By Eastern windows

by Gretta Curran Browne

  For four weeks the men trained, the men drilled, the men sweltered.

  And still no sign of the monsoon.

  Three days before the end of June, General Balfour and a brigade of staff officers, together with Major Whitelocke, the new commandant of the Calicut forces, had the pleasure of watching the companies of the 77th's first Battalion marching on parade with superb synchronisation, all commands being followed with a snap and precision that was breathtaking.

  Balfour was a vision of happiness as Major Whitelocke praised the 77th's ‘magnificent’ soldierly performance

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Balfour agreed happily. ‘The best in India.’

  The following day the 77th sailed out of Bombay harbour, just as the monsoon arrived, and the rains fell.

  SEVEN

  ‘Rain!’

  The soldiers of the 77th stood on the deck of the Endeavour holding up their smiling faces to what had been a furnace of a sky. The monsoon had arrived at last.

  For six days Jane groaned in her cabin as the ship rolled on its way down the Malabar Coast. Whenever the drumming of the rain eased she could hear the cheerful voices of the men, and sometimes the voices of women.

  All ‘official’ wives of soldiers were allowed to travel with the Army when a regiment was moved to a new settlement, especially in India where the girls would have been rejected by their own people for marrying out of their caste.

  Aboard the ship the soldiers' wives were housed apart from the men and rarely strayed from their own privacy below decks. But on arrival at Calicut, two weeks after leaving Bombay, Jane at last saw the small group of Indian girls that some of the soldiers had fallen in love with and married; delicate and beautiful girls with slender limbs, soft features, eyes black and serene, and not one could be over the age of eighteen.

  Jane thought them all very young, although she herself was only twenty-one.

  ‘Where do the soldiers meet these girls?’ she asked Lachlan in a curious whisper, then gave a slow ‘Ohhh, I see,’ when he explained that some were servant girls who had been lured out of their caste by the twinkle in a British blue eye – but most were Daughters of Music – dancing girls who, under the care of their respective duennas were hired to dance at European entertainments, but often escaped their duennas to some moonlight garden to hear more of the romantic whispers of a lonely soldier.

  Dancing girls! Jane looked at them now, and understood their grace. Everything about them was graceful, and all salaamed shyly to the only ‘Memsahib’ on the ship.

  Jane smiled and salaamed back; and then turned and looked towards the coconut palms and white beaches of Calicut.

  *

  The military station at Calicut was four miles along the coast from the town. It was composed of a series of palm-thatched huts formed into streets, shaded by coconut trees. Some distance up a small hill beyond the huts were the officers' bungalows, bordered by banyan and jacaranda trees. Lachlan and Jane found their bungalow to be the best of all, having a large bedroom, and surrounded by a beautiful garden.

  Jane explored her new surroundings. The veranda completely encircled the house and as she walked around it she could see high beautiful hills in the background, green dappled country at each side, and from her front door, the blue sea could be seen in the distance.

  ‘We're going to be happy here,’ she told Lachlan.

  And she was right, for thus began the happiest period of their lives; and it was in that quiet and peaceful military oasis in Calicut that Jane Macquarie truly fell in love with India, and Lachlan fell even more in love with Jane.

  *

  Every day the rain fell, filling the air with the smells of wet earth, rejuvenating the land, refreshing the spirit. Hot winds blew through the night, calming almost to a breeze by morning. But the southwest monsoon was passing away from the coast of Malabar and travelling north-eastwards where it would finally exhaust itself.

  By September the rainy season was almost over and the inhabitants of Calicut faced nine months of guaranteed sunshine.

  The first friend Jane had made on her arrival was a mama-monkey who had taken up residence in a tree behind the house, at the far edge of the garden. She had a cute, cheeky face, and was very noisy as she chattered to her tiny offspring, instructing him in the art of jumping from branch to branch.

  As soon as the mama-monkey saw Jane she paused, and sat for while looking at the girl with curious eyes, scratching her ear lazily and appearing irresolute as to how to respond. Then, after a chatter with herself, she decided to ignore the human, turning her face away in an arrogant manner and carried on with her parental instructions.

  Jane nicknamed her ‘Fawn’ because of her colour. Day after day she watched Fawn teaching her young progeny, swinging from branch to branch herself and showing him how it was done; cuddling and kissing him when he was timid, encouraging him with cheerful chatter, then beating him angrily when he refused to budge.

  These beating sessions always ended with Fawn sitting with a hairy hand to her brow and directing at Jane a hail of chatter about what Jane could only suppose to be the difficulties of parenthood.

  Flowers being the delight of all Indian maidens, Jane's little maid, Marianne, ensured that a basket of freshly gathered flowers, collected in the cool of the morning, refreshed the Macquaries' dining table from breakfast until supper. And never once did they lie down to sleep without the exotic fragrance of a bowl of some richly scented flowers by their bed.

  The only real entertaining they did now was on a Sunday, when Jane, being the only officer's wife on the station, welcomed all the other officers to dine throughout the day at the Macquaries' table.

  Sunday became the one day in the week when the house was lively and full. Their fare was a mixture of West and East: chickens, which were plentiful in Malabar, lamb, vegetables, curries and an abundance of rice platters dressed in a delicately oriental manner. The long leisurely meal always ended with the ritual of sipping a glass of milk, for all had learned from their first week in India that a glass of milk sipped slowly destroyed all evidence of spices on the breath and refreshed the mouth.

  Friday evenings were always spent at the Brigadier's house, sampling what Jane called `his sad stew.’ Although the Brigadier invariably cheered them up later by singing songs to them in his beautiful tenor voice.

  Life was good, very good. Although Fawn – Jane's monkey friend – was becoming far too familiar and cheeky, Lachlan decided one day when himself and Jane returned from an early morning walk to find Fawn sitting languidly amidst the cushions of Lachlan's favourite cane chair and guzzling a bottle of his favourite beer imported by the Army from England.

  All his stern commands to Fawn, ordering her outside to her own abode, went unheeded. She shook her head stubbornly and guzzled on.

  Bappoo was called.

  Bappoo arrived, smiling and cheerful as ever, but as soon as he saw Fawn he let out a shout and clapped his hands angrily.

  Fawn sprang off the chair and scurried out of the house, but not before she had managed to grab a handful of nuts from a bowl on a small sidetable.

  As time went by, Fawn and her little monkey were often to be found lounging on the veranda of the house as if they owned it – Fawn lolling back on one of the cane chairs chattering to herself while her son, more daring now, swung on the wooden rail of the veranda or hopped on to the roof to sit and stare at the sea.

  Only the house itself was banned to Fawn: the usual wire netting covered the windows to keep her and all other monkeys out. Yet all of Fawn's days were spent seeking cunning ways to get inside for more beer.

  Fawn's new-found taste for beer was so lustful that whenever Lachlan sat on the veranda leisurely drinking a bottle, she would attempt to seduce it from him by sitting with her mouth pursed in the shape of a kiss, clicking at him lovingly.

  When this ceremony of devotion failed to move him, she would run away angrily and a short time later he would find himself and the veranda being pelted with coconu
ts from the advantage of a high tree.

  The third time Fawn had done this, Lachlan had been so furious he had lifted the coconuts and pelted them back, and by some fluke had hit her and knocked her from the tree, with no real injury. After that she proved a coward when fighting the white man, and now only pelted handfuls of dust.

  But mainly she preferred to purse her lips and click at him passionately, until he eventually lost patience and handed the bottle over. In this way she always succeeded in getting the second half of any bottle of beer he was foolish enough to drink on the veranda.

  *

  Fawn was not the only friend Jane made in Calicut. Accompanied by Marianne she often wandered down to the huts in the coconut groves and discovered that all the Hindu girls were as attentive to bathing and cleanliness as Marianne, for to the Hindus, purity of the body is connected with purity of the soul. They washed themselves every morning in scented water from special water-jars that were filled from the river in the evening and scattered flowers on the surface from which the fragrance was seeped during the overnight marinade.

  They also took great care to keep themselves as attractive as possible. Their dress was simple, saris of the softest shades and silks draped around their slender bodies. All wore at least one pearl in their ears, and coloured bangles adorned their wrists and ankles; but it was the rings they wore on their fingers that fascinated Jane the most.

  All wore one particular large ring on the middle finger which looked like a glistening silver stone, but was actually a mirror, enabling them to continually check their faces and ensure that no smudge of dust or dirt had blemished their clean olive skins. And so fascinated was Jane with this very clever ring, that one Hindu girl shyly took the ring off her own finger and offered it to the young Memsahib.

  Jane flushed crimson, ‘Oh, please, no, I couldn’t accept, it would deprive you!’ But the expression on the other girls' faces told her it would be a great insult if she refused.

  Marianne whispered to Jane the Eastern proverb: ‘Presents are the hand of friendship.’

  ‘Ruchira be very happy,’ the girl said shyly, holding out the ring.

  Jane smiled and took the ring, slipped it on her finger, held it up and admired herself in its mirror, then declared it to be the sweetest gift she had ever been given and would treasure it always.

  All the Hindu girls were laughing now. At first they had been frightened of the young Memsahib, for it was not the Sahibs that looked down on the native people of Hindustan with a prejudiced eye, it was the Mem-logs – the white women.

  But not this white woman – she stayed mainly in the officers' quarters as was her place, but she was also happy to venture down to the married quarters when the men were away doing their morning drills to speak to their wives in a broken fashion, she knowing some of their language, and they knowing some of hers.

  As the months passed and the weather grew very dry again, Jane often watched the Hindu girls as they went about their lives of serene domesticity, cheerfully cleaning out their huts in the morning, singing as they prepared their food on small fires outside their huts in the evening, and obviously making love with their men at night, for some who had not been pregnant on arrival very soon were.

  In turn the Hindu girls watched the young Memsahib going about her life, and were both shocked and charmed to see her fitting into the life at Calicut in her own way, refusing to recline in languor like most Mems, but regularly setting off beside the Captain-Sahib, carrying her own knapsack and happily roughing it as a soldier's wife.

  The men liked her, too. They usually couldn't bear the officers' wives, regarding their high-nosed snobbery with sneering disdain. But Jane's ‘bonnie’ personality and unfailing good humour had made her a great favourite with them all.

  The Macquaries' bungalow was perched on the side of a small hill. Often in the late afternoons Jane would stand on the veranda and look out to sea, then over the sun-drenched station of Calicut and think how relaxed and friendly it all was. Even the officers had discarded their scarlet coats to stamp around in high boots, white breeches and white shirts with the sleeves carelessly rolled up.

  In the evenings the sun would still be blazing, but low in the sky and reddening the light. Then Jane would lean over the veranda rail watching Lachlan's white-clothed figure coming up the path through the green brilliance of the trees, and she would smile and run down to meet him.

  The nights were starry and hot, and those soldiers who were single regularly ventured into the town four miles away for the pleasure of flirting with the dancing girls that could be found in every town in southern India.

  Nearly every night the songs of the soldiers could be heard drifting from the isolated military settlement in Calicut, tankards of beer were drunk regularly, but not a whiff of opium could be sniffed.

  At the end of nine months their simple style of living had enabled Lachlan to pay off most of his debts. So much so, that he was able to write to John Forbes

  From our economical mode of living since we came down the coast, I have nearly cleared off all my debts; and by going on in the same course for a few months longer, I shall not owe one single anna to anyone.

  But while the inhabitants of the military station at Calicut peacefully spent their days in the sun; thousands of miles away on the cold continent of Europe, a short dark-haired soldier stood by a window in a grey-stone chateau staring gravely out at the garden, thinking about India. His name was Napoleon Bonaparte.

  ‘Liberte! Egalite! Fraternite!’ The drums of revolution that had first sounded in Paris in 1789 were now resounding throughout most of Europe. Louis XVI was dead. His Austrian queen, Marie-Antoinette was dead. All of the French aristocracy and most of the old order were dead. Even the butcher Robespierre was dead. And the French drums were still beating, through Belgium, the Netherlands, everywhere. ‘Vive la Republique!’ ‘Vive la Revolution!’

  They marched as conquerors. Armies upon armies of French soldiers in blue uniforms with red facings, challenging the whole of Europe to join them. ‘Drive out your tyrants! Let France protect you!’

  In Spain the King trembled on his throne. In Amsterdam the Dutch Revolutionary Committee issued a proclamation to a cheering crowd: ‘Brave citizens! By the mighty aid of the French Republic, you have cast off the tyranny that oppressed you! You are free of the Stadtholder! You are free! You are equal!’

  The Prince of Orange fled to England where he begged his royal relatives to help him. The French, he was sure, intended not only to conquer Europe, but the world.

  To the British Prime Minister, William Pitt, the Stadtholder gasped out his fears about losing the Dutch territories in India. Already it was known that the Dutch in Cochin, having heard of the rage of their people at home against the Stadtholder, were preparing to throw in their lot with Napoleon if he came to India. He begged the British Prime Minister to protect the Dutch possessions in India and hold them in trust until the French had been defeated.

  William Pitt had seen it coming. As soon as the Dutch Revolutionary Committee had been formed, he had been convinced the unhappy subjects of the Stadtholder would eventually join in an alliance with the French. And that was one of the reasons why various regiments of the British Army had been moved from the cities to strategic posts around India. The British had always wanted the lucrative Dutch trading territories in India. And now, it seemed, France wanted them too.

  William Pitt smiled. Britain's fight for possession of the Dutch territories in India was about to begin.

  *

  Four months later a ship carrying orders from the War Office in London arrived in Bombay.

  General Balfour fumed as he read the Prime Minister’s instructions, which had been delivered to him personally by Colonel Petrie.

  `War! I have no problem with war – if it comes to that.’ Balfour said furiously. ‘But how in blazes can I order an army of men out into the field in lashing rain! At the very least most of the gunpowder will get soaked and become use
less!’

  For a moment Colonel Petrie could not answer, due to his confusion. Outside the sun was blazing and the temperature was unbearably hot. He gestured to the window. ‘But, General, the weather is – ‘

  ‘About to change!’ Balfour snapped. ‘But coming from London you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Well the first thing you will learn about India, Colonel Petrie, is that we move with the weather – and right now we are awaiting a monsoon.’

  *

  Down the coast in Calicut, everyone was feeling irritable with the continuing fierce heat. Jane fanned herself moodily and opened the buttons of her bodice. ‘Even Antigua was never this hot,’ she said to Marianne. ‘Look – ‘ she pointed to the mahogany dresser, ‘it’s so hot even the furniture is perspiring.’

  ‘No, no, Mem-Jane, the furniture is showing polish.’ Marianne giggled. ‘This morning I polish, and now you see the shine, not heat.’

  Jane smiled at the girl’s giggles, and then sighed. ‘So where is the monsoon?’

  ‘The monsoon it comes …’ Marianne moved over to the window, `very soon. One day, two days, very soon.’

  The monsoon arrived three days later. Everyone revelled in the rain. The soldiers whooped, the women laughed. In the bazaars of the town merchants and coolies began to dance.

  Wet, cool, beautiful rain. Life-giving rain! Now the drying rivers would be replenished, the wells would fill, and the crops would grow abundantly. Rejoice! The sound of conches blasted over the land. Rejoice! The monsoon has arrived.

  A troupe of young Indian males, hoping to earn a few rupees, cheerfully skipped the four miles from the town of Calicut out to the military station where they began to dance for the soldiers. The soldiers cheered them on as they leapt and gyrated down the streets of the huts, their supple brown bodies covered only in white loincloths. In a dancing line they moved to the beat of the clapping soldiers and the drumming of the rain, singing a song that sounded like a rhapsody of vowels.