The Passage to India

by Allan Mallinson

  Now, indeed, there was music. He took off his forage cap, laid it on the table and stood listening. Annie took his coat, for she was quicker to the hall than Johnson, who was taking his time with Hervey’s new pelisse from the chariot – useless that that would be in India, though he himself was looking forward to India again, for there were always so many boys to run and fetch and do for him, and the women were always friendly – and clean. Why ever had Colonel ’Ervey thought he wouldn’t want to come?

  It was gentle music, too – a waltz. Hervey hadn’t heard her play a waltz before.

  Annie smiled at him. ‘It came in the middle of the morning, sir. And Mrs Hervey came downstairs not long ago, but I haven’t been in to see her. I didn’t feel as I should.’

  He returned the smile, with thanks. ‘Will you bring in tea, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And is Serjeant James about?’

  ‘He’s not back yet, sir. Mrs James is.’

  ‘No, I must first have words with the serjeant.’

  He went to the drawing room. Kezia didn’t see him at first, only when she looked up at the end of the piece. She smiled – a smile he’d not seen before (or didn’t think he had). It was the expression of peace, contentment – perhaps of some appreciativeness even.

  ‘It is a charming instrument. Thank you, Matthew.’

  It was the first time she’d spoken his name in many a while. It caught him square. ‘Broadwood’s had only five octaves for hire, I’m afraid.’

  She smiled again. ‘They are more than enough … Shall I play a little more?’

  ‘Oh, please do. Annie said how good it would be to hear music in the house.’

  ‘Annie is a fine girl. Uncommonly obliging,’ she said, leafing through the sheets on the rack.

  ‘What was it you were playing?’

  ‘Schubert. Broadwood’s sent rather a lot of him. More Schubert then?’

  He nodded. Schubert meant not a great deal to him, but it wasn’t Beethoven. In fact it was the sort of music Elizabeth used to play (and, he hoped, what Georgiana was playing too) – tuneful, tender.

  She began again – not in three-time, but in four-; a slow, simple melody, but a happy one.

  And then to his surprise, she began to sing:

  Still sitz’ ich an des Hügels Hang,

  der Himmel ist so klar,

  das Lüftchen spielt im grünen Tal,

  wo ich beim ersten Frühlingsstrahl

  einst, ach so glücklich war.

  Six verses – the joys of spring, and the pains of love, and the last verse wishing to prolong the joys throughout the summer, like the bird singing in a tree:

  O wär ich doch ein Vöglein nur

  dort an dem Wiesenhang!

  Dann blieb ich auf den Zweigen hier,

  und säng ein süsses Lied von ihr,

  den ganzen Sommer lang.

  He wondered: did she know the language? She certainly sang as if she did. He suddenly thought how ill it was that he didn’t know. Why didn’t he know?

  ‘That was charming.’

  Annie stood at the door with a tray, and a look of admiration touching on despair.

  Hervey saw only the tray. ‘Ah, Annie; you are very good. Please come in. Shall you pour the tea for us?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Annie,’ added Kezia. ‘Please pour tea for us. You are very good.’ And then to Hervey, smiling the more, ‘It is charming, yes. But this will be to your liking too.’

  She began again: the beat of hooves – clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, sounding them as she played, her face almost childlike, and then …

  Ade! du muntre, du fröhliche Stadt, ade!

  Schon scharret mein Rösslein mit lustigen Fuss;

  Jetzt nimm noch den letzten, den scheidenden Gruss.

  Du hast mich wohl niemals noch traurig gesehn,

  So kann es auch jetzt nicht beim Abschied geschehn …

  ‘But I can’t remember all the verses – and the music isn’t here. And besides,’ (she smiled the more) ‘it’s all “Goodbye”.’

  Hervey swallowed; that indeed was the message he brought.

  Kezia took her tea.

  ‘Will that be all … ma’am?’

  Hervey smiled to himself; Annie was indeed perceptive (she asked leave of the mistress).

  But Kezia turned to him.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Annie,’ he said, and warmly; ‘And do look to Corporal Johnson, if you will. He said he was fair famished.’

  Propriety (where had she learned it so well?) forbade her smile fully by return, but she knew the confidence to which she’d been admitted at Heston. Johnson had told her that he’d been Hervey’s groom for more years than she’d been out of swaddling (which wasn’t true, but not perhaps by much), and endless stories …

  ‘I will, sir.’

  Kezia played a little more, and then they took a turn round the garden, and through the copse to the pond, where a few drab ducks made their haven. She seemed to take an extraordinary pleasure in it, though there was no colour but for snowdrops. He began wondering if he should ask about Allegra: should he send to Walden for her? She’d not spoken of her at all … and so he thought he ought not to either. Perhaps it was something he should ask Milne first?

  He gazed at the ducks in their wintry plumage. In India, even in winter, no bird looked as dull as they. Or perhaps it was his imagining.

  Kezia took his arm, a precaution, perhaps, as they stood by the water’s edge.

  But he did not speak of India. He’d intended to, but there was a fragility still, and she seemed to tremble from time to time, despite the coat he’d put on her and its fur.

  Not that telling her could be any sort of peril. Milne had said her recovery to full health was close, in which case she would be able to return to Walden before too long – certainly long before they marched from barracks.

  No, he did not speak of India, or of anything else. It was Kezia who broke the silence, and yet without consciousness of it. ‘I did not say, but Georgiana was most charming when she came to see me, though I fear I was poor company.’

  He laughed. ‘She was very happy that you liked her hyacinths. They were hers she’d grown at Heytesbury, and she was anxious lest they die of cold on the way. Elizabeth said the carriage was heated like a forcing-house.’

  ‘Elizabeth was all kindness too.’

  ‘She ever was.’

  Their visit had been but a few days, but he’d spent more time in the company of both of them than he could ever remember, and Georgiana’s leaving he’d felt more than he’d come to expect. What was to be done about India he hadn’t truly begun to think.

  A squirrel crept along the low branch of an elm just in front of them, apparently heedless. They stood watching until a pair of squabbling jackdaws landed in the branches above, sending it scampering for safety – if indeed it had been in danger.

  ‘Do you know the story of the jackdaw and the eagle, Matthew?’

  ‘I … don’t recall.’

  ‘It is one of Aesop’s stories, I think. An eagle swooped down and seized a lamb in its talons and made off with it. A jackdaw saw it and thought to do the same, but came down instead on the back of a ram, and when it tried to rise again it found it couldn’t get away, for its claws were tangled in the wool. And the shepherd caught it and clipped its wings and gave it to his children. “What a queer bird is this!” they said laughing, “What do you call it, Father?” “It is a jackdaw, children. But if you should ask him, he would say he is an eagle.”’

  Hervey was puzzled. She said it with such sureness, as if its portent was of the utmost. ‘A moral for all seasons, I think,’ he said, though with nothing particular he could call to mind.

  Kezia stooped to pick up an owl feather. ‘And the jackdaw is supposed to be such a clever bird too.’

  Hervey saw her shiver ever so slightly, but enough to make him concerned they should return to the house.

  She twirled the feather, looking at it
rather than him, but yet perfectly aware of his expression. ‘But I suppose the jackdaw couldn’t know that he mightn’t imitate the eagle simply because he wished it – and practised so hard.’

  He took her hand. ‘Forgive me; I may mistake your meaning, and I don’t know how else to be sure … Do you compare yourself to the jackdaw?’

  She looked at him and smiled contentedly. ‘I am done with striving to play the eagle.’

  As she put her arm in his again to return to the house, Hervey steeled himself. ‘There is something of which I must speak.’

  At six o’clock he put down his pen. Letters to Salisbury, Heytesbury and Jamaica lay on his writing table. What they’d bring by return he’d no idea. He would, of course, see everyone in Wiltshire before he left for the East – but Fairbrother? He couldn’t even be sure the letter would reach him this coming year. And then what? He’d sorely missed his strange friend of late.

  He went to a side-table and poured himself a glass of sack, then returned to his chair to contemplate the easiest of his letters – to Peto. He would of course – he hoped most dearly – see his good and brave old friend before the day came, but at this remove it was impossible to be certain. Meanwhile he would content himself with sending the heartiest congratulations on the news that the ‘yellow admiral’ was to become at last – like him – a father (and a better one, he didn’t doubt). It had once seemed so impossible a proposition that …

  ‘Yes, Annie?’

  She had evidently been waiting for him to take his rest from the pen, and he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Shall I put coal on the fire, sir?’

  ‘No, Annie; there’s no need. I threw on a shovel only half an hour ago. Besides, it’s Rose’s job.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I let her go into Hounslow to see her people.’

  ‘Indeed? How will she return?’

  ‘She said her brother would walk back with her, sir.’

  He nodded. That seemed satisfactory. It was but two miles, though there wasn’t much moon.

  ‘Can I ask something, sir?’

  There was just a note of anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Yes, Annie, of course. There’s nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘Sir, Corporal Johnson’s told me that the regiment is going to India.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the truth.’

  He supposed he would have told her soon enough – perhaps he ought to have already – but the day had been …

  ‘Well, sir, I was wondering if you’d be wanting any servants there. Corporal Johnson says “no” – that there’s hundreds of Hindoo people all wanting jobs, and for hardly any money at all; but I was thinking that they wouldn’t know how you liked things, not to begin with, and that I would, and that I wouldn’t want any more money than them, because Corporal Johnson says everything costs next to nothing.’

  Hervey leaned back in his chair. She seemed to be trying to remember what else it was that could recommend her …

  ‘Oh, and as my brother’s going to be there, sir, I thought it would be a very good and nice thing.’

  Hervey stopped himself asking her ‘A good thing for whom?’, but instead asked equally impossibly where her brother was going to be.

  ‘I don’t rightly know, sir, yet, just that he’s for India, and I thought …’

  He smiled. ‘Annie, I am most excessively obliged to you. I can’t imagine there are many who would wish to leave their native homes for a place so distant and … alien. Doubtless, Corporal Johnson has told you a good deal about it already.’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  He raised his eyebrows; Johnson could paint hell rosy and heaven infernal as the case required.

  ‘But I must sleep on it – and so must you, and for several nights probably. I’m by no means averse to the idea – quite the contrary – but we must be practical.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir. I will sleep on it, but I’m sure I know how I’ll wake on it too.’

  Her smile was so full and innocent that if she’d pressed him to a decision there and then he’d have said ‘yes’.

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘That will be the doctor,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll see him in.’

  Milne was longer with Kezia than usual. It was nearly seven when he came down.

  Hervey was not greatly anxious, for the evidence of the afternoon told him that Kezia’s ‘recovery to full health’ continued apace. But all the same … ‘How is my wife this evening, doctor?’

  Milne put down his bag. ‘Quite remarkably well, I should say.’

  ‘Can I tempt you this time to a glass of something?’ The answer was almost always ‘no’, because of duty or some prior appointment.

  ‘I thank you, Colonel, yes. Is that sherry you drink?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then sherry, please. May I sit?’

  ‘Of course.’ Hervey poured him a glass.

  ‘You spoke with Mrs Hervey of India, I gather.’

  ‘I did. This afternoon, after a pleasant turn around the garden.’ He was suddenly uneasy. ‘It hasn’t excited any complaint, any relapse, I trust?’

  Milne smiled. ‘No, not at all. Quite the contrary. Indeed, I have now suspended all sedating. She tires still, she complains, but I am not at all surprised. I’ve instructed her maid to serve her beef tea of a late morning, and a glass of red grape of an evening. However, I would prescribe clement sea air by and by.’

  Hervey was now distinctly puzzled.

  Milne took a sip of his wine, looking as if he’d truly earned it. ‘A prolonged sea voyage, tropical climes … sun.’

  ‘Doctor, what is it exactly that you say?’

  ‘Colonel, if you were to invite your wife to accompany you to India, I believe her reply would be “Aye”. She asked my opinion of its healthiness of climate, and if her constitution would bear it – she has been there before, as I hardly need say – and though I am not expert regarding tropicae salutem, I pronounced that it would be of the greatest benefit. Mens sana in corpore sano.’

  PART TWO

  A TIME TO EMBRACE

  Pray for a healthy mind in a healthy body.

  Ask for a stout heart that has no fear of death,

  And deems length of days the least of Nature’s gifts

  That can endure any kind of toil,

  That knows neither wrath nor desire and thinks

  The woes and hard labours of Hercules better than

  The loves and banquets and downy cushions of Sardanapalus. What I commend to you, you can give to yourself;

  For assuredly, the only road to a life of peace is virtue.

  JUVENAL, SATIRE X

  XIV

  Coromandel!

  Madras, eleven months later

  Will be dispatched on the 12th of July, Direct for MADRAS, the fast sailing ship PYRAMUS, burthen 800 tons, Joseph Harewood, R.N. Commander. Lying in the East India Export Dock. This ship has very superior accommodation for passengers, and carries an experienced surgeon. For freight or passage, apply to the Commander, at the Jerusalem Coffee House: or to JOHN PIRIE and Co. 3, Freeman’s court, Cornhill.

  The Oriental Herald Advertizer, June 1832

  THE ACCOMMODATION WAS certainly superior to many a packet, but ‘very superior’ might have deceived the inexperienced passenger into expecting a degree of comfort that only an admiral’s state rooms might provide. Hervey was not to be thus deceived in this, his third passage to India, nor Kezia in her second. They were, however, considerably more comfortable than hitherto, having been able to take the round-house, in which there was much more air than in the lower cabins, if more noise, not least from the chorus of pigs, dogs, poultry, cats, sheep – and a cow – at sunrise.

  They had put in at Madeira for two days and gone ashore, for although the crossing of the Bay of Biscay had been, according to Captain Harewood, one of the smoothest they might expect, once south of Cape St Vincent the swell had been a challenge to their sea legs, and both Hervey and Kezia – all
the party, indeed – had wanted to eat figs and grapes in the warm calm of a patio (it had been quite cold at sea).

  But the unexpected delight of the passage south, at the end of September, had been the sighting of Tristan da Cunha. This loneliest of islands seven miles wide and the same long, said Captain Harewood, was but an extinct volcano of 7,000 feet, five times as high as the Rock of Gibraltar. It had been claimed for His Majesty King George III, he said, by no less than an officer of cavalry – Josias Cloete of the 21st Light Dragoons. Hervey had known him in the Peninsula, when Cloete was with the Fifteenth, and then his family while at the Cape. They had extensive vineyards and a warm regard for the King, which was rare enough among the Cape Dutch. He told Kezia they might pay them a visit when they put in at Cape Town. But he’d not known of the connection with Tristan. Captain Harewood explained that sometime after Waterloo, Cloete had been sent with a party to take possession, on account of the Americans, who’d shown too much interest in the place during the late war. That, at least, was what they said at the Cape, but he reckoned it was because London was fearful the French might try to use Tristan to rescue Bonaparte from his exile on Saint Helena.