The Maclarens (The Regiment Family Saga Book 1)

by CL Skelton

  ‘Anything I can do?’ called Andrew.

  ‘Ye look to the lady, sorr,’ called MacKay. ‘We can handle her. Grigor, keep your eyes open for shoals. Ye’ll see them from the wee ripples on top or the driftwood stuck on them.’

  Slowly, through the muddy water, they pulled out into the stream. There was a light breeze and they hoisted the sail which promptly filled, and they shipped oars and started on their journey.

  As they headed downstream, Andrew sat beside Miss Westburn in the bow. Just aft of them stood Private Grigor, looking for those shoals. Charred pieces of wood, packing cases, and other debris floated past them, the legacy of the fighting and destruction of the last few days.

  Andrew could not take his eyes off Maud Westburn. She stood up in the bow like a statue, never glancing at him. She just stared straight ahead at the muddy brown water slipping past them.

  For a little while nothing happened. They got well under way with a few cautionary shouts from Private Grigor. They were approaching a bluff which stuck out into the river. On top of this was a small fort, brown and uninspiring, with castellated battlements and slit windows of a bygone age. At the same time, a bloated, disgusting corpse that had once been a man floated by. The effect on Miss Westburn was electric. Andrew watched her body suddenly stiffen. She went down on her knees, grasping the sides of the boat convulsively, still rigid, still staring straight ahead. Suddenly she screamed:

  ‘They’re shooting! They’ll all be killed! Daddy! Daddy!’

  She whipped around on Andrew, who was already reaching for her. ‘Can’t you stop them? Turn back. We’re all going to be killed!’

  Her face was contorted with fury, anger, or grief; which it was, Andrew could not tell. The river was calm, silent, and peaceful; nothing had happened. And then he realized what it was that she was seeing. She was seeing the boats carrying the men towards what they believed to be safety, seeing Nana Sahib’s troops opening fire from that fort just as it had happened only a week ago.

  He leaped forward and caught her. She fought him, struggling with a strength and ferocity that he could scarcely believe.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, sorr, ye’ll ha’ the bloody boat over!’ shouted MacKay.

  She clawed at him, trying desperately to get free. The muddy water was slopping over the low freeboard as for a moment she succeeded, and in a flash was halfway over the side, before he got hold of her again.

  ‘Slap her face, sorr!’ yelled Grigor.

  That was it. His mind told him that he had heard somewhere that that was the thing to do. He hit her hard across the face with his open hand. The result was dramatic and instantaneous. The struggling stopped and in a moment she was lying limp on the cushions, sobbing quietly.

  ‘Want help, sorr?’ shouted MacKay.

  ‘No, no,’ said Andrew. ‘It’ll be all right now. See to the boat.’ He arranged the cushions and made her as comfortable as he could in the bow, and sat down watching her.

  ‘Is it all right to gae on, sorr?’ asked MacKay.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he snapped back impatiently. Dammit, what the hell else could he do?

  ‘Aye, aye, sorr,’ called MacKay, naval fashion.

  Andrew returned to his vigil. She lay there motionless for what seemed like hours. He did not try to speak. Alone with his thoughts, he did however try to understand.

  When he had found her, there had been a closed door in her mind, shutting out the horrors that she had been subject to. Now that door had opened and she lay there, a prisoner of her memories, confined by the thoughts of what she had lived through.

  But this was no time for philosophizing. As they sailed on, the sun rose higher, and with it the heat. It was not too bad in the middle of the river, but hot enough to be uncomfortable. Andrew gave the men permission to remove their tunics, and the ever-resourceful Corporal MacKay found, in the box seat under the stern, a length of sail-cloth. With this and some rope, they rigged an awning over the bow to give Miss Westburn what shade they could. They tied one end of the rope to the mast, just below the foot of the sail, nailed an upright to the bow to which they attached the other end, and spread the canvas across it, securing the edges to the gunwales.

  It was just after they had completed this task that she turned and spoke to Andrew.

  ‘Mr Maclaren,’ she said. Her voice was even and normal, solemn and lacking the strange formality which had characterized her previous conversation. Her face was serious and sad.

  ‘Yes, Miss Westburn,’ he replied.

  ‘They are dead, are they not?’ She hesitated. ‘Both of them?’ And then, as though she were forcing out the words, ‘I am talking of my parents.’

  It was a while before he replied, searching his mind for some way of softening the blow, yet knowing that she knew the answer. Finally he said simply, and with a little nod of his head, ‘Almost certainly.’ It was the only way. After all, what was there that he could possibly say that might bring her comfort?

  ‘I know,’ she replied calmly, looking straight at him for the first time. ‘I can remember all of it now, right up to the moment when my ayah pushed me into the cellar and shouted at me to bolt the door. I do hope that she is all right. She wasn’t young, and she loved me very much. She had looked after me since I was born. She would never let me do anything for myself. In a way, I spent my whole life depending on her, and now I suppose I owe her my life.’ She stopped.

  Andrew waited to see if there was any more that she would add. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not now. Later perhaps. If you don’t mind, I think I should like to sleep a little. I am very tired.’

  With that she closed her eyes. Andrew did not reply to her. He just sat there watching the tortured expression on that beautiful, delicate, fair-skinned face. Gradually, her facial muscles relaxed and her breathing took on an even tenor. She was asleep, safe at last from the horrors that beset her mind.

  During the remainder of the trip, she talked a little. Andrew never tried to lead her into conversation, but he did manage to find out a little more about her. It seemed that she had an aunt in Surrey whom she hardly knew, but who would no doubt provide a home for her until such time as she could get herself settled. She seemed quite determined to have a home of her own. He gathered that she was by no means poor, so that the question of financial assistance did not arise. The one thing she never discussed was her experiences in Cawnpore. Not once did she give the slightest indication of the assault on her own person at which Havelock had hinted. This gave Andrew hope ‒ hope that it had never been. After all, the surgeon had not been certain.

  There was a sameness about the country through which they passed. All of it was brown and scorched by the summer sun, waiting for the monsoon to revitalize the land. The only relief was the occasional mango grove whose long roots dug deep down beneath the parched surface to where the damp soil was still surviving. And here and there, they would see a man treading a waterwheel, coaxing a trickle from what was left of the river on to his crops of maize or rice.

  They reached Allahabad and put ashore at that point where the Ganges is joined by the Jumna. Here the pools and shoals disappeared, and beyond, the river assumed its latent grandeur. They were safe now, lying under the guns of the extensive fortifications which commanded the junction of these two mighty rivers, between which lay the most fertile and productive land in the whole of northern India.

  Miss Westburn obviously knew the place well and chattered excitedly about the city, pointing out to Andrew the old fort beneath which it was said the Saraswati united with the Ganges and the Jumna. She told him that it contained an underground temple which held a sacred tree stump known as the undying banyan, and that the fort was nearly three hundred years old, and suggested that, should he find time, he should visit the mausoleum and the gardens of Khusru which surrounded the fort. He listened politely to her chatter, knowing that she was forcing herself to act normally and trying not to think of those matters
which must be uppermost in her mind.

  They found a young artillery officer who proved most helpful and provided them with a mule-drawn cart to transport them to Government House in the city. At the entrance to the house, guarded by two turbaned Sikhs of the Bengal Lancers, they bade farewell to their four companions and headed down the drive, through the parkland to the pillared and porticoed building itself.

  Inside, they were intercepted by a cavalry officer wearing the tight pink breeches and silver spurs of the Eleventh Hussars. Lieutenant Watkins-Percival viewed the pair with some distaste. ‘Scruffy, doncher know,’ he said later in the mess. ‘Not the sort of thing you expect to find wandering about Government House.’ He enquired of them what their business might be.

  After Andrew had explained the situation, Watkins-Percival agreed that it would be necessary for Miss Westburn to remain at Government House until the Resident could make the necessary arrangements for her transport back to England. He said rather pointedly that it would not be necessary for Andrew to remain, and that he had better report to the commandant who he would find at the military cantonments. He, Watkins-Percival, would see to all the needs of Miss Westburn.

  Andrew turned to her. ‘Well, Miss Westburn,’ he said. ‘It looks as if this is goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Maclaren,’ she replied. ‘I owe you a great deal. I want you to know that I am deeply grateful to you for all you have done. I doubt that we shall ever meet again, but if we do not, it would please me to know that you knew that I shall never forget your kindness.’ She offered him her hand.

  He took it and for a moment their eyes met. Then she looked down and he left her.

  Andrew left the House, not without a tinge of regret. What she had said was probably true. It was highly unlikely that they would ever meet again.

  He went straight to the cantonments, finding the sight of the familiar military surroundings pleasing and reassuring. The neat lines of brown hutments which housed the European troops, each exactly like its neighbour, surrounded three sides of the barrack square. Across the square from the guardroom, where he made himself known to the sergeant of the guard, stood a square stone building. This the sergeant informed him was headquarters block, and there he would find Major Gifford, the camp commandant.

  ‘Maclaren, eh?’ said the major as Andrew saluted and introduced himself. He was an elderly man, balding, red-faced, with a purple bulbous nose. One of those soldiers who opted for a desk job when he could have retired years ago, but knew no kind of life to which he could retire.

  ‘Sit down, lad. I’m glad you’ve shown up. Got some orders here for you. Arrived the day after you had left. By the way, how did things go up there?’

  ‘Pretty bloody, sir.’

  ‘I imagine it was. Things are quiet enough here now. We blew the last of the bastards off a cannon this morning. I’m going to have his skull made into a cigar box if it’s still in one piece. Good idea, what?’

  ‘You said that you have some orders for me, sir,’ said Andrew, not wanting to continue that particular line of conversation.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Now where the devil are they?’

  He rummaged through a pile of papers on his desk, finally coming up with an official-looking document on heavy paper bearing an embossed stamp, and a sealed envelope. ‘Here we are. Go ahead and read it. I already have.’

  The orders came from the commander in chief, Great Britain, and had been signed by a member of his personal staff. The substance of them was that he was to return to Britain forthwith and rejoin his regiment at their headquarters in Perth. The sealed envelope contained a letter to him from his father. It seemed that the colonel had changed his mind about his son’s secondment and had pulled the necessary strings in order to have him recalled. His father had decided that he would retire from active duty within the next few years, and he wanted his only son back to serve in the family regiment which, in the natural course of events, he would one day command.

  ‘Well,’ said Major Gifford, ‘you’re a lucky devil to be out of this lot. Which way do you want to go? There could be trouble between here and Bombay, but it’ll save you a fortnight.’ He looked up at Andrew. ‘Or you can go by Calcutta. Things are pretty quiet that way.’

  Andrew thought it over a moment. He was a good soldier, and good soldiers are neither heroes nor cowards. There was no point in running the risk of ‘trouble’, as the major put it, just to be able to save two weeks.

  ‘I’ll go by Calcutta, sir.’

  ‘Sensible fellow, do the same myself,’ said the major. He was rummaging again. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He produced a printed leaflet. ‘There should be one of those newfangled steamers, an East Indiaman, leaving Calcutta in about a fortnight. I’ll arrange passage for you; you had better be ready to leave at any time after about three days.’

  ‘That’ll suit me fine.’

  ‘Pop over to the mess now, it’s just behind H.Q. I’ll arrange quarters and a servant for you, and join you there.’

  An hour later, Andrew was in his room meeting his servant, a wiry little Indian who introduced himself, ‘Maclaren sahib, I am your very good servant. I not let any bad man steal from you. I am Ahmet. You want something, you just shout.’

  Andrew demanded a bath and Ahmet dragged in an army-issue zinc tub, which he proceeded to fill with buckets of hot water. Andrew lay and soaked his aching limbs for the best part of an hour, occasionally shouting for Ahmet to top up his bath with boiling water.

  When he had dried himself, he found his uniform cleaned and neatly pressed and laid out on his bed. There were three rupees missing from his sporran, but that was the way of things; if Ahmet ran true to form, he would steal in small amounts from Andrew, and if Andrew did not complain, then Ahmet would guard his possessions from all others.

  ‘Ahmet,’ called Andrew when he had finished dressing. The little man appeared instantly. ‘I need some clothes, lots of clothes.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sahib,’ replied Ahmet. ‘My cousin, he is the very best tailor in Allahabad, possibly in all India. I get him here for you.’

  A little later, Ahmet returned with his cousin. Every Indian servant could produce a ‘cousin’ capable of doing anything that his sahib demanded.

  ‘This is Gopal,’ said Ahmet. ‘Very good tailor, make shirts, suits, everything.’

  Gopal, who looked incongruous dressed in white jodhpurs and a frock coat, pulled out a tape measure, and after noting a multitude of measurements asked Andrew what he wanted.

  Andrew ordered a full wardrobe: pyjamas, dressing gown, slippers, a couple of suits, and a half-dozen shirts. After the inevitable argument about price, Gopal left. He returned the following morning, having, with that incredible industry of the Asiatic, completed the entire order; and after a last vain attempt to up the price from two hundred and twenty-five rupees to two-fifty, he left completely satisfied, for he would have done the job for a hundred and fifty.

  For the next couple of days, Andrew did not leave the cantonments. Several times he thought about going over to Government House and finding out what had happened to Miss Westburn, or even wandering over to the old fort in hope of finding her in the gardens which she had praised so highly. But he did neither. Her farewell to him had had an air of finality, and he felt that he would not be justified in pursuing their acquaintance.

  In the mess, he kept very much to himself, finding very little common ground between himself and the smart cavalry officers who seemed to constitute the bulk of its inhabitants. So it was with some relief he got the news from Major Gifford that he would be leaving, and that his passage had been secured.

  Two weeks after his arrival in Allahabad and only an hour before she sailed, Andrew was boarding the PS Indian Enterprise at the Calcutta docks on the Hooghli River.

  She was an enormous ship, nearly three hundred and fifty feet long and weighing almost three thousand tons. Midships and standing out from her hull were a pair of gigantic paddle wheels. She had a square-rigged foremast
with jib halyards running down to her bowsprit. Behind the foremast there were two thin funnels, both already belching forth black smoke, one forward and one aft of the paddle wheels. At the stern was the gaff-rigged mizzenmast, which would hold a giant staysail. Behind the after funnel, a long oak structure, highly polished, ran aft towards the mizzenmast. This had a series of doors and windows, the doors in panelled oak, which provided the cabins and dining saloon for the passengers and ship’s officers. The passengers were limited in number, as the Indian Enterprise was mainly a cargo liner carrying raw cotton to the mills of Lancashire.

  There was a gangway leading up over the paddle housing and on to the deck. Andrew went on board and a seaman directed him to his cabin, which was towards the stern. It was a small room about ten feet square. It contained a writing desk, a chair, and what appeared to be a washstand, all secured to the deck. There was a built-in wardrobe, and against the wall opposite the door, a bunk was recessed between the wardrobe and a series of drawers. Under the bunk, there were more drawers, the smallest of which contained a chamber pot. His tin trunk containing his clothes had arrived, and he set about unpacking into what was to be his home for the next several weeks.

  He had not been long at this task when there was a tap at his door. ‘Come in,’ he called.

  A merchant navy officer entered and introduced himself. ‘I’m the second mate, the captain cannot call on you at the moment as we are preparing to sail. You nearly missed her, sir.’

  ‘Yes, it was all rather a rush,’ replied Andrew.

  ‘My name’s Jarvis, sir, and the captain asked me to show you the passenger list in case there is anyone on it that you know. We’re arranging seating in the dining saloon.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jarvis,’ said Andrew as the latter handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Good heavens!’

  At the bottom of the list of names was ‘Miss Maud Westburn.’