By Eastern windows

by Gretta Curran Browne

  And Colonel Petrie found himself unable to do a thing about it, because the artillery ship containing the guns for the siege had still not arrived.

  The British remained encamped around the walls of Cochin, but the Dutch democrats made no attack. In the end the British were convinced the Dutch had lost their nerve, and the Dutch in turn were convinced they had called the British bluff.

  The British remained in position, while the Dutch stood on the walls of the fort and jeered at them – until the day the beleaguered artillery ship carrying the British guns finally arrived at Cochin.

  Lachlan was sitting on the veranda with Mr Wredé, learning more about the history of the Tribe of Manasseh, when a tornado of fire ripped into the sky over Cochin and a deafening explosion crashed through the air.

  ‘Gevalt!’ Mr Wredé cried. ‘What is that?’

  ‘The new allies of Napoleon,’ Lachlan replied. He could see the blossoming black smoke about half a mile distant.

  Now aware of the arrival of the British guns, the Dutch had jumped to attack before the emplacements for the eighteen-pounder British guns could be completed. All British officers raced back to their positions. Colonel Petrie sent for Captain Macquarie whose nine-pounder cannon had long been emplaced in position near the Mattancheri Gate, only five hundred yards from the walls.

  Lachlan learned that although he and his men were the last to arrive in Cochin, they were to be the first to go into action.

  Colonel Petrie gave him his orders straight and brief. `Your orders, Captain Macquarie, are to return fire on the Fort with your nine-pounder. You must distract the attention of the enemy and divert his fire until the other emplacements are completed and our guns can be positioned to bombard the walls. In short – keep the bastards occupied and diverted from our main breaching battery. ‘

  ‘I'll do my best, sir.’

  Colonel Petrie raised a brow. ‘A soldier's best, Captain, is the very least we expect of him.’

  ‘We’re to be the bloody suicide squad!’ Macquarie’s men reacted furiously when he told them what was required of them.

  But a short time later, Colonel Petrie was pleased to see Macquarie's nine-pounder cannon slamming back on its wheels as it opened fire, sending a huge ball of roundshot pounding through the air to explode inside the walls of the Fortress of Cochin.

  Under cover of clouding smoke, green-coated skirmishers from the Rifle Regiments had run swiftly forward and were now lying flat in the elephant grass in a skirmishing chain. Their job was to keep any enemy skirmishers away from the vulnerable cannon crew, but all knew that if an enemy ball hummed over their heads and managed to hit the gun itself, the gun would explode and the crew and its officer would be blown to pieces.

  Behind them Macquarie's gun-team were frantically clearing the barrel ready for the next shot, ramming the bag of gunpowder in the breech, followed by the ball of roundshot.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  Lachlan gave the elevating screw another twist, pointed the gun himself, then stepped back a pace and gave the order. ‘Fire!’

  The firer touched his smoking portfire to the quill, which flashed down flame to the gunpowder charge. All hurled themselves away from the gun's recoil as it banged out its contents, bucked on its wheels, and crashed back yards from where it had started. Again the ball exploded inside the walls of Cochin.

  ‘Reload!’

  The weight of the gun was rumbled forward, and again the spongeman dipped his wad of fleece into a bucket of water, ramming the wet wad down the barrel to clear it of any scraps of burning powder before reloading. Again Macquarie aimed the gun himself, as he did every time it fired.

  The Dutch responded as hoped, turning every gun they could towards the British post near the Mattancheri Gate, opening fire with a volley of poorly directed shots, throwing up heaps of earth and dust over British faces but not a man was wounded.

  ‘Reload!’

  It went on for hours into the night as the Dutch kept up a barrage of fire on the British entrenchment near the Mattancheri Gate, trying to knock out the gun; while under cover of the darkness the rest of the army completed their batteries around the other walls, ignoring the noise of shells in the air, although most gave an occasional murmur of gratitude to the officer of the nine-pounder and his team at the Mattancherri side who were keeping the enemy occupied and taking all the punishment.

  By dawn a cloud of dust and smoke had settled over Mattancheri, and a wavering Mr Wredé made his way through the smoke and noise and finally found Captain Macquarie, his face and uniform muddied by earth and dust.

  ‘Captain Macquarie,’ Mr Wredé looked at the smoke and dust stains on the captain's face, and enquired solicitously, ‘How are you and your men?’

  ‘Fine sir, just fine.’ Lachlan assured him. ‘Every shot we've fired has gone inside their walls, but for all their bombardment not one of theirs has managed to hit us. Quite close on occasions, but no hits. And we hear our skirmishers are doing a fine job.’

  ‘That is good, that is good, you are all well, thank God. But Captain … ’ Mr Wredé clasped his hands together in a beseeching way, ‘you must stop.’

  ‘Stop?’ Lachlan peered at him in puzzlement. ‘Stop what, Mr Wredé?’

  ‘Stop provoking the rebels with your gunfire and making them fire back at you. The people...’ Mr Wredé gestured a hand back towards the houses, ‘are becoming very distressed.’

  Lachlan half smiled. ‘Mr Wredé, we cannot stop just because the people are disturbed by the noise. Now, please, I must ask you to go back home, sir.’

  ‘But that is what I am trying to tell you, Captain Macquarie. If you do not stop provoking them, I will soon have no home to go back to. The rebels may have been very bad at hitting the target of you and your men, but they have been very good at hitting the houses of the Jews.’

  ‘What?’ Lachlan glanced back in the direction of the houses. ‘Anyone killed?’

  ‘No, no person killed, thank God. Many with small wounds. Cuts and bleedings. But the houses...’ Wredé gestured with his hands to depict walls falling down.

  Captain Grant came riding onto the scene. ‘What's going on, Macquarie? Why has your cannon stopped? Are you in trouble?’

  ‘No, not us, but the poor sons of Abraham are suffering a wholesale loss of their houses. Fortunately there have been no deaths, but we must consider their safety.’

  Captain Grant dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. ‘Well, our batteries are completed and we're ready for them now. Marvellous work done this night by the working parties, bloody marvellous!' Grant grinned at Lachlan. `I've been ordered to relieve you and give you a rest. ’

  Lachlan turned to Mr Wredé. ‘You must leave this area immediately, sir. All I can do is contact Colonel Petrie and see what arrangements can be made for the protection of the Jews.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Wredé said graciously. ‘You are most kind.’

  ‘Now go, quickly.’

  Mr Wredé scurried off.

  ‘You go also,’ Grant urged, ‘and leave the Dutch darlings to me.’

  Lachlan threw him a vague salute and walked tiredly away, glad that his night shift was over. He had walked only a few yards when an explosion of noise blasted the air and a fountain of earth and dust swished around his ears. Fragments of dirt flew into his eyes making them stream with blinding tears.

  He whipped out his linen handkerchief and stood for a second or two rubbing at his eyes, then looked back towards the gun and saw the figure of Captain Grant lying on the ground, the shoulder of his tunic discolouring with blood.

  Two heartbeats later every British gun on the completed batteries opened fire, slamming their shells towards the Dutch walls in an eruption of smoke and flames that seemed to rock the earth.

  Lachlan ran back to Grant who was staggering to his feet and looking around him, blinking in stunned puzzlement.

  ‘Edward … how bad are you hurt?’

  ‘I was hit from behind!’ Grant cried fur
iously, his right hand moving to his left shoulder where blood began seeping through his fingers. ‘From behind, I say! A damned foul!’

  Lachlan examined the injury and saw that Grant had not suffered a direct hit from the enemy, but had been struck from behind through the shoulder by a flying roof-slate from one of the houses of the Jews. The force of the blow had sent Grant sprawling, and part of the slate was still lodged in his blood-soaked shoulder.

  Lachlan immediately called two of his men and arranged for Grant to be helped away to the surgeon's tent, then shouted more orders to the corporal in charge of the gun. Seconds later he had swung up onto Grant's horse, slashing back his heels and galloping out of the smoke towards Nynheen Point where Colonel Petrie was sitting on his horse between two mounted staff officers, watching proceedings through his spy-glass.

  Petrie turned his head curiously as Captain Macquarie approached and slid his horse to a stop.

  ‘Permission to order the Jews into the safety of the synagogues, sir?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They are suffering a major loss of their homes and their lives are in danger. The synagogues offer better protection, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ Colonel Petrie nodded. ‘But first, as you have come at a very opportune moment, and as you are mounted, I wonder if you would be so kind as to deliver some rather important instructions, verbally, to Major Wiseman?’

  Lachlan rode back as fast as he could with instructions to Major Wiseman, who was very busy at his battery demolishing the northwest bastion of the Fort. He delivered the verbal instructions, then stayed for a short time to watch the British eighteen-pounders throwing out their fire, the gun teams working like slaves, their officers keeping up continuous commands of ‘Fire! Back! Reload!’

  Delaying no longer, he rode back to his own post where he ordered a detachment of men to take command of Mattancheri and escort all civilians into the synagogues. He then resumed command of the gun.

  At sunset, accepting defeat, the enemy began beating out the chamade. The White Flag of Surrender slowly rose and fluttered over the South-West Bastion of the Fort.

  The British guns ceased.

  The gates of the Fortress finally opened. The rebels marched out and piled their arms in surrender.

  Capitulations were signed that night. The British officially took control of the Dutch settlement of Cochin, and all roads leading to it.

  *

  The following morning Lachlan and Colin Anderson took a stroll through the bazaar within the city walls where business had resumed as if no battle had taken place. The streets, although piled here and there with rubble, were clamorous and colourful with merchants calling out in high-pitched voices to the brightly clad Indian citizens of Cochin who jostled and haggled over prices. All paused to look at the two red-coated officers who walked idly amongst them – two of the new masters – two of the British.

  ‘A shawl, I think,’ Lachlan murmured, his eye caught by a blue shawl hanging on a merchant's stand, thinking it would make a nice present for Jane. He had just moved to lift down the shawl when he heard the crack of a whip.

  He turned his head sharply, and heard people laughing. The whip cracked again, definitely a whip. More laughing.

  ‘What's that?’ Both men stood looking to where a crowd were gathered near the Mattancheri Gate.

  ‘Some short of show, I think,’ Anderson said, as the whip cracked to more laughter. ‘Probably trained monkeys dressed up in scarlet uniforms and turning cartwheels to the sound of the whip – just like that other lot back there.’

  Lachlan shrugged and turned back to the blue shawl. Within seconds the merchant had brought his attention to another shawl that hung at the back of the tent where no thieving hand could snatch at it. This particular shawl had come from Kashmir, the merchant said. It was woven in all the colours and shades of the sun, from red to amber to gold, in one of the most delicate fabrics of silky wool ever woven on a loom.

  It was beautiful, and perfect for Jane.

  ‘From Kashmir,’ the merchant said. ‘From the Paradise of Nations, where Akbar and all the imperial princes lived.’ The litany went on for some minutes and ended with the price, ‘Three hundred rupees.’

  Lachlan stared at the merchant in astonishment, then glanced again at the shawl, thinking of Jane's chestnut hair which could also shine with the gold and amber lights of the sun ... and ten days ago she had spent her twenty-third birthday all alone in Calicut.

  Without further hesitation he bought the article of luxury from Kashmir, the Paradise of Nations.

  The merchant salaamed and smiled, his dark eyes dancing with delight. The Angrezi officer had paid five times more for the shawl than a Dutchman ever would.

  The two soldiers strolled on towards the crowd gathered at the Mattancherri Gate where all the whipping was taking place, their faces sardonic as they prepared to see the show of red-coated monkeys doing their tricks at the hand of a Dutch trainer.

  But it was no troop of monkeys the Dutch trainer was whipping – it was a small, naked, brown-skinned boy of seven or eight years of age. His hands were tied behind his back and he was struggling like a wild cat at the end of a thick rope tied around his waist. The whip flicking under his feet made him jump and howl in a parody of a dance.

  The Dutchman was sitting on a box with his back against the wall. He was very fat and very drunk and laughed hysterically as he held the rope in one hand and the whip in the other – enjoying himself so much that he was caught by surprise when Lachlan's hand closed about the wrist holding the whip, twisting it savagely.

  The Dutchman yelped in startled pain and let the whip fall onto the dust.

  ‘Vah!’ the Dutchman exclaimed; then a mixture of emotions compounded of rage, and contempt crossed his face as his inebriated gaze took in the red-coated uniform.

  ‘Ah!’ he said scornfully. ‘It is von of the mighty British!’ He tugged his wrist free and looked around at the crowd who were watching with renewed interest. He suddenly let out a drunken giggling laugh and shouted in amusement at the crowd. ‘The British, they come, to make Cochin safe for the Stadtholder. So safe, the Stadtholder vill never see Cochin again! The British take – the British keep! Never give back!’

  He threw back his head and laughed hysterically at the stupidity of the Prince of Orange, but Lachlan's eyes were on the struggling boy.

  ‘You!’ His fist thumped the shoulder of the laughing Dutchman. ‘What the hell are you doing to this boy?’

  ‘Him?’ the Dutchman tugged hard on the rope and brought the boy stumbling towards him. ‘He is mine.’

  ‘Yours? What do you mean he is yours? Is he your servant? And you treat a servant like that? Put him on public show, naked, and whip him for public amusement.’

  The Dutchman looked at the crowd with a humorous expression, then smiled fatly and spread out a hand in a gesture of resignation. ‘The people must see the quality of the goods before they buy.’

  ‘Buy? The boy is for sale?’

  Colin Anderson, who had been in Cochin longer and knew more of the trade of the settlement than Macquarie did, muttered towards Lachlan's ear. ‘The man is a slave-trader, for God's sake!’

  ‘He is beautiful, is he not,’ the slave-trader said, grabbing the boy's jaw and jerking up his head. ‘Beautiful black-eyed boy, but light-skinned, yes? Father's skin vas light.’ He reeled off the boy's pedigree. ‘Boy now nine years. Mother from Morocco, taken as slave and sold as concubine to royal son of maharaja in palace at Surat. Mother fifteen when boy born, prince seventeen. Good stock. Young seed. Both parents very beautiful.’

  The Dutchman grinned slyly at the British officer. ‘Englishmen like beautiful boys to play with. You vant to buy’

  ‘You son of a scorpion!’ Lachlan snatched up the whip and angrily flicked a lash at the wooden box under the Dutchman. ‘How would you like it, mynheer, if I made you do a little dancing?’

  ‘Lachlan – ‘ Anderson caught his arm warningly, but the wide-eye
d boy had jerked his face free of the Dutchman's sweating hand and threw himself at Lachlan's feet.

  ‘Sahib, I be good servant!’

  A Mussulman of Arabic appearance standing on the inner edge of the crowd stepped forward and spoke angrily to the slave-trader while throwing hostile glances at the British officer.

  The slave-trader turned his inebriated gaze to the Redcoat, glanced at the lowered whip, and then smiled fatly. ‘The Mussulman vants to buy,' he said. `First he come and say he pay thirty rupees, then thirty-five, then forty. Now he say he pay forty-five rupees for beautiful boy.’

  ‘Sahib!’ the boy cried, clawing at Lachlan’s boots while glancing in terror at the Mussulman. ‘Sahib! I be good servant!’

  ‘You can have the boy, British,’ the slave-trader said to Lachlan, ‘for eighty-five rupees.’

  ‘Boy no good for the noble Sahib,’ the Mussulman said quickly. ‘Sahib want good Hindu or good Mussulman for servant, but this boy – ‘ he made a contemptuous gesture, `this boy is kutch-nay! He is nothing! His mother was slave in palace at Surat then thrown away, no good. She then slave to Dutch Sahib in Cochin for few years, but die. Mother weak, lazy, no good servant, no good, like boy.’

  ‘Then why do you want to buy him?’ Lachlan demanded. He glanced down at the boy who was staring up at him with terrified, desperate eyes, an innocent child being brutalised and bartered like a whipped pup.

  ‘Eighty-five rupees,’ the Dutchman said. ‘Who pays? Who buys?’ He looked from the Mussulman to the Redcoat.

  ‘Fifty-five rupees,’ the Mussulman said. ‘No more. Boy worth ten. I pay fifty-five.’

  ‘Saahib!’ the boy wailed. ‘Saaahib!’

  ‘Sixty rupees,’ the Mussulman added quickly, ‘Sixty rupees I pay.’

  ‘Now he say he pay sixty!’ The slave-trader smiled at the Redcoat. ‘You can afford to pay more? Eighty-five rupees?’

  Of a sudden Lachlan nodded, his decision made. Colin Anderson hastily caught his arm. ‘Lachlan, are you mad? Surely you’re not going to buy the boy?’

  ‘From this bloated pig’s bladder? No I’m not going to buy the boy.’ He snapped out his pistol and jammed the barrel into the Dutchman’s head, flicking back the hammer. ‘I’m going to take him. Right now. Hand over the rope, or I’ll blow your drink-sodden brains out!’