Rama growled so loudly he rattled the chains binding the crate to the deck.
Adults could be so foolish sometimes. “There is no secret, sir. They just need a familiar face,” said Sahira. “They don’t like it when I’m out of sight.”
Hands clasped behind his back, the official rocked on his heels. “If you would be so kind as to accompany them on their journey to the Tower menagerie this morning, afterward I’ll take you myself to the most superior orphanage Mrs Bingham has recommended. It is run by a cousin of her husband so you can be reassured that it is a very good place.”
And I am a one-eyed fakir, Sahira thought sourly. She had no intention of crossing the threshold of an establishment recommended by the vulture. However, the Company man’s request fell neatly in with her own plans to stay with the animals. They were her only family now.
“Of course I’ll help. It’s what my father would’ve wished.” Sahira bowed, forgetting she was supposed to be acting like a European girl.
“Quite, quite.” His hands flapped like the pert tail of a sandpiper foraging for insects in the mud of the Musi River. “Carry on then.”
There were more scandalized flutterings from the women.
“That dress,” hissed one to Mrs Bingham, “is not appropriate. Elephants are not suitable for decent company.”
Did Sahira care? Not a whit. In fact, she was pleased they didn’t like it. And they were wrong: there was nothing indecent about elephants. She approached the crate and kneeled before the bars, murmuring in her mother’s tongue of Persian. “I’m afraid, my brother, my sister, that this is where our journey ends. I’m heartily sorry you no longer have the jungle and the swamps to roam, but you would otherwise have been shot by the hunters on their elephants.” Sahira mourned their freedom. Her father had disliked removing them from the wild but he had had his orders: capture or kill the tigers that had strayed too near human settlements. He’d said that God would understand that he was doing his best to look after these most beautiful but deadly of creatures. “Surely this life is better than no life?” continued Sahira. “We’ve all got a new place here in London and we have to make the best of it.”
Her tone rather than her words calmed her friends. With a groan, Rama settled on his straw bed. Sita wrinkled her nose, a rough tongue emerging from her mouth. It was an expression that could be mistaken for a snarl but Sahira knew Sita was just testing the scents of the world around her. Sahira often wondered if the tigress could smell a lie. Her reassurance must have passed the test, for Sita crouched down, preparing herself for the next journey. Sahira hoped for their sake that it would be short and uneventful. “They are ready to be moved, sir.”
“Is the lighter in position?” called the captain.
“Aye, sir,” replied the boatswain.
“Then heave away!”
The sailors hurried forward and hooked the crate to a wooden crane. It took eight men to lift the tigers off the deck and another to use a guide rope to swing the bar of the crane over the barge, what the captain called a lighter, which had moored alongside the Indiaman.
“Careful!” squawked the Company official, nervous now his valuable cargo of exotic beasts was dangling over the brown waters of the Thames. “Don’t drop them!”
Hearing his note of alarm, Rama sprang up and came to the bars, changing the balance in the crate. The lurching motion distressed him further and he began to pace and roar. Sita joined in, tail flicking in agitation as the crate rocked violently from side to side; ropes squeaked in the block and tackle. Now was not the moment for the tigers to start testing the limits of their cage. The Company man screeched like a parrot with its tail feathers plucked. Didn’t he realize that his nervous tone was upsetting them? wondered Sahira. What was worse, the tigers couldn’t see her below them on the deck as the crate spun in the air. They needed to have her in sight to reassure them.
“Hold tight! I’m going to them,” Sahira warned the sailors as she ran to the rail and scrambled up. Pushing off with the stronger of her legs, she cleared the short distance between deck and crate. Her new skirts puffed out like a cobra’s hood, almost making her misjudge the leap. She had a sickening glimpse of water below.
The ladies screamed and seamen swore.
“What is the girl doing? She will surely kill herself!” cried Mrs Bingham. “Stop her, someone!”
They were nothing more than the chattering of monkeys in the canopy. Grabbing one of the lines, Sahira scrambled more securely onto the roof of the crate and then hung her head over the barred door. “Lie down, Rama. You’re safe.”
Rama looked up at her distrustfully and snarled, but retreated to his bed.
“Hold on, Miss!” Slowly the crate was winched down to the deck of the lighter. Its crew of two nodded respectfully to Sahira as she made her unconventional entrance.
“All right up there, lass?” the master of the boat asked.
“Yes, sir. The tigers can go ashore now.”
“And you too, I suppose?”
“Yes, I’m staying with them.” For the first time, she felt contented. Surely they wouldn’t separate them now? She’d proved that the tigers needed her.
Using the long sweeps, the men battled the tidal flow of the Thames and took the tigers and Sahira toward St Katharine Docks. The masts of the other ships rose around them like trunks in a spindly forest, the lighter scuttling like the prey beneath their rope branches. Sahira wasn’t sure she was going to like London.
“Know these tigers well, do you, lass?” asked the second man.
Sahira pulled her attention back to the crew. “Very well, sir. I was there when we caught them and spent the months of the voyage in their company. That’s since October.”
“Then I reckon you’ll not mind doing a little more of your animal magic to keep ’em safe as we load ’em on the cart.”
“It’s not magic.”
“Whatever it is, Miss, just keep on doing it.” He puffed as he hauled on the oar, knitted black cap beaded with raindrops. “Strong spring tide this morning.”
“This is spring?” Sahira looked up at the drizzly skies. Father had made spring in England sound joyous, a season of blossom and blue heavens with white puffy clouds like fat sheep, temperature perfect for a long walk with none of the humidity that made it difficult at times to ramble in India. Today the clouds had closed on London like the lid of her trunk. The smoke from the higgledy-piggledy houses around the docks seemed to rise and then get trapped, hanging in the air like a shroud. Everything looked grey. Everything looked dirty.
“Aye. It’s nice mild weather for March, Tiger Maid.”
Clutching her thin arms to her sides, Sahira shivered in her cotton dress. “If you say so.”
He chuckled. “All you new arrivals from India say the same. You’ll find it warmer off the water.”
The operation to lift the tigers was repeated at the dockside, this time ending on the flatbed of a cart pulled by the biggest pair of horses Sahira had ever seen. They did not like her, though, shying away as she went to make their acquaintance. Sahira was taken aback: usually all animals took to her. She decided she must have smelled too strongly of tiger and the carter warned her to keep her distance.
“Shire horses,” her friends from the lighter told her when Sahira asked what breed they were. “London’s pride, capable of pulling the heaviest loads.”
Sahira was impressed. They were far bigger than any horse she had ever ridden, much closer in size to the most common Indian load carrier, an elephant, and of a fine cinnamon colour.
The Company representative, Mrs Tailor, and Mrs Bingham caught up with the tigers as the last rope was tied to secure the crate on the cart.
“All shipshape?” asked the Company man, tipping the dockers and lightermen who had brought the cage to rest with no mishaps.
“Yes, sir, thanks to the Tiger Maid.” The master of the lighter gave Sahira a wink and flipped her one of the coins. She quickly pocketed it. Her first shilling.
“Mam’noon, thank you.” Palms together, Sahira bowed.
“Miss.” The lighterman touched his cap and cast off to fetch another cargo of exotic creatures.
“Oh, before I forget, don’t tip the python’s basket over!” Sahira called after them. “It really doesn’t like that!”
“Good advice, Tiger Maid. Mam’noon to you too.”
“None of that heathenish chatter, if you please.” Mrs Bingham ushered Sahira along to where a two-wheeled hackney cab waited to take them to the menagerie. It was pulled by a sway-backed horse wearing blinkers. Both horse and carriage looked on their last legs. “You’re in England now, not India.”
Sahira wasn’t likely to forget. “Mam’noon is Persian, my mother tongue.”
“As I said, heathenish babble.”
“I’ve found you a shawl,” said Mrs Tailor quickly, before Sahira could protest that it was one of the oldest and most elegant of world languages. She tucked a grey woollen garment around Sahira’s shoulders as they squeezed together on the bench seat. “I thought you must be cold in that thin dress of yours.”
“You’re very kind.” Sahira hugged it to her chest. It was scratchy but did keep out the chill.
“And we really should do something about a hat for the child,” said Mrs Bingham. “It’s not decent for her to hare about, jumping onto boxes, hanging upside down within a hair’s breadth of those wicked creatures – she is a complete hoyden!”
Mrs Tailor held Sahira’s hand under the cover of the shawl. “It’s only because she’s not been taught better manners. I spent weeks with her in the sickroom. Eleanor’s a sweet, biddable child underneath, I assure you.”
Whatever gave Mrs Tailor that idea? Sahira wondered. Her mother had often called her “Little Ox” as she said her only child had proved the most stubborn daughter under God’s heaven.
“I don’t need a hat,” Sahira said, thinking of the money she did not have to spend on such useless items.
Mrs Tailor turned to her, holding her gaze with her warm brown eyes; while not as beautiful, they were still a little like Sahira’s mother’s so commanded respect. “Maybe you don’t think you need a hat, Eleanor, but society needs you to wear one for decency’s sake. You understand about rules, don’t you? I believe ladies like your mother remain in seclusion, not mixing with men outside their family?”
“Yes, in the zenana, the women’s quarters.” Until they went on animal hunts with their British husbands and dressed in male clothing like her mother did, much to the horror of her stuffy old relatives. Sahira’s mother had been a scandal in Indian society for her choice of foreign spouse.
“You’ll find girls here have much more freedom, but they are expected to go about modestly dressed. And that includes a hat, cap, or bonnet.”
“So they carry their zenana on their heads?” asked Sahira.
“If you like,” replied Mrs Tailor.
Explained like that, it seemed a reasonable demand. “I will wear a hat then.”
“There you are, Mrs Bingham; if one takes the trouble to explain matters to the child she is quite rational.”
“We’ll see.” The woman folded her arms across her thin chest, regarding Sahira with deep distrust.
That was fine: Sahira didn’t trust Mrs Bingham either. She felt they were probably natural enemies, like mongoose and snake.
It did not take the carriage long to rattle over the cobbles to the tigers’ new home in the Royal Menagerie in the Tower of London. Sahira’s father had told her in the early days of the voyage, as they’d watched the stars of the southern skies sparkle over the Indian Ocean, that it was the oldest animal collection in the kingdom, founded to house the gifts European sovereigns were in the habit of giving to each other. What was more impressive to a northern medieval king than the gift of a lion from the lands of the Crusades? It was why so many big cats appear on royal coats of arms, a boast that the monarch had something no other noble in the kingdom did: the king of beasts.
This gift giving must have got quite out of hand, explained her father, because centuries later, the Tower had several courtyards in the western corner nearest the river devoted to its collection and had even opened to the public. Commoners as well as kings could now gaze upon lions, if they could pay the entry fee of a shilling.
“Is that a lot of money?” Sahira had asked.
“It is, but you can also bring a dead dog or cat to feed to the lions and that gets you in.”
“Ugh!”
“Maybe, but it is practical and cuts the costs of keeping the animals in meat.” Captain Clive had not been squeamish.
He had gone on to tell her that the menagerie was struggling. Even the extraordinary becomes stale when always available. With competition from other sources of amusement in the capital – freak shows and pleasure gardens, theatres and exhibitions, balloon rides and comic operas – the keeper had sent word to the East India Company for more specimens. Nothing brought in the visitors like the arrival of a new, previously unseen species. Captain Clive’s tigers were the result.
“I’m not sure they will be enough,” Captain Clive had said. “Times are changing, and menageries are too. The men of science want them to be places of learning, not entertainment. The Tower menagerie is a dying breed. I fear in your life you will see it go extinct. Still, maybe the novelty of a tiger pair will keep it alive a little longer, eh, Sahira?”
As the Company man knocked on the gate of Lion Tower, Sahira wondered whether this London appetite for new things had killed her parents. If they had not been on this voyage, they might not have caught a fever from a sick sailor soon after the ship left the Cape. They might even now be exploring the jungles of India, content in their little paradise of three living outside society’s rules, collecting animals for zoological gardens. Her mother and father would be alive. Sahira would not have to wear a bonnet. Or be alone.
The gate creaked open and a man stood in the entrance, squashy hat clamped on his bearded head, rumpled clothes of rough material speckled with wisps of straw. He reminded Sahira of a jungle tree festooned with moss.
“At last!” He clapped his hands together – they were as big as coal shovels. “My tigers?”
My tigers, Sahira thought mutinously.
“Sit still, Eleanor,” warned Mrs Tailor.
The Company man shook hands with the keeper. “Yes, Mr Cops. You’ll find they’re in fine fettle. Take a look.”
Mr Cops walked round to the bars on one side of the crate. “Magnificent! Well worth the wait. A male and female too – just as I ordered.”
“Eleanor!” Mrs Tailor’s protest came too late. Sahira had slipped free of her two guards and jumped down from the hackney cab.
“Sir? Mr Cops?”
The keeper looked down at the girl with a bemused expression. “Yes, young miss?”
“I’m the daughter of Captain Clive.”
“Ah yes. The great animal collector. Where is he?” He looked over her head, expecting her father to emerge from a carriage.
“He… he died – as did my mother – on the voyage.” Sahira swallowed against tears. It was the first time she had been forced to say the words.
“Ah.” Mr Cops hunkered down beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Clive. The captain was the most talented man in his profession – never failed to find what I asked for, always delivered them in tip-top condition. Don’t worry; I’ll make sure the payment for your father’s services reaches his heirs. How many are there of you?”
At first his question didn’t make sense, but then Sahira realized he was asking if she had brothers and sisters.
“Just me, sir.” Another reminder that she was quite alone in the world. How had that happened? Not long ago she was part of a household with her parents and many loyal servants, so much noise and chatter that she’d wished at times for more solitude.
“Mr Godstow, you heard my promise to the young lady? The payment should reach her without
the Company skimming off any of it for expenses or whatnot. I’m wise to your tricks.”
The Company representative, Mr Godstow as Sahira now belatedly found out he was called, bristled with indignation. “As if I would do such a thing. I do not cheat orphans.”
Mr Cops stood up. “But you wouldn’t call it cheating. It would show up on your accounts as your commission, a percentage, an administrative fee: how else do all you nabobs make your fortunes out of India?” He turned back to the tigers. “But you are worth the money, my beauties. I must send a notice to the papers to tell of your arrival. These marvels will bring the people flooding back.”
“Sir.” Sahira tugged the back of his jacket. “Sorry if I seem impertinent, but I have a request – not to do with money. You see, my father gave me a sacred charge. He said the Bible taught we must be good stewards of creation and look after our creatures, just like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. My father gave the tigers into my special care.”
He scratched his head, dislodging his hat so it sat far back on his scalp. “What’s that?”
“So can I please stay with the tigers?” It came out in a tumble. “You see, I know them best. They won’t settle without me. I’m really good with animals – all animals, not just tigers – and I’ll work hard, I promise.”
He stared at her for a moment. “You want to be a keeper of the Royal Menagerie?”
She nodded, hope rising. She felt the tigers’ eyes on her. She had to persuade him – had to!
But then he laughed. “Dear girl, it ain’t no Garden of Eden here. I don’t employ children, let alone little ladies, to deal with dangerous beasts! Don’t you know how strong they are? Look here: I almost got eaten by a boa constrictor myself three years ago.” He bared his arm, showing the fang marks. “I’m hardly going to feed you to it, am I?”
“I wouldn’t let a snake eat me. I know better than that, sir.”
Rama growled. Sahira took that for agreement.
Unfortunately the keeper heard this comment as a criticism of his handling skills rather than proof of hers.
“It’s out of the question. I’m the one to care for them now. I’m sorry for your loss but you have to make your way in the world somewhere else. The East India Company will look after you, I’m sure. They’re rich enough to house you in a silk-lined palace.”
The Tigers in the Tower Page 2