Anne turned back toward the manor house, a reluctance in her step. She touched her mother’s cross and whispered a silent prayer for God to protect this young dragoon and to keep him safe.
Part III
Chapter 31
January 1813
Onboard the Adamant
Indian Ocean
William Ferguson paced the deck of the Adamant. After four weary months onboard, William heaved a deep sigh as the ship finally approached Sri Lanka and sailed into the Bay of Bengal. But Calcutta was still over a thousand miles away.
The sails of the Adamant filled and the ship sliced through the placid waters of the bay. Dolphins dove and danced beside the ship as it glided north toward the Hooghly River and beyond that, Calcutta. Days passed. When the waters changed from clear to murky, the dolphins vanished and the ship slowed. A flat forbidding landscape unfolded toward the horizon, baking under a relentless sun. They had finally entered the river, but danger lurked beneath the surface of the Hooghly.
Numerous channel islands crowded the river’s course where treacherous shoals and sandbars shifted unseen. William chaffed at the ship’s slow progress. Knowing that it would take days to reach their destination, he paced.
Hours stretched into days and days into weeks. William stood on the deck and squinted into the sunlight that flashed off the brilliant surface of the water. After three weeks, to William’s relief, on the starboard side of the vessel, the rooftops of Calcutta climbed into view beyond the river’s banks. Flimsy docks stretched toward the horizon in either direction. From a distance, the docks resembled planks crawling with insects. The tiny shapes, clad in white, crept or darted in all directions. Many of the shapes sported brightly colored turbans.
The shapes morphed into human figures. The figures spilled from the docks and flowed into a myriad of narrow streets that tapered into spaces barely wide enough for a small cart. The town fanned out into an endless sea of wooden and clay buildings that stretched to the distant northern hills. Beyond those hills, India loomed large and perilous.
Though the British had conquered and controlled much of the Indian subcontinent, many organized factions still resisted that control. And groups of mercenaries and bandits roamed the desolate territories, preying on anyone foolish enough to venture into those perilous regions without an armed escort. Anarchy brewed in the dark corners of this vast country.
Dangers prowled in this land of tigers and thugs, but what William did not know was that his strength and valor would be tested by terrors beyond his imagining in the weeks and months to come.
Chapter 32
February 1813
Onboard the Adamant
Calcutta, India
The Adamant lingered on the river until a spot opened at the docks. The wind had dropped hours before and the vast vessel bobbed in the muddy water like a toy boat. A huge sun heated the ship’s deck and baked the contents, cargo and human, both above and below.
William removed his wool jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He would have unbuttoned his shirt, but it was not regulation, and there were ladies present. But damn regulations and damn the ladies. It was hot . . . hotter than Spain. And Spain had been an oven. Why would anyone ever want to live in such a place as India? Of course, William knew the answers to that question.
Money or duty attracted people to India. For some, there was the opportunity to gain wealth. For William it was duty. He must serve king and country wherever the British Army dispatched him. But to be fair, he had volunteered for this assignment.
In answer to William’s unspoken prayer, a slight breeze lifted off the river and offered a reprieve from the heat. William moved to join Dr. Pettigrew at the ship’s side. He and the doctor, a botanist, had enjoyed each other’s company on the long journey. Chess, cards, excellent whiskey, an occasional cigar, and stimulating conversation bonded their friendship and eased the boredom of the voyage.
“Well, William, hopefully we will again plant our feet on terra firma and soon. I am right tired of this sea journey. Not many plants to be studied onboard a British sailing vessel.” Charles Pettigrew laughed, wiping his brow as sweat dripped off his face and onto his now limp collar.
William nodded in agreement. Other passengers crammed the spaces along the ship’s railing, also seeking relief from the heat. These included a number of young women all leaning over the edge and gazing into the murky water below. Besides the botanist and the army’s newest recruits, young middle-class ladies occupied the upper cabins of the vessel. Most of these women were in search of a husband with a promising career and a future pension.
As the East India Company employed legions of young men of reasonable fortune and presumed honor as soldiers and as clerks, ladies of a marriageable age took it upon themselves to endure the long voyage to seek and find a husband. Between the British Army and the East India Company, there were, it seemed, few eligible bachelors remaining in Britain.
As a consequence, William was aware that he himself attracted some attention among the ladies. Mrs. Smythe, a fellow traveler and self-proclaimed chaperone for the young ladies, encouraged William’s acquaintance with several of the young women onboard.
There were many whispered comments on the deck about the tall cavalry officer. Many eyes batted in his direction. Many fans fluttered over dinner at the ship captain’s table. But the young officer in question disregarded those attentions and often retreated to his cabin and to his books.
William was not immune to the charms of the fairer sex. Certainly not. But he felt suffocated by the sweet perfumes, feminine chatter, and even the décolleté gowns that moved and swayed around him in the tight quarters of the ship. It was impossible to avoid the swish of muslin or the rustle of silk.
William did wonder how many of the hopeful ladies would be successful in their pursuit of a spouse, but except for polite conversations, he did not give any lady onboard a second glance or a serious thought. He was courteous. He was gracious. He was indifferent.
Besides Mrs. Smythe, the ship carried a few other married women, also traveling to join their husbands already posted to Calcutta or to some remote desolate spot that would soon flourish and blossom under their tender feminine care. William’s thoughts strayed often to a certain married lady in Surrey as he wondered if or when she might be arriving in India.
The voyage to India, always an arduous journey, could last four to six months. Passengers often endured a cramped and fetid vessel where spoiled food, rough seas, and a sullen crew were not uncommon. William had not wanted to provide Lady Anne with too many of the details of the rigors to be experienced on such a voyage. And she would be traveling unaccompanied except for a few servants. Her husband should be thrashed for not taking better care of his beautiful young wife. But he had observed that the lady had pluck and probably could fend for herself.
“Oh, Captain Ferguson and Dr. Pettigrew,” Mrs. Smythe cried, her voice rising on the last syllable of their surnames as she joined them at the side of the vessel. Her voluminous skirts swirled around her as she fanned herself violently. “When will we dock? Do you know? I am that restless to be off this ship!”
“Ah, my dear lady, we were just speculating on that point.” Dr. Pettigrew bowed and removed his hat. “Frankly, I was hoping to spend at least one more night onboard to try to win back my losses to you over whist.”
Mrs. Smythe smiled brilliantly back at the botanist and giggled. “Well, we may have an opportunity to play again after we are on shore. Are you not planning on staying in Calcutta for a few weeks, Doctor?”
“Well, I don’t know how long it will take me to arrange a tour up to the north, to the Indian Himalayas. That is my destination.”
“Yes. But why, dear doctor? You have told us that before, but never exactly why.”
“Well, that is difficult to say. It is all very ted
ious and scientific, my dear lady. The government is eager to learn about the flora in that province. I am simply a humble servant of His Majesty’s government. I am required to travel there and poke around a bit and take copious notes on the weather and soil and retrieve plant samples and return them to England.”
William suspected that there was more, much more, to the doctor’s intended journey, but he did not feel it expedient to probe too deeply, especially with the loquacious Mrs. Smythe absorbing every word and nuance.
Instead he turned his eyes back to the dock and the constant movement of ships upon the river. Dozens of ships sailed in and out of Calcutta every day. Ships laden with processed opium left India and sailed to China. Unload the opium. Then fill their holds with bales of precious tea and sail for England. It was a system, William knew, that produced enormous wealth and guaranteed the survival of the British economy and its empire.
William believed that Dr. Pettigrew’s mission had something to do with tea. Tea. Liquid jade. The prize of the orient. And the British held a monopoly on that prize. Without it, the British economy would falter and collapse. This, the East India Company would never allow.
The East India Company employed its own army. The Company, not the Crown, ruled in India. Many thousands of troops were stationed there to keep the peace between the many factions that splintered the enormous subcontinent. And career military men were often shipped to India to supply extra military prowess and expertise. Now it was William’s turn to supply that prowess and expertise.
He had received his orders in London. He was to report to Colonel the Viscount Westmeare at Calcutta and receive any further orders then. Thoughts of Westmeare always led to Lady Anne.
Anne, blushing at the fête at Addiscombe. Anne, standing in the shadows by the ruins of the old abbey. Anne, laughing in the grotto at Hartwood.
He tried to push such images of the lovely lass from his mind. Lady Anne, no matter how charming, was not for him. Yet, he could not forget her. Nae. He could not. She slipped into his thoughts uninvited, but not unwelcome.
Without a doubt, Lady Anne aroused him physically. Oh, aye! He could not deny it. Yet she also awakened in him an intense desire to protect and to cherish. More than any other woman he had ever known.
She embraced an inner beauty, a gentle grace, a loving spirit. He admired Anne’s concern for her servants, her devotion to her family, her passion for honesty, her keen mind. Aye, the lass was truly a remarkable woman.
But would he ever see her again? He did not know when or even if the Lady Anne Westmeare would be joining her husband in India. But he could not restrain a smile at the prospect of seeing her again.
The voices of Mrs. Smythe and Dr. Pettigrew intruded on his pleasant and so verra satisfying reveries. “The Royal Horticulture Society has encouraged its members to travel throughout the empire to study and collect unusual specimens,” the botanist said, trying his best to explain his puzzling mission to India.
“Well, tropical plants, especially ferns, are becoming the fashion in households rich and poor in England,” Mrs. Smythe declared. “I have several in my parlor in Kent.”
“Aye,” William interjected. “My mother had potted ferns on her kitchen windowsill in Scotland.”
Thoughts of his mother carried him back to his childhood, to his apprenticeship in his uncle’s bookstore, and to his early military career. The voices around him faded as his memories transported him back to a very different place and time.
Away from Anne. Away from India. Back to home. And tragedy.
Chapter 33
Spring 1800
Ferguson Farm
Dalkeith, Scotland
It had rained for days. Creeks, swollen with the deluge, poured over their banks, flooding the fields and roads. Astride his gray warhorse, William plodded over the hundred and thirty miles of mud roads from his regimental headquarters in Aberdeen to his family farm. William’s emotions churned at the slow pace. Time was essential. Having completed two years of training with his regiment, he was in the midst of preparations for departure to his first overseas assignment when grave news arrived at the military post.
His mother, Rose Ferguson, was seriously ill. Granted leave to visit her, William saddled Angus and hastened southward, keeping to the high roads to avoid the worst of the muck and mire, but subjecting both horse and rider to the full blast of chilling rain.
Rain. It rained the day his father abandoned him in Edinburgh. It rained the day of his father’s funeral. What would he find at the end of this journey?
The trip took five days. William, wet and weary, arrived just as the family doctor shuffled off the front porch. William dismounted and approached the stooped gentleman, his words of eager greeting falling from his lips as Dr. Armstrong fixed his bleary eyes upon him. Fearing the worst, William listened as the elderly physician drew him aside and in hushed tones informed him that there was no hope of his mother surviving. She had a weak heart and she only had hours, perhaps a few days at best, to live.
Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the doctor spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I am verra sorry to deliver this sad news to ye, young Ferguson, but those are the facts and I must speak plain.”
Relieved to hear that his mother was still alive, he thanked the doctor for his candor. William then helped ease him into his wicker cart and watched as the pony moved slowly down the path, pulling the small vehicle and its elderly passenger toward the Dalkeith Road.
Grateful that the rain had ceased, William guided his mud-spattered stallion to the paddock, where he found a stable boy already running toward him. “This is Angus,” William said, addressing the boy. “We’ve ridden over a hundred hard wet miles, Jock, and my horse needs to be well-watered, fed, and groomed.”
The boy touched his cap and responded, “Aye, sir. Ye needna worry, sir. I will see that Angus is placed in a warm stall with plenty of fresh hay. He will be well cared for.”
William paused to gently stroke his gray friend, holding onto his tether and leaning his head against the horse’s muzzle. “Ye are a good lad, Angus. Ye rest now.” The horse snorted in acknowledgment as William handed the reins to Jock and turned reluctantly back toward the house. Guilt encased his heart. I should have returned sooner.
At the threshold, William wiped his muddy boots, straightened his shoulders, and went inside to greet his family. He found them gathered in the large kitchen where on the windowsill he spied his mother’s well-tended ferns. Removing his sodden greatcoat, he hung it on a hook as rivulets of rain cascaded onto the floor.
His sister, Jean, stood at the stove stirring, weeping, and dabbing her eyes with a corner of her blue gingham apron while Duncan Graham hovered beside her as if he could assuage her grief by his presence.
William’s younger brother, Ian, now a brawny lad of eighteen and almost as tall as himself, sat at the well-worn table, his rough hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea.
At the sight of his older brother, Ian jumped up and without speaking took William’s proffered hand with a hardy clasp, their twin hazel eyes mirror bright with filial welcome. William, turning to embrace Jean, noticed that the delicate tissue around her blue green eyes was red and swollen. He kissed her forehead.
With tears spilling down her cheeks, she looked up at him. “Oh, William, I am so verra pleased to see ye. Mother is nae well. The doctor . . . he . . .” Jean buried her face in his damp uniform unable to complete her thought.
“I ken, lass. I spoke with Dr. Armstrong outside.” He gently lifted her chin, distressed to see her pretty face crumbled by grief and fatigue. Releasing her slowly, he murmured, “I will go up now.” And with a nod to Ian and Duncan, he prepared to mount the stairs to his parents’ room. Jean grabbed up a quilt and covered her brother’s broad shoulders. “Your uniform is soaked, William. There is a fire in mother�
�s room. Get ye dry there.”
William gave her a wee smile and slowly mounted the steps. Hesitating in the open doorway, his gaze swept over the room and its contents where it seemed as if nothing had altered since his childhood. Even though his father had died four years earlier, his presence could still be felt in the small space.
William remembered his visage, unbending and stern, except when he smiled at his Rose or on the rare occasion when he would praise one of his children. Lessons in honor, humility, and honesty were bred into the Ferguson offspring as well as an unbending devotion to God. William carried those lessons with him.
He found his mother resting on the huge four-poster bed, her pale fingers grasping the edge of a thick woolen blanket, a shawl of fine Ferguson plaid enveloping her spare shoulders. On her left hand, rested the gold ring she had worn every day of her life since her wedding day forty years before. It now lay loose on her skeletal finger, but still shining in the glow of the hearth. A delicate band of three strands of gold entwined around a thistle and a rose. The flower for his mother, Rose, and for his da, the thistle of Scotland.
Rose opened her eyes when William neared the bed. She smiled up at her son, while he tried to master his feelings at the sight of her wasted frame and sunken cheeks. She seemed lost in the big bed. How did she get so ill so fast? He had been away too long. Tears of grief and guilt burned in the back of William’s eyes. Oh, mother.
“Willie, my bonnie lad, ye look so hale and handsome. Are ye well?” she asked, her voice soft, but firm. She had not called him “Willie” since the night his father had died.
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