by Amitav Ghosh
Left to himself, Kesri would have liked to return to the bazar at the Sepoy Lines, but it was out of the question this time, for he was under strict orders not to step out of Fort William. The formation of the expeditionary force was still a secret because no formal orders had yet been received from London: to keep word from leaking out, it had been decided that the volunteers would be confined to the precincts of the fort.
Kesri had grumbled when he was first told that he could not leave Fort William. But once installed in his new lodgings he found the confinement less irksome than he had expected. His quarters were in a barracks, which was itself a new experience, and being among the first to move in, he was able to commandeer one of the best rooms for himself. It occupied a corner of the building and had big windows on two sides; it was also on the third floor which added to the novelty, for Kesri had never before lived so high off the ground or enjoyed such a good view of his surroundings.
On the other hand it was burdensome to be constantly on duty. In most bases and cantonments there was a comfortable division between the sepoys’ military duties and their living arrangements: at the end of the day, when they returned to their living quarters, they would change into dhotis and vests. At Fort William, by contrast, sepoys had to be in uniform all through the day, just like every English swaddy, and this took some getting used to. But still, these arrangements were not without their advantages: it was good to be spared the trouble and expense of dealing with a servant and managing a household.
The barracks that had been allotted to the Bengal Volunteers were in a secluded corner of the fort. Only a small part of the building had been set aside for them since their unit was to be a ‘battalion’ only in name. Even at full strength their numbers would be less than half that of a regular paltan: it would consist of two companies, each of about a hundred men.
That the unit would be a small one was welcome news to Kesri: he had expected to have jemadars, and perhaps even a subedar, sitting on top of him, poking their noses into everything. He was delighted to find that he was to be the highest ranking NCO in B Company. Equally pleasing was the discovery that the commander of the battalion, one Major Bolton, was a kind of supernumerary officer who was likely to be appointed to the staff of the expedition’s commanding officer. This meant that the battalion’s two companies would effectively function as independent units, which was exactly as Kesri would have wished it to be, since it meant that he and Captain Mee would be left largely to themselves in dealing with their men. There was of course the minor matter of some half-dozen subalterns to consider, but Kesri did not doubt that Captain Mee would be able to keep these young English officers from making nuisances of themselves.
It turned out that Captain Mee’s counterpart, the commander of A Company, was not a particularly energetic or forceful officer. The advantages of this became obvious when it came time to pick out the junior NCOs: with Captain Mee’s help, Kesri was able to get exactly the men he wanted as his naiks and lance-naiks.
When the first groups of rank-and-file sepoys began to trickle in, they too exceeded Kesri’s expectations. He knew from experience that soldiers who were allowed to ‘volunteer’ for overseas service were often rejects of one sort or another – misfits, shirkers, layabouts and drunks – men that any unit would be glad to get rid of. But these balamteers were not quite as bad as Kesri had feared: many of them were ambitious young jawans who wanted to see the world and get ahead, just as he once had himself, many years before.
Still, there was no getting around the fact that the volunteers were young and inexperienced soldiers, drawn from regiments of uneven standard. Kesri knew that it would be no easy task to mould this rag-tag bunch into a coherent fighting unit.
But once drills began in earnest, Kesri discovered that there were some advantages to working with a motley crowd of bala-mteers: since these men were not related to each other, as in a regular sepoy battalion, there were no meddlesome cousins and uncles to be taken into account. They could be harassed, ghabraoed and punished at will, without having to answer to their relatives. It was exhilarating to taste the power that came with this – it was as if Kesri had become a zamindar and a subedar all at once.
In the past Kesri had often been awed by the iron discipline of European regiments. He had wondered what it was that enabled their NCOs to mould their men into machines. He understood now that the first step in building units of that kind was to strip the men of their links to the world beyond. In the regular Bengal Native Infantry it was impossible to do this; the ties between the men and their communities were just too strong.
It was a help also that here they were all living in unfamiliar conditions. None of the sepoys had ever been quartered in barracks before, and Kesri was much struck by the difference. He himself was now sharing a room with four naiks, and within a week he felt he knew them better than he had ever known his subordinates. They were from different places – Awadh, Mithila, Bhojpur and the mountains – and of different castes as well: Brahmin, Rajput, Aheer, Kurmi and a few others. At the start some of them grumbled about eating together, but Kesri was quick to dhamkao the complaints out of them. Didn’t they know that they would have to travel on transport ships? Didn’t they understand that on ships it was impossible to carry on as if they were back in a village? And so on. It wasn’t long before they forgot about their complaints and this had a salutary effect also on the jawans, who became much more amenable to messing together when they saw that the NCOs were doing it too.
For a while things went better than Kesri had expected but he knew it wouldn’t last – and indeed it didn’t. Soon enough, the enforced isolation began to take a toll. The men were unused to being cooped up in a place where they had no access to the varied amenities of a camp-followers’ bazar. Living with strangers, in barracks’ rooms, and being constantly in uniform made them uneasy as well.
Matters took a turn for the worse when the second lot of bala-mteers was sent in, to make up the company’s numbers. Almost to a man they were ‘undesirables’, who had been induced to volunteer because their parent units wanted to be rid of them – either because they were physically unfit or because they were incorrigible troublemakers.
Soon nerves began to fray and since there were no cousins and uncles around to intervene before quarrels got out of hand, petty disagreements frequently escalated into fights. On two successive weeks a man was stabbed to death, which meant that the company lost a total of nine men altogether, because the killers’ accomplices had to be dismissed as well.
As the weeks went by Kesri began to see more and more signs of faltering morale: dishevelled uniforms, disorderly drills and many instances of mute, mulish insubordination of the kind that could not be remedied with ordinary punishments. To keep the men in hand became a constant struggle: for the first time in his career Kesri began to regret that flogging had been abolished in the Bengal Native Infantry.
At length Kesri hit upon the idea of setting up a wrestling pit. This was a common feature in the sepoy lines of military depots and cantonments, many of which organized regular tournaments, within and between battalions. Kesri had himself continued to wrestle throughout his military career; for a few years he had even reigned as the champion of the Pacheesi. He knew that the sport helped to strengthen bonds within units and his youthful memories of the akhara told him that it was especially likely to do so in a situation where the participants were strangers to each other. He did not expect that Captain Mee would object – he was one of the few British officers who himself entered the pit from time to time – and he was right. The captain declared the project to be a whizzing idea and obtained the necessary permissions within a week.
To dig a more or less satisfactory pit took only a day or two, and then Kesri himself took on the role of guru for the first volunteers. The effect was exactly as he had hoped: the men joined in enthusiastically, glad of the distraction, and there was a sudden rise in spirits. Soon the whole company was seized by a wrestling mustee a
nd each platoon began to field teams to compete against each other.
Despite these heartening signs, one basic problem remained unchanged, which was that the volunteers still had no idea where they were going. This gave rise to all kinds of unsettling rumours: they would have to fight savages who ate human flesh; they were to be sent into a waterless desert; and so on. To combat the speculation Kesri began to talk to the NCOs about what seemed to him like possible destinations: Lanka, Java, Singapore, Bencoolen and Prince of Wales Island in Malaya. Sepoys had campaigned in all of these theatres and Kesri had heard innumerable stories about them from his seniors. But when Maha-Chin – China – cropped up he derided the suggestion: who had ever heard of sepoys going to China? That country lay far afield of the ring of territories where sepoys had been deployed in the past. The very name Maha-Chin suggested a realm that was unfathomably remote: what little he knew of it came from wandering pirs and sadhus who spoke of crossing snow-clad mountains and freezing deserts. The idea of a seaborne campaign being launched against that land seemed utterly absurd.
*
December was Calcutta’s social season, and thanks to the Doughties Zachary received a fair number of invitations to Christmas celebrations, and even more for the arrival of the New Year – 1840. Mrs Burnham was also present at some of these events and when they happened to come face to face they would exchange perfunctory greetings, barely acknowledging one another.
But her presence always kept Zachary on his toes: he knew that she would be watching him covertly and that there would be a detailed post-mortem later, in which he would be taken to task if he had lapsed in any way from the best standards of sahib-dom in clothes, manners or deportment. Sometimes, rarely, she would offer a few words of praise and he would lap them up eagerly. Every word of approbation made him hungry for more; nor did it diminish his appetite that he could never be sure whether she was teasing or in earnest.
On New Year’s Day their paths crossed briefly at a tiffin and that night, in the boudoir, Mrs Burnham said with a laugh: ‘Oh Mr Reid! You’re becoming quite the sahib, aren’t you? Soon you’re going to be so perfectly pucka you’ll turn into a brick. That cravat! The fob!’
‘And the suit?’ he said eagerly. ‘What did you think of it?’
Somewhat to his chagrin, this made her giggle. ‘Oh my dear, dear mystery,’ she said, cradling his face in her palms, ‘there is not a suit in the world to match the one you were born with. And now that I have it in my hands, I’d like to slip into it myself …’
As a prominent hostess Mrs Burnham herself entertained regularly at home, but it was made clear to Zachary that he could not expect to be invited and would do well to stay out of sight. When forewarned he would usually go into town or make other arrangements. But sometimes he would get busy with his work and forget: thus it came about one day that he was laying down some deckplanks when he noticed a long line of gharries and buggies rolling up the driveway. Only then did he remember that Mrs Burnham was holding a levée that afternoon.
It happened that he was working in a part of the budgerow that was hidden from the house so he decided that there was no need to retreat to the interior of the vessel as he sometimes did when Mrs Burnham was entertaining. He stayed where he was, doubled up on his knees, hammer in hand.
He was hard at work, with his back to the vessel’s prow, when he heard a voice behind him: ‘Hello there!’
Leaping to his feet, he turned around to find himself facing a flaxen-haired girl, of about seventeen or eighteen.
‘Don’t you remember me, Mr Reid?’ she said, with a shy smile. ‘I’m Jenny Mandeville: we danced at the Harbourmaster’s Ball – a quadrille, I think. You said to call you Zachary.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ He glanced down at his soiled work-clothes – scuffed breeches and a sweat-soaked shirt – and made a gesture of embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry; I’m not dressed for company.’
She gave a tinkling laugh: ‘Oh I don’t mind in the least! What you’re doing looks most diverting. Can I try?’
‘Why yes, of course. Here.’
She gave a little cry as he handed her the hammer. ‘Ooh! It’s heavy!’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Not if you hold it right. Here – let me show you.’
He took hold of her palm and closed her fingers around the hammer’s wooden handle.
Their hands were still joined when another voice cut in: ‘Ah! There you are, Jenny! The mystery of the missing missy-mem is solved at last!’
They looked towards the foredeck and found a glowering Mrs Burnham standing there, with her fists resting on her hips; despite her dread of sunlight, she was, for once, devoid of either a hat or a parasol.
The girl snatched her hand guiltily away. ‘Oh Mrs Burnham!’ she cried. ‘I was just looking …’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Burnham tartly, ‘I can see what you were looking at. But it’s time for you to be off now – your parents are already in their carriage.’
Without a word to Zachary, both women hurried off, leaving him standing foolishly in the gangway, hammer in hand.
It had been arranged between Zachary and Mrs Burnham that he would come to the boudoir that night – she liked to have him visit on nights when she had been entertaining – but he was so upset by the brusqueness of her manner that he decided not to go. He went to bed early and was sleeping soundly, sheltered by his mosquito net, when the door of his stateroom flew suddenly open. He woke with a start to find Mrs Burnham standing in the doorway, lamp in hand: her expression was like none he had ever seen before – her face was contorted with anger and her eyes were ablaze.
‘You blackguard!’ she hissed at him. ‘You vile chute-looter of a luckerbaug! How dare you? How dare you?’
Leaping out of bed, Zachary pushed the door shut. In the light of the lamp he saw that she had not changed after her levée and was still wearing the same dress he’d seen her in earlier.
‘You filthy cheating ganderoo …!’
‘Mrs Burnham – calm down.’ Taking the lamp from her hands he led her towards the bed. ‘And please! Lower your voice.’
‘Oh how dare you?’ she cried. ‘First you flirt with that slam-merkin of a girl, and then you keep me waiting? How dare you?’
He had never before seen her in such a fury: he kept his own voice down so as not to further incense her. ‘I wasn’t flirting with her,’ he said. ‘It was she who came looking for me.’
‘You’re lying!’ she said. ‘You’ve been seeing her behind my back. I know you have!’
‘That’s not true, Mrs Burnham,’ he said. ‘This is the first time I’ve spoken to her since the Harbourmaster’s Ball.’
‘Then why’s she always asking about you? Why is it always Zachary this, Zachary that whenever I see her?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Zachary. ‘Don’t know nothin bout that.’
This seemed to calm her a little, so Zachary took hold of her elbow and led her to the bed. Parting the mosquito net he said: ‘You’d better get in, Mrs Burnham, or you’ll be eaten alive.’
She shrugged his hand off but allowed herself to be ushered inside the net. Blowing out the lamp, he climbed in beside her, to discover that her rage had now turned into a flood of tears.
‘Why didn’t you come?’ she said, between sobs. ‘I waited and waited.’
‘Mrs Burnham,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t know if this has occurred to you, but I’m not just a mystery, you know: I’m also a human being, and it hurts me when you treat me like a stray dog as you did this afternoon.’
‘What the devil do you mean?’ she retorted. ‘Do you expect me to shower choomers on you in public? You know perfectly well I can’t be familiar with you in front of people.’
‘Lookit, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary patiently, ‘I understand that you’re a memsahib and I’m a mystery and we have to act a certain way to keep up appearances. But do you always have to be so rude to me in company? Why, there’s not a servant in the house you treat so badl
y. Even the way you look at me – it’s like I was a chigger or something.’
Her hands flew to her face and she shook her head convulsively from side to side. ‘Oh what a fool you are, Mr Reid!’ she said, swallowing her sobs. ‘You’re no mystery – what you are is an absolute and complete gudda.’
‘And how do you figure that?’
‘Oh Mr Reid,’ she said, ‘do you not understand? The reason I cannot bear to look at you in company is that I am gubbrowed half to death.’
‘Why?’
‘I am stricken with terror that my face will give away the goll-maul that wells up in me at the very sight of you!’
Zachary reached for her hand, in the dark, and found that it was shaking. ‘But it isn’t only in public that you’re hard on me, you know,’ he said. ‘Even when we’re alone, you have no praise for anyone but “our little sepoy” as you call him.’
She wrenched her hand defiantly from his grasp: ‘Look – if you want miss-ish sighs and swoonings and protestations of love, you would do well, Mr Reid, to seek out the Jenny Mandevilles of this world. You certainly won’t get them from me. I have long outgrown such girlish fancies.’
‘But you too were a girl once, Mrs Burnham – were you never in love then?’
Hearing a sharp intake of breath, Zachary steeled himself for a rebuff. But when she spoke again it was in a tremulous whisper: ‘Yes, I was in love once.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘It was a long time ago and I was no older than that silly minx, Jenny. I had just returned from England, where I’d been sent for my schooling. He was a subaltern in my father’s regiment, fresh from England – only a year older than me. He was a little wild, as ensigns should be, and very handsome, in a dark-haired way. Almost from the moment I set eyes on him, I was lost – completely, utterly in love, as only a girl of seventeen can be. Your little Miss Mandeville has yet to feel a tenth part of the passions that agitated me then.’