Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  “I do,” said Catherine, trying to will away the tears that welled up in her eyes.

  “And then you are so very much like him! In feature, complexion, and bearing, of course, but also in the tenor of your mind and conversation; and in your sturdy independence, your self-reliance and dignity. It is no wonder that you have seemed so—familiar, somehow, to me. So like a friend I have known for a long time….” He released her hands and went on, “When Alexander received his orders to proceed to Ghazipur, I was very sorry to lose the pleasure of his company. He was much disappointed, too, for it was not the posting he had requested. Twice I wrote to him at Ghazipur, but I never had a reply. Possibly my letters or his went astray. I was at Macao during the monsoon season of ’twenty-one, and did not hear of his terrible accident until I passed through Calcutta again in September. Dear Mrs MacDonald, what a sad loss! I am so very sorry.”

  Catherine stroked the smooth ivory lid of the little tea caddy, and almost said something—but what?—about her doubts. Then the moment passed, for Mr Fleming spoke again: “By that time I was on my way to Britain, where I hoped to engage a mechanic capable of applying steam power to our China trade ships. In my researches, I had heard of certain promising trials of a fully submerged spiral oar; and before I ever met him, the reputation and successes of a Mr Hector MacDonald had already made him a person of interest to me. I sought him out at the Mechanics Institute in Edinburgh, where I was introduced to him by Captain Keith last January. Perhaps I am amazingly stupid, but it did not occur to me even to wonder idly whether the Mr MacDonald I then engaged in Edinburgh might be related to the Mr MacDonald I had liked so well in Calcutta.”

  “Oh, no, why should you?” said Catherine. “Hector scarcely resembles Sandy and me. And then, one meets with MacDonalds everywhere.”

  “True, I have encountered MacDonalds all over India, and in China, and the Antipodes, and in America, too, without supposing that they must be your brothers. Still, to discover only now…And so it was Alexander who sent you this tea.” He lifted the lid from the pot, sniffed inside the lid, then replaced it and poured into their two cups. He tilted his cup, examining the red liquor—its clarity, its colour, its sparkle. Then he sipped. Catherine watched him roll it around inside his mouth, watched him draw air into his mouth over it. He had a faraway, considering look. He swallowed; closed his eyes. Catherine waited. He tasted again.

  “I have tasted this tea before,” he said finally.

  “My sister-in-law didn’t know what it was,” said Catherine. “We drank some.”

  He inverted the steeped leaves into the lid and raked them out with a finger, peering at them. “This iridescent coppery colour is not often seen. It’s beautiful though, isn’t it? The breadth and colour of the leaf bring to mind some of the red teas from Yunnan, in the south. Yet it is not Yunnan. Your brother, you know, was very interested in tea. In fact…He swore me to secrecy about this, Mrs MacDonald, and I have never told anyone. But no harm can befall him now if I entrust to you the secret which he confided in me then…”

  “What?” said Catherine, rigid.

  “In Assam he had found a plant, native to those hills, which he considered was certainly the true tea plant, and he had collected specimens of it. Then in Calcutta he’d found a native of Fu-jian who had let him into the secrets of the manufacture of tea itself. This is that tea. I am quite certain of it.”

  “But why must this be so deep a secret?”

  “Your brother had little interest in the politics and economics of trade, and did not seem to fully understand the implications of what he claimed to have found. Some months before we met, he had sent a confidential proposal to the Honourable Company’s board of directors for establishing tea plantations and manufactories in India, near the border with Assam. At the time when I made his acquaintance, he was expecting to receive the directors’ approbation and instructions to proceed. But their reply, when it finally came, was a sore disappointment. The directors only rebuked him for his presumption, and directed him to proceed immediately to their opium plantations.”

  “But why should the directors not have embraced such a proposal?”

  “Oh, Mrs MacDonald, you are just like him. First of all, they did not believe him, for their own experts have always assured them that tea cannot be grown outside of China. And then, of course—do you not see that it would be the end of the East India Company?”

  No; she did not see this.

  “Tea is the Company’s only remaining monopoly,” said Mr Fleming. “If they lose that, they have nothing left. Everything but that has already slipped from their grasp.”

  “Surely not, Mr Fleming! Might not the Company establish a monopoly over tea-growing in India—just as they have done with opium—and shake off at last the necessity of dealing with the Chinese ever again?”

  “To assert a monopoly upon a plant which grows wild throughout the hills—poppies or tea—is an ambitious undertaking, even for the East India Company,” said Mr Fleming. “One might as well claim a monopoly on air, or water, or salt. It will prove impossible to defend for long. But they will try, very hard, for there is a great deal of money at stake. My last advice to your brother, when he went up to Ghazipur, was to attract as little attention to himself as possible.”

  Once again Catherine felt the impulse to confide in Mr Fleming her doubts, her feeling that Sandy was alive. But no, she argued with herself; that could wait. She would like to think it all through first. Hector did not believe in this intuition of hers; why should Mr Fleming? She valued his good opinion and was in no hurry to lay her faintly founded hopes before him. She did not wish to see them knocked down by sober reason; nor was she eager to demonstrate to him any fond foolishness, any silly self-delusion.

  But when she returned to her own cabin at last, she carefully put away the precious tea again. She had a great deal of important new information to ponder. Instead, though, she found herself thinking about how her hands had felt, enfolded for a few moments, in his.

  ONE DAY, Increase crossed the equator again, northbound now. No one took any notice.

  “OH, DO, SHARADA, pray do. Just one game,” Grace begged winningly one afternoon shortly before Christmas. “Chess or chaturanga, whichever you like. We’ll play chaturanga. I’ll remind you what’s what. Your bishops, here, are elephants. They do look a little like elephants, with those big domed hats like an elephant’s head. And the rooks are chariots. And both queens to the left of their kings. There! Counselors, I mean, not queens. You begin.”

  “No long strides for your foot soldiers, then!”

  “No, no, only one square for the pawns. You begin, Sharada, do.”

  Sharada sighed and, sitting down, moved out a pawn. “It was more peaceable when you were remaining always silent,” she said.

  “But tedious for me,” said Grace, and she advanced a pawn of her own. After that they both fell silent for some time, except when Sharada reminded Grace that her counselor was not a queen and had no right to dash arrogantly about the board. “Check,” said Grace eventually. Then there was silence again, except for the working of the ship. They both were braced uncomfortably against their chairs, for the cabin floor was far from horizontal, but at least the heel of the ship remained fairly constant.

  After a while Anibaddh came in, windblown. She had been above decks, and she brought down with her the smell of salt and wind, and of some new element, too. Sharada inhaled through her nostrils a deep hungry breath, then looked up eagerly—for that was the smell of India.

  Anibaddh studied their board. Finally Sharada made her move, an aggressive game-ending move, or so it appeared to Anibaddh; but then Grace’s king astonished her by leaping out and away from the attack, knightwise. Anibaddh opened her mouth but succeeded in smothering her remark. She drew Grace’s attention nevertheless. “It’s not chess,” Grace explained loftily. “It’s chaturanga. It’s how the game is played in India.”

  “Checkmate!” said Sharada.

 
“Oh! Oh, Sharada! I did not see that. I let myself be distracted. That is the problem with talking. Well, you must give me a rematch, and the sooner the better.”

  ON CHRISTMAS DAY, Captain Mainwaring presented each of his passengers with a bottle of his cherished contraband whisky, and a particularly good dinner of turtle soup and roast kid, the last one. But even more delightful was the delicious sight of land rising up beautifully from the sea, to the west, and riding there all that day: the fabled island of Ceylon. They did not pause even for water, but continued running northward very fast, up the Bay of Bengal, and the island soon sunk itself again in the sea behind them, Atlantis-like.

  IN THE COURSE of packing up her belongings, Catherine returned to Mr Fleming the books he had lent: Ramayana, and the Sanskrit grammar.

  “But I am in no immediate need of them,” said Mr Fleming, “and I daresay we shall encounter each other at every turn. I suppose you will stay with your brother at our Howrah establishment, and I shall be there very often. It is just across the river from Calcutta, and you will be amazed at what a small place Calcutta is. So you are welcome to keep the books until you have finished with them.”

  “But I have finished with them, I thank you. I turned over the last page last night, and was astonished to realise that this is only the first volume! But then my maid told me how the story ends. What an admirable wife Queen Sita proved! But I cannot forgive King Rama’s treatment of her after all she had suffered—such a cruel return for her loyalty! My maid says the story is still current here, and often sung and acted, and she sang me some verses from it. Apparently she has been a professional musician at some court—at Lucknow, I believe she said.”

  “At Lucknow!” said Mr Fleming. “She must be most accomplished, then. How curious that she has ended up as a ladies’ maid. I wonder how that happened. Lucknow is reckoned the most splendid court in India these days.”

  “Is it? Not Delhi?”

  “Oh, no, Lucknow is the place. Well, I am glad you found Ramayana interesting. I shall make sure that you meet Dr Carey. He is not only a translator and a linguist but a missionary, a botanist, and a publisher—in short, a most admirable man, and he would like to know you, and Grace, too. He would be intrigued by her quickness at learning the oriental languages and scripts. He has an agreeable house and an interesting garden not far from my own.”

  “Have you a house here, too, then, aside from the Crawford and Fleming premises at Howrah?”

  “Just a bungalow up at Serampore, about fourteen miles above Calcutta. Not large, but pleasantly situated overlooking the river. We will certainly make an expedition up there one fine day; it is a most agreeable outing.”

  “For a man who claims no country as his own, sir, you keep a considerable number of houses, it seems to me.”

  “Oh, yes—like the coconut, attempting to send down roots wherever I wash ashore,” he said lightly.

  “And have you another collection here, at this India house, of exquisite objects? Another collection of damaged beauties, perhaps?”

  “Damaged beauties?…Ah! Just a thing, or two…”

  ON NEW YEAR’S EVe, just below the mouth of the Hoogly River, the pilot schooner was encountered at last, and a pilot taken aboard with his budget of news and newspapers. Instantly the native supply boats had swarmed about Increase’s flanks too, like clouds of mosquitoes. The steward and the cook had deliriously yielded to temptation, buying limes, oranges, coconuts, plantains, yams, eggs, chickens, pigs, lambs, oddly shaped fruits, and ice.

  Bearing a little dish of spiced meat, Sharada entered Catherine’s cabin and said, “Ma’am, the cook asks will you taste the Scottish pudding he has made for the New Year.”

  “The cook has been making a Hogmanay pudding? A black bun?”

  “It is made from the—the offal of a sheep,” said Sharada dubiously.

  “Oh! A haggis!”

  “Ah, yes, ma’am! Haggis! But he found it lacking in savor when he prepared it first according to the receipt given him by your brother, so he has been presuming to season it as seemed proper to him. But he asks if you will kindly be tasting it, before he is putting it into the casing.”

  “But what seasonings has he used?”

  “Just the spices for a dish of kheema matar: onions and garlic to be sure; and grated gingerroot, and hot chiles, and ground coriander and cumin. Also garam masala and salt and ground black pepper. And also the juice of lemons and the fresh leafy cilantro.”

  Catherine laughed and said, “I daresay it must be the most delicious haggis ever made. Aye, I will taste it. It smells most appetizing. And will you taste it yourself? Do, Sharada.”

  But Sharada declined. And then, not wishing to give offense, she explained, “Only it is my day for fasting, memsahib—ma’am—or I would taste it.”

  “Fasting! The entire day?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. It is the eleventh day of the fortnight, the widows’ fast.”

  “Oh!” said Catherine. Was Sharada a widow? But she did not ask. “Well,” she said, “you may tell the cook to proceed; he may put it into its casing. I do not know if it is a haggis, but it is undoubtedly delicious.”

  Their New Year’s supper boasted all manner of delicacies: a whole roasted piglet stuffed with nuts and mushrooms and spinach; fowls in delicate sauces made from tomatoes and cream; green, gold, and pink ices of melon, mango, and strawberry; and chilled champagne for drinking toasts. Catherine supposed that Mrs Todd might retire early from this jollity; but she remained, gallantly downing her full allotment of champagne. Instead, it was Captain Mainwaring who had to retire early, for his place, as they entered the channel of the Hoogly, was upon his quarterdeck, at least until the pilot had proven himself competent. Nevertheless, he came down briefly from time to time, and as midnight struck at last, he offered a handsome toast to all the company, and most especially, he said, to the estimable Mrs MacDonald: “Grant me the honour of being the first to wish you joy of your birthday, Mrs MacDonald,” said Captain Mainwaring to Catherine with a courtly bow.

  “You are very kind,” replied Catherine. “Only you must reveal who told you it was my birthday.”

  “Your brother, of course.”

  “Oh, Hector!”

  But Hector was unavailable for rebuke just then. A dreadful honking was heard in the passageway outside the cuddy cabin. It was tentative at first, then in a moment the drones settled in as they ought. Then came the blast—the brilliant E of the chanter. Quickly tuning (oh, close enough! who can tell but another piper?), Hector piped in the haggis. The doorway was so low and so narrow that the pipes could not pass in; Hector had to sidle in sideways, at a squat, a most comical, undignified, unpiperlike posture; and the chanter shrieked in protest when his thumb slipped off its proper hole. Once inside the cuddy cabin, he still could not stand, for the ceiling was too low to admit the full height of the bass drone. He sidled to one side of the door to make way for Mr Sinclair, who, holding high the platter, ceremoniously bore in the haggis, if it was a haggis. He made a triumphant tour of the cabin with it before placing it on the table. Hector had dropped to one knee and played the rest of the tune half kneeling. Most of the company had covered their ears with their hands, for it was a large sound in a small low cabin, but there shone only glee and excitement on every face. Hector finished his tune with a flourish, and the company all rose and clapped their hands, and cried their applause of the haggis and of the piper; except for Mr Sinclair, who, being a piper, had a remark or two for Hector about his tuning. Hector retorted that Mr Sinclair was entirely at liberty to pipe the tune next year and that he, Hector, would be just as happy to carry in the pudding. This was tasted by all the company, and pronounced to be if not exactly a haggis, certainly a great improvement on one.

  Catherine suddenly found that she had had enough noisy merriment and made her way up to the main deck. After the din of the close hot cuddy, it was marvelous to climb into the airy quiet huge night under the now-familiar planes and angles of sail an
d the vast, starry black dome of sky. The wind—cool, light, and steady—smelled of tidal mud. It stirred her hair and cooled her flushed cheeks.

  “That is Sagor Island to starboard,” said Captain Mainwaring from his quarterdeck, up behind her. “In daylight you would see the little temple there, just above a pretty white sand beach, and the palm trees all about.”

  “It sounds a perfect spot for a picnic,” said Catherine.

  “Oh, yes, if you don’t mind man-eating tigers. It was just there that Captain Munro was carried off by a tiger in broad daylight, and his companions could do nothing, for they had foolishly come out unarmed for their picnic.”

  “Is this the very spot! Can a tiger simply carry off a full-grown man?”

  “The beast seized his head in its mouth and carried him off just as a cat carries her kitten.”

  “Astonishing, and on an island, too.”

  “Oh, these tigers hereabouts swim just as well as the sharks. I much prefer sharks, myself,” said Captain Mainwaring.

  “At least sharks have the decorum to remain in the water,” said Catherine.

  “Just so. And only in saltwater, at that. But you must not be alarmed; Calcutta itself is quite free these days of the more dangerous animals. Mr Fleming has told me, however, of some alarming predations committed by the crocodiles up at Serampore. It seems his lady’s little dog was snatched off the riverbank by an enormous monster one evening, in full view. The guards hunted it down and killed it and slit it open; it was the work of five minutes, and there was the little dog inside, quite entire but stone dead. The poor lady was prostrated, I understand, until Mr Fleming brought her a new little terrier, which she now never lets out of her lap.”