Shock entered MacLean’s calculating regard. “You’ll have to change your ingrained habits, Hugh. Could you really do that to him in cold blood?”
“He deserves worse for his ill manners. And I daresay my blood will heat up satisfactorily when I sight on him with a pistol.”
“No, Hugh. You will make it impossible for me to help you. As it is, it will be difficult enough.”
“I’ll be paying him a compliment, treating him as an equal. It’s either that or a thrashing. As he is too old to withstand a whipping, it must be a duel.”
“Then, Hugh, I must withdraw my hospitality and I fear that the hopes I had of being able to give you a start in commercial life will be impossible to fulfil.”
So it was a buyers’ market and he was an item of low value; which might be what MacLean had planned to demonstrate at the outset. Perhaps it was MacLean and not the lawyer to whom he should really send his seconds to arrange a dawn encounter.
“I don’t believe he would accept if I did challenge him. I would like at least to make the gesture; and my point with it.”
MacLean’s eyes brightened and he looked reflective for a while.
“Let us talk about it later. I have a proposal for you which is of much more importance and if it appeals to you, you will have to be on your way very soon, before the monsoon breaks.”
“On my way to where and to do what?”
MacLean smiled. “Be patient until we get to my office.”
It occupied a corner building, with the store-rooms, called go-downs, on the ground floor and the counting-house upstairs. A chaprasi, wearing on his arm a brass plate, a chapras, engraved with his employer’s name, hurried forward to help MacLean from the carriage. A girl of perhaps 18, who looked twice that age and would, statistically, be dead in another seven years, crouched against the wall, holding a child with twisted limbs and whining for alms. Ramsey gave her a small coin and at once a boy with a withered arm and one leg scuttled out of a doorway on a crutch and thrust a cupped hand forward into which he dropped another coin, then hastened indoors before a dozen more beggars could come tearing at his compassion.
In a large room up a flight of bare wooden stairs three Bengali babus in dhotis wrote at their desks under a pankha. All rose to make Namaste, joining their palms in front of their faces. “Good morning, Sahib.”
“Good morning.” MacLean thrust aside one of the bat-wing doors which separated his room from the clerks’.
Ramsey returned the Namaste and said “Jai ram” in greeting. It would never have occurred to him to speak English to any Indian.
Another fan groaned and swished over MacLean’s desk. As soon as they had seated themselves the chaprasi brought in a tea-tray. The papers on the desk fluttered under brass weights. The street noises from Chowringhee drifted through the open window. The khas-khas tatti gave off its pleasant aroma. There was no indication of opulence, no touch of ornamentation to relieve the severity of the bare walls. Ramsey had never had occasion to enter a merchant’s premises and the thought occurred to him that if he did not know better he would conclude from these that MacLean’s business was foundering. No doubt the go-downs contained goods worth a lakh of rupees or more. Whatever they were worth, he knew they were guarded day and night by watchmen armed with blunderbusses, knives and staves: fierce-looking Sikhs, Mahrattas or Pathans whose very presence frightened the Bengalis and nearly everyone else. He waited with a mixture of scepticism and disillusionment that his first hours of civilian life had engendered, but MacLean was apparently in no hurry to get to the point.
He was reading some of the letters that awaited him, with no apology to his visitor while sipping tea. Ramsey had endured five or six weeks of mental anguish. He had managed to come to what he considered honourable terms with himself and imposed rigorous conditions on himself to justify what seemed to the likes of Colonel Howell the easy way out. He felt annoyed and humiliated. He had known it would not be easy to cope with the exigencies of a trader’s life but had not anticipated being snubbed. Whenever he had mixed with civilians, and they included MacLean, they had conformed to his own standards of conduct. Perhaps that had been an effort for MacLean and perhaps he was more than just being himself now, he was letting him feel in rancour some of the condescension which the military habitually showed for those who followed the plebeian calling of trade.
Without looking up, MacLean called “Chatterjee.” One of the half-doors flapped open and swung shut and a portly babu waddled in to stand barefooted at MacLean’s elbow, peering down at the paper in MacLean’s hand, balancing on one leg and rubbing its calf with a nervous constant up-and-down motion of the instep of his other foot.
“This manifest for the goods we’re sending to Zafarala. The consignment from London is not listed.”
“Not arriving yet from docks, Sahib.”
“Make sure it’s in the go-down by tiffin time.”
The babu inclined his head to the right, his ear almost touching his plump shoulder, the affirmative gesture of all his kind. Ramsey noticed that the movement of his foot became more agitated.
“I’m taking Ramsey Sahib to the Garden Reach go-down this afternoon. I expect to see everything ready to load on the river boats.”
Again the sideways movement of the head.
“Tell Anwar Ali to come here.”
With a final unspoken acknowledgment, Chatterjee went. In silence MacLean drained his teacup, regarding Ramsey with the multifaceted look which Ramsey had never observed until the previous day. The simultaneous suggestion of guile and frankness it conveyed had quickly become an irritant.
Ramsey returned the look with his bleak parade-ground stare. “Well?”
“All in good time.”
The chaprasi appeared in the doorway. “Anwar Ali, Sahib.”
“Yahan ao, Anwar Ali.”
A stalwart, upright man in Muslim dress came into the room. “Salaam, Sahib.”
“Salaam.” In ill-accented, ungrammatical and uncouth Hindustani, MacLean went on: “This is Ramsey Sahib, his father is an old friend of ours.”
“Salaam, Huzur.”
“Salaam, Ji.”
“We wants you to say he what you told we about Zafarala.”
“You are from Zafarala, Anwar Ali?”
“Yes, Your Honour. I was contractor to the officers’ mess at the time when your honoured father, Carpel Rumgee, saw service in my home place.”
“You knew my father well, then.”
“I had the honour.”
“And what is it that MacLean Sahib wishes you to tell me?”
“The sahib wishes me to explain that the time is propitious for wise men to prosper in Zafarala.”
“How so?”
“Your Honour, the Nawab is a man who has many enemies and does not rule with wisdom. There will be trouble and after that all will be well. Those who gain goodwill now will reap the benefit.”
“Why then are you in Calcutta?”
“I return soon to my home place, Huzur.”
“You speak of trouble. At whose hands will this trouble come and how soon?”
“Your Honour will perceive these matters himself when he goes to Zafarala. I have never heard an Englishman speak our language as Your Honour does. From the other side of a screen you would pass for one of us. I have never before heard any countryman of yours whose speech was not infected with a foreign accent. You will learn all there is to know without difficulty. You will have a place of honour wherever you wish: at the Nawab’s right hand if you desire it.”
“Lallo patto, Anwar Ali.”
“No, Your Honour, I do not flatter. I speak only the truth.”
Ramsey turned to MacLean and found him smiling broadly. “I understood, Hugh. It was what I wanted to know. I’d heard you had an astonishing command of the language.”
“Accents come easily to me: I have a lucky facility for mimicry.” Ramsey smiled, and, changing his accent, said “I can even imitate broad Scots quite convincing
ly, do ye no’ agree?”
“Aye. All right, Anwar Ali, we seeing you behind.”
When the Indian had gone, after this dubious dismissal, there was another silence while they once again took stock of one another.
“Well, Angus, what was all that about?”
“I mean to trade with Zafarala. I’ve always intended to, but apart from one rather unsatisfactory venture in Oudh, which you know something about, I’ve never taken my business outside Bengal. It’s always been my wish to spread my interests far and wide throughout this whole country. And now that I have two sons to follow me, it is all the more my ambition.”
“You must place great confidence in Anwar Ali.”
“I have many sources of information, my friend. And you must have heard something of the present conditions in Zafarala yourself.”
“I haven’t been trained to relate commerce to politics or military strategy.”
“But I have. How would you like to be my partner in Zafarala, Hugh?”
*
The bustle and evidence of prosperity around the docks and go-downs downriver where MacLean had another warehouse, were a new excitement for Ramsey. The smell of tar, cordage and fresh paint from vessels moored alongside or lying in the anchorage were unfamiliar and exciting. Some of them had tall, smoke-blackened funnels as well as masts and sails and the hulls of those which had lately arrived were encrusted with brine: evidence of voyages from the other side of the world, violent storms, tenacity and courage; great endeavour in pursuit of wealth. Among the seamen on the wharves was a bewildering variety of dress and speech. They came from the Malabar coast and the coast of Coromandel, from Arabia and Malaya and China; from every seagoing corner of the British Isles, from the coasts of Africa; from Scandinavia, Holland, Portugal and Spain in ships under the British flag.
MacLean, in this environment, was brisk, shrewd, expansive, masterful: in complete control of every facet of his complicated affairs, dealing crisply with predicaments, turning delay and disadvantage into gain, making order out of chaos. Wherever he went he was greeted with respect. Ramsey accompanied him on board three or four ships, to the offices and go-downs of other merchants, to the jetties where cargo was being swung ashore by ships’ derricks. Everywhere it was the same. In the stunning heat and stifling humidity, running with sweat in the unsuitable clothes of the period, MacLean was as calm and professionally expert with hundreds of thousands of rupees at stake as he himself was under fire with lives at forfeit. Ramsey’s experiences that day fortified his confidence in his new patron or partner or whatever he was going to be and infused him with respect for him and enthusiasm for the undertaking about which he still knew so little.
Near the door of MacLean’s go-down stood a dozen crates. Chatterjee Babu from the Chowringhee office emerged splay-footed from behind them, his loose sandals slapping the tiled floor. “Is coming from London, Sahib.”
MacLean looked at Ramsey. “Sporting rifles and shotguns, the world’s finest. You can have them to supply the Nawab of Zafarala and his court. At least, I hope so: it’s up to you to convince the Nawab they’ll make his shikars the most famous in India; and himself the greatest shikari. China and porcelain from the firms that supply King George. They should arouse the Nawab’s envy enough to make him buy the lot from you. The finest textiles for Cold Weather clothing. And a few extra items for gifts and sweeteners.”
“That should be enough to get me off to a good start.”
“Aye, but it’s what we can get out of Zafarala, not so much what we send there, that’s the most important.” He put a friendly arm across Ramsey’s shoulders, which Ramsey automatically shrugged off. He detested being touched by other men. MacLean let his arm drop and said quietly “It’s not only lakhs of rupees we want from Zafarala, Hugh, it’s information. I’m counting on you to establish yourself firmly in the Nawab’s favour. Information means power: trade depends on political events and forewarned is forearmed.”
“I’ll do my best, but I’m not sure it’s a part I’m cut out for.”
“I’m not expecting you to toady to him. Far from it. Win his respect and confidence. That’s all I ask.”
All! Ramsey thought and it was a wry thought too. If it was so simple, MacLean would not be courting him: he would have sent a delegate to Zafarala years ago. He said nothing. Well disciplined for every military eventuality, attuned to the subtlest nuances and conventions of conversations among his own caste, he was unsure how to react to this bland and confidential statement. There was a simple overtness about it but he knew there was nothing simple about Angus MacLean: who, after some seconds, darted him a sharp glance.
“Well? What’s on your mind?”
“Several things, Angus: but I’ll work them out for myself in due time.”
“Ask me anything you want to. You’re in no doubt about your own ability, are you? Good God, Hugh, you’re the very man for this kind of thing. You may think you were born to be a soldier...”
“No, I don’t think that any longer. Not a soldier in these times, anyhow. In my father’s early days, and certainly in my grandfather’s, yes.”
MacLean gave him a grin in which there was more slyness than humour, a complicity which gave him a sensation in his scalp that had nothing to do with the 120 degrees in the shade and the 100 per cent humidity. He wondered if he could ever become really close to this man and if whatever evolved between them could ever develop into real interdependence. A moment later he found himself deprecating his thoughts as ungrateful.
“I’m glad to hear it, my boy. A man should keep his eye on the main chance; especially a young man.”
This wasn’t the time to point out that the expression had nothing to do with opportunism but was a term used in cock-fighting. He understood well enough what MacLean meant and there was no need to give offence by airing a superior education.
“Oh, I’m sure we understand each other, Angus.”
“Aye. Well enough to suit our joint purposes, anyway.”
MacLean spoke jovially enough but the effect was as discomfiting as though he had shown cold politeness or open malevolence and Ramsey suddenly rebelled against this city tainted with greed, intrigue and connivance behind its grandiose facade, from which he had been glad to escape back to Barrackpore so few weeks ago.
“I’m ready to leave whenever you want me to, Angus.”
“We need another few days together to agree terms and for you to learn a little about the way I manage my business. And have you no unfinished business of your own to attend to? No bonny lassie pining for a sight of you? Or any other personal matters you have to clear up?”
“No.” Ramsey gave the answer quickly and then he checked. “By God: Pocock! Is that what you meant?”
“I don’t want you to go off up country with any grievances or regrets, my boy. We’ll go up to my office here and moisten our throats with a glass of cold brandy and water and you can unburden yourself to me.”
MacLean gave Ramsey a clap on the back which he tolerated only slightly less distastefully than an arm around him.
*
Like a fragment of grit in an oyster shell, recollection of the egregious lawyer was an irritant which increased the longer it was left. In a heat which made it seem as though his brain were fermenting and in the confines of city streets or crowded wharves where every slight breeze seemed to have been blown from a bakehouse, Ramsey’s sense of injury was inflamed. Brandy, even diluted with cold water, did nothing to damp it down. There was more to his ill-humour than this and the maniacal itch of the prickly heat that brought the skin out in a red rash at the onset of every Hot Weather. He was aware of the stirring of some strange convolution or urgency which prompted him to every kind of defiance. He had already manifested one by resigning his commission.
The devil take the law that prohibited duelling and treated killing an opponent in fair fight as murder. The devil take Calcutta too and indeed the whole Bengal Presidency, for all he cared. He chafed to sever
all his old connections and go, and to go as quickly as possible.
He had never had any difficulty in making decisions or identifying his feelings: it annoyed him further that he found MacLean equivocal, at one moment solicitous and encouraging, the next seeming to look past him with a glazed, fey expression that appeared dismissive and almost derisive. He wondered uncomfortably what MacLean saw when he gazed through him like that into thin air. Did he perceive images like those which witches were alleged to see in a fire?
He longed to get away from this environment created by the imposition of European shibboleths and avarice on an already debased community. There was little to admire in the Bengalis, a pusillanimous race of clerks and shopkeepers, not warriors. India was a land full of complications and contradictions: a tangle of tongues, religions, castes and classes; superstitions, prohibitions, austerity, permissiveness and conflicting moralities. But he found it less bemusing than the intricate warp and woof of artificial tortuosities that had been created here, in every facet of European life, commercial, social and political, with its compromises, taboos and embranglement’s. Once on his way up country he would feel free and clean.
Ramsey felt a gathering urgency to action, to prove himself as good an adventurer and merchant venturer as he had been a soldier. Already he felt that he was stagnating. He brooded on the course his emotions had taken in the last few days leading up to his parting from the regiment and since his arrival here. He compared it with the development of a love affair and with his military career and found many similarities. In each he had been through the phases of anticipation, attainment, contentment and satiety; then had followed either boredom or betrayal. He had not arrived at attainment or contentment yet, but was already feeling something which could be either boredom or satiety and probably an amalgam of both.
He sent Sher Mahommed Khan to the Fort with notes to two friends in a British regiment, inviting them to dine with him at Cutler’s Hotel that evening. It was short notice but he was confident they would come if they were free. He intended asking them to deliver his challenge to Pocock and anyway it gave him an excuse to spend an evening away from the MacLeans and their circle.
A Good Soldier Page 8