The Nizam's Daughters

by Mallinson, Allan

  Up on the embanked promenade bearers were porting richly caparisoned palanquins. Only an elephant would have been needed to complete his schoolroom image of the Indies. And, though separated by half the globe from all he loved, he was roused once again by his commission here – and already thinking of how Henrietta too might one day, soon, thrill to such a landing.

  As he came up to the captain’s barge he saw the ambassage engaged with Peto. ‘And this, we must presume,’ said one of the officials, turning, ‘by his most obvious and characteristic mounted landing, is the captain of cavalry of whom you speak?’

  The voice was a little precious, the language overflorid, but it was nonetheless warm. Hervey, soaked to the skin and barefoot, jumped down and held out his hand. ‘This is Captain Hervey, Mr Lucie,’ said Peto; ‘Hervey, Mr Philip Lucie, fourth in council at the presidency here.’

  Lucie was a little older than Hervey, about the same height, though with a sparer frame, and he wore his clothes with a studied elegance. ‘You are half-expected, sir,’ he said with some bemusement.

  Hervey was even more bemused, for Madras formed no part of the itinerary given him by Colonel Grant. ‘Indeed, sir? How so?’

  Lucie smiled. ‘My sister has received a letter from Paris informing us that you were to come to India.’

  What in heaven’s name, he wondered, might this man’s sister have to do with Colonel Grant? ‘I am honoured to be the subject of such correspondence – though, I confess, somewhat puzzled.’

  Peto made a restive noise which hastened Lucie to full revelation.

  ‘My sister has some affinity with the lady to whom you are engaged to be married. Which lady wrote to her here from Paris, though she did not imagine you would see Madras.’

  Hervey looked astonished. ‘No, we . . . that is . . .’

  ‘I have explained our circumstances, Hervey,’ huffed Peto. ‘May we proceed to business, Mr Lucie? I have no time to waste.’

  ‘Of course, Captain,’ he smiled. ‘I have already alerted the naval commissioner to your presence. But since you expect to be engaged here these several days, perhaps I might extend to you and Captain Hervey the hospitality of my quarters at the fort? I believe we may offer you a table worthy of the Company – or, I should properly say, of the Governor and Company of Merchants of London trading into the East Indies.’

  Peto, though tempted to make some remark touching on the propriety of that company, contented himself with a brisk acceptance for the following day; ‘For there is much to attend to aboard my ship while there is still light. But Hervey, here, is entirely free to avail himself of the Company’s hospitality at once.’

  It took no time at all for Philip Lucie to arrange for Captain Peto to see the naval commissioner, and that officer, though about to proceed on home leave, threw himself with the greatest energy into the expedition of the captain’s several requests. The injured crewmen of the Nisus were brought ashore soon afterwards to the naval hospital – a fine-looking two-storey infirmary with an airy balcony running the length of the upper floor, and with separate quarters to isolate contagion. It stood half a mile or so outside the fort, surrounded by palm trees, and when Peto called on his return from the shipwright’s office he was quickly reassured in leaving his men in the care of its native staff, though their faces were more than ever alien to him after so many months at sea. His final business was with the storekeeper, and this was conducted with the same brisk efficiency as at the shipwright’s, so that Peto was afterwards able to express himself much privileged to meet with officials capable of such address. Even so, he declined once more Lucie’s invitation to dine at Fort George that evening: ‘My compliments to the governor, sir, but I must first superintend the repairs to my ship. Captain Hervey will, no doubt, have much to speak of with your sister.’

  Madras was one of the most agreeable places Hervey had ever seen. Of that he was sure, even on so short an acquaintance. Most of the houses and public buildings which lay along the shoreline were extensive and elegant, limed with chunam which took a polish like marble, putting him in mind of pictures of Italian palazzi. Most had colonnades to the upper storeys, supported by arched, rustic bases, and it was not difficult to imagine himself somewhere along a Mediterranean rather than an Indian coast – though perhaps the minarets here and there might place him further towards Constantinople than to Naples. It was the pagodas which settled his true location, however, and it was as well that he should see them now, for a short distance away Fort George, with its lines and bastions, its Government House and gardens, and St Mary’s church, suggested that despite all contrary indications Madras was a place as British as Leadenhall Street – the distant headquarters of this remarkable company.

  Madras, the captain’s clerk had told him, was a place that had turned its back on India, looking out to the east rather than to the country itself, unlike Bombay and Calcutta. Here, said the clerk, the English conducted themselves as if in London. The displays of fine equipage along the Mount Road of an evening, where to be seen at the cenotaph in memory of Lord Cornwallis was to attain the acme of society, rivalled anything that might be observed in Hyde Park. And afterwards, if there was no meeting at the racecourse nearby, whose graceful stand would have been the envy of Newmarket or Ascot, the occupants of these elegant carriages would return home, dress in great finery and dine to the accompaniment of the most superior wines. Then, perhaps, having dressed once more, they might repair to a ball, to dance until the early hours before at last retiring. And when husbands had, next day, gone to their offices, blades would visit from house to house retailing news, or to ask commissions to town for the ladies, to bring a bauble that had been newly set, or one of which the lady had hinted before – one she would willingly purchase for herself but that her husband did not like her to spend so much – and which she might thus obtain from some young man, a quarter of whose monthly salary would probably be sacrificed to his gallantry.

  The captain’s clerk might warn that Madras was become depraved, but to Hervey that morning it was simply alive. ‘Then you must stay with us at Fort George for as long as you are able!’ said Philip Lucie. ‘Let us show you how civilized a country this may be.’

  Nothing could have been more welcome to him, for the entreaty meant the indulging of Jessye in the presidency stables. Above all, it meant he might have some intimation of Henrietta’s response to his leaving Paris in such haste. The mere fact of her writing to a friend suggested she was not unsympathetic; but he was more than ever fearful that he had likely trespassed a journey too far.

  That evening, as the oven heat of the day gave way to a balminess that seemed from the pages of an old Indiaman’s recollections, Hervey and the fourth in council dined together in the place of England’s first footing on the subcontinent. In the short time at his disposal, Philip Lucie had given considerable thought to their fare, at first supposing it apt to display the culinary glories of Madras, a taste to which he was wholly devoted. But he had later thought better of it, for he knew that the privations of a long sea voyage did not always render the digestion welcoming of assault by spices (he had not been in the east for so long as to forget his own first, tumultuous encounter with Madrasi spices). So, instead, he conceded to digestive prudence: after a mild native pepper soup they would proceed to the finest beefsteaks in India.

  They were to be made four at dinner, he explained. His sister would soon arrive, having spent the day driving in the peace and quiet of the hills west of the city, and they would be joined by another, whose company he was sure Hervey must admire. ‘But first allow me a quarter-hour’s leave. I have to sign articles of authority. Here,’ he said, handing him a sheet of paper, ‘this will entertain you – the bill of lading for our gallant general who left for England with his staff yesterday.’ And with that Lucie courteously abandoned him to the sights and sounds, and most conspicuously the smells, of his new surroundings.

  Hervey, wearing the lightest clothes that Lucie was able to find him, stood on
the terrace of this gentlemanly residence, closed his eyes and listened to the rising chorus of cicadas from the gardens all about. What the sources were of the procession of smells he could scarcely imagine, for, beyond the occasional wisp of smoke, he had not encountered them before. None was rank, and most were agreeable. They were, he expected, restrained compared with those he might find in country India, but they were wholly alien nevertheless.

  To his side came, without a sound, a khitmagar bearing a silver tray. Hervey started on seeing him, then felt foolish, and then appeared as such by asking for whiskey and seltzer in Urdu. It was only after several exchanges that he realized Urdu was as strange a tongue as French would have been – except that later he remembered the French held sway in the Carnatic for many years. When the khitmagar returned he simply took the glass and bowed in the universal sign of gratitude, at which the little Tamil looked even more bemused.

  Hervey took refuge in the paper Lucie had given him. It was, as he promised, diverting; a list to make any commissary envious.

  Articles Put On Board ‘The Fortitude’, Packet, Captain Bowden, For His Voyage To England, For The Use Of Major-General Stuart, &c, &c.

  Licquors

  Dozens

  Claret

  60

  Madeira

  60

  Arrack, half a leaguer

  Brandy

  18

  Hock

  12

  Porter

  24

  Bullocks

  12

  Hams

  15

  Sheep

  60

  Tongues

  Casks 5

  Fowls and capons

  30 Doz

  Cheeses

  6

  Ducks

  12 "

  Fine rice

  Bags 12

  Turkies

  2 "

  Fine bisquit

  " 30

  Geese

  3 "

  Flour

  Casks 3

  Hogs and pigs

  30

  Tea chest

  1

  Sows and young

  2

  Sugar-candy

  Tubs 10

  Milch goats

  6

  Butter

  Firkins 5

  Candles Mds

  8

  salt-fish, curry-stuff, pease, spices, lime juice, onions, &c, &c, cabin furniture, table linen and towels, glassware, China &c, &c. Standing and swinging cots with bedding and curtains complete. A couch. Also a great number of small articles of provision, care having been taken that nothing material should be omitted.

  (Signed) W. M. SYDENHAM,

  Town Major.

  FORT ST. GEORGE

  3rd February 1816.

  ‘You are, I imagine, in some degree impressed by the care with which we treat a general officer?’ said Lucie as he returned.

  ‘I am all astonishment,’ replied Hervey truthfully.

  ‘Then let that invoice speak by itself of the wealth and address of the Honourable East India Company, sir. Nothing is left wanting for its servants. Were you a lieutenant-colonel on the duke’s staff you would not receive as much as a captain on the Madras establishment! You will find it tempting to stay when your essay for His Grace is finished.’

  How he wished he could tell him that he himself expected to be installed at Fort William before too long. Instead he contented himself with the first thing he could think of: ‘Are you very much concerned with bills of lading and the like?’

  ‘We are a trading company, Hervey.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, I—’

  ‘However, my principal occupation as fourth in council is the affairs of the country powers,’ he added with an indulgent smile. ‘Very much more interesting than bills of lading!’

  The khansamah entered and announced Lucie’s other guest, an apparently youngish man but with a decided look of the dissolute. Lucie reversed the strict formulary by introducing him to Hervey. ‘May I present Mr Eyre Somervile, who is Deputy commissioner of Kistna and Collector-Magistrate of Guntoor district in the Northern Circars.’

  Hervey bowed. A most imposing appellation, he thought, and for one whom Lucie now intimated was but a little younger than Lucie himself. The collector of land revenues bore the customary marks of the Company’s service – at least, as imagined by those whose knowledge was limited to salacious gossip. His face seemed puffed up, though the remnants of fine features indicated that once it might have been described as distinguished. His thinning hair was bleached by the fierce sun, of which he evidently had little regard (for his puffy skin was the colour of some of the native men Hervey had seen on the beach), and though his raw silk shirt was generously proportioned, it did not conceal the swelling that was his stomach. But he had kind eyes.

  Then came the fourth for dinner. ‘My dear,’ said Lucie, positively beaming, ‘you know Mr Somervile. May I present Captain Matthew Hervey of the 6th Light Dragoons.’ A tall, slender woman, close to Hervey’s age, serene in a shot-silk dress cut in the late Empire fashion, made a low curtsy in response to their bows. Her skin had not the pallor of the other European ladies he had seen on his way to the fort, for she – like Somervile – evidently took no especial shelter from the sun. But how well did it complement her raven hair! ‘Captain Hervey, my sister, Emma.’

  It was not difficult for Hervey to be captivated. Emma Lucie had the same engaging smile as her brother, an unthreatening self-possession, and – revealed quickly but charmingly – a keen mind. They chatted freely for some minutes (though with no mention of Henrietta, for Hervey was nervous of hearing anything that would trouble him any greater at this time), and then she turned and greeted the collector more intimately. Somervile dabbed at his neck with a small piece of towel as he took a glass of claret from the khitmagar, drank it at once and then took another. Emma Lucie addressed him in French so eloquent that Hervey might have thought himself a beginner.

  ‘He is a most exceptional fellow, I assure you,’ said Lucie quietly, taking Hervey to one side; ‘he is the cleverest man I have ever met. Not only does he seem to speak every language in southern India, he knows everything of their etymologies. And he has such a remarkable facility with the native people too: he knows everything of their religions and customs, and they hold him in the very greatest esteem and affection. He will be able to tell you everything there is to know about the country.’

  ‘I should like that very much,’ he replied, glancing across at Somervile. ‘Your sister – she has been here some time?’

  ‘Almost five years! She refused flatly to be presented, saying she would have no more of London. That is where she knew your affianced.’

  Hervey concluded that, with so distant a connection, the acquaintance might not have been as intimate as he supposed.

  ‘She and Somervile would appear to be conducting the longest courtship the presidency has ever seen,’ added Lucie with a smile. ‘But come, it is time to supplement all that ship’s biscuit you have been subsisting on with some red meat!’

  When they were seated, after grace (from which Somervile’s ‘amen’ was conspicuously absent), and as hock chill enough to bring a mist to the side of the glasses was poured, the collector looked directly at Hervey and frowned. ‘And so are you come, sir, to seek your fortune in the east, or to inform us of some delinquency the duke considers us guilty of?’

  He had scarcely taken two spoons of soup before having to protest that he had no other designs but acquiring skill with the lance.

  ‘I am in any case much relieved to learn that you are an emissary of the Duke of Wellington, for he can do little harm,’ replied Somervile, raising an eyebrow.

  Hervey could not, from either words or intonation, gauge Somervile’s precise meaning. ‘In what sense might the duke do any harm, sir?’ he enquired.

  ‘I mean that as a military man there is little to fear from the duke. If he were to return and put all of the Carnatic to the
sword he would do little lasting harm. If, however, he took cloth and returned with a bible he would have most of India in revolt.’

  Hervey looked astonished at the proposition – both its parts.

  ‘Generally speaking, Captain Hervey, the Hindoo does not fear death half so much as he fears baptism,’ explained the collector. ‘I am more greatly exercised by the emissaries of Mr Wilberforce who wish to convert the heathen to their especially repugnant form of Christianity!’

  Emma Lucie sighed and raised her eyebrows with studied amusement. ‘Mr Somervile includes me in his strictures, Captain Hervey, for I take a Sunday-school class and there are native pupils.’

  ‘But Miss Lucie’s is a most accommodating form of religion, Captain Hervey,’ replied Somervile without looking at her. ‘It stirs up little ardour. You have read, I hope, of Warren Hastings?’

  This was becoming remarkably like dinner at Cork, thought Hervey, when that assembly of patriots had tested his understanding of history. ‘Yes, I have read of his trial,’ he replied cautiously.