new distillation technologies had caused a sudden boom of production and business expansion, and in the past ten years, Kenneth Macconnach had become wealthy beyond even his own imagining.
Gordon knew that his father’s unspoken dream was to see one of his sons become Prime Minister. The same way Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, formerly of Ireland, had done. He could only hope that his older brother, Reggie, would see his way round to politics, because he certainly had no ambition in that way.
Even so, his father had gamely pushed his son up the ranks. He’d have to draw the line soon. After all, it would only work until he reached the rank of colonel. After that, he would be on his own.
Then he would have had to wonder if his background, with his strange abilities, would indeed stop him there. Now, with the promotion and faith of a well-respected senior officer, things were seeming much brighter.
That senior officer was rubbing his forehead wearily. They had been sitting in silence for some time, but now took up the discussion of the village and its woes. The general was dismayed by the account, chiefly with the thought of two persons missing.
The fact that one of them was an infant girl had impacted the decision to wait. It was an unpleasant reality. Abington himself was not eager to interfere in their actions regarding this, but he agreed that Macconnach could offer his help in any way he saw fit.
He reminded Macconnach to tread lightly; given Arpan’s history, he might still have influence in the Guards, or even the ear of Wellington himself. It was a delicate matter, in the general’s view, and he wanted it dealt with discretion.
The half-battalion stationed here, he told Macconnach, was due to be reinforced by another three to four companies of Sepoys, and another few of Company soldiers. Abington would finally be at the head of the command that he was promised, but it would be a time of transition, and unease.
Once that happened, Macconnach would have to be at his disposal, performing his duties to their fullest.
“When is that due to happen, sir?”
“Roundabouts July, or so, I should think. That gives us nearly six months to make ready and see to the full construction of this ruddy fort they want us to build. I don’t know that I see the ultimate purpose of it, quite honestly, but I suppose the Company people want a safe place to store their bloody tea from time to time.”
“I do hope that we’ll be able to have this resolved before that time, my lord. My sense is that this evil, whatever it might originate from, can be dealt with.”
“I heartily wish that to be so. I do not pretend to understand men like you, Macconnach, but I do acknowledge your gifts.” He stood to take his leave. “I shall see you and the head man’s son at teatime, then. I pray you, Macconnach as well, to heed where my daughter cannot. She is fiery and determined, but I was not entirely able to teach her the means of defending herself. Her mother would not countenance it.” His face fell into grief at the thought of his departed wife, and perhaps, for opportunities lost.
Once the general had departed, Macconnach fell back onto his cot. Exhaustion still flooded his body, but he had work to do before end of day. Smithson poked his head back in, grimacing at his major’s poor color.
“Can I get you something, sir? Barley water, or something a bit stronger?”
“No, Smithson, I’ve had quite enough of the strong stuff for now. The heat is making me feel a bit unsettled, though. Perhaps some barley water with quite a lot of lemon smashed into it?”
One thing Macconnach did enjoy about this part of the world, as he had with Cairo, was the ever-abundant presence of fresh fruit. He would sorely miss that whenever he returned home for good.
So far, he wasn’t entirely enamored of the strangely sour curries of t
he region, but he’d been told that he’d barely touched the surface of local cuisine. For now, he was content with the mangoes, and jackfruit, sometimes heavily sedated with jaggery syrup.
There was a nice Chinese influence, also in the produce trade. Macconnach had to admit that he had a sweet tooth. He was fond of the lychee, and of the fat papayas that made their way to Bengal.
It was strange to realize that no one of his acquaintance back home would have any idea what any of those fruits were. It was good fortune there to have apples, grapes, or whatever was in season; here, something was always ready to fall on one’s head from above.
He quaffed a fair amount of lemon barley water before venturing out into the sun. It was not quite eleven in the morning, but the heat was by far a rival of any day in the sun of Egypt, the difference being in the wetness of the air.
Macconnach wondered on a daily basis whether he would ever acclimatize to it. Unlikely. Men were drilling on the parade grounds, performing daily tasks, making repairs, and on the perimeter, digging the foundation post holes.
These would be filled by massive logs harvested from the northern forests, which were on their way but still several weeks off. He understood that the timber was being hauled by elephant over terrible terrain. The north was all mountain and dense wooded areas.
The posts and beams for the fortress had
