Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  As they passed above Serampore, Catherine could not help scanning the riverbank. There was Mr Fleming’s white villa standing in its pretty garden. As they drew abreast of it, she could see Harini in the stone pavilion at the top of the steps; she was waving a scarf like a banner and crying out to the two ships as they passed: Farewell! Farewell! Godspeed! Grace waved back to her.

  The little steamships weren’t particularly fleet under sail; they laboured along in the wake of the sleek Spur, falling behind little by little, until by hot glaring noon Spur had gone quite far ahead, beyond the next bend of the broad flat river. Only her topsail could still occasionally be seen gliding eerily above the trees lining the riverbank. “Wouldn’t we do better using the rotary oars to augment our sails?” asked Catherine.

  “It’s a long way to Patna,” said Hector, just as though he felt quite calm.

  But after a while the breeze faltered. Hector paced up and down, and considered, and consulted with Mr Fleming, who paced alike aboard Castor just ahead, both of them shouting into speaking-horns. When at last Hector ordered the boilers fired, the dandees leapt into action. They stuffed the maw of their firebox with as much coal as it could swallow while ministering tenderly to their boiler. Soon they had built up a good head of steam.

  Tiffin was brought up to the roof deck where Catherine and Grace sat under a striped awning. At about two o’clock the wind failed entirely, and Hector ordered the sails struck. The underwater rotary oars took over. Imperceptibly, Castor and Pollux began to gain on Spur, whose sails likewise had been furled when they became useless. As Pollux came up behind Spur, Catherine could see that Spur’s towline was out and her dandees were trudging along the worn towpath on the bank, leaning forward heavily against the line. Castor and Pollux churned slowly past, chuffing and smoking. When Spur was well aft at last, Hector came up to the roof deck and picked at the remains of his meal, still too elated and too restless to sit down. “How fortunate,” said Catherine, “that you and Sandy mis-spent so much of your youth in tending and mending those stills hidden up the glens. Who could have predicted then that your illicit expertise might produce such a result as this?”

  Hector laughed. “Aye, those stills! I daresay that is why so many Scots in particular have contributed so much to the science of steam.”

  “Just so. Your experience with uisge baugh—the water of life—has given you an instinct about the life of water,” Catherine said.

  “Very poetic, my dear. Actually it is a matter of evaporation, expansion, and condensation, you know. Then metallurgy is an exceedingly important component, not to mention an understanding of the mechanics of impulse transfer and gearing, and the practical difficulties having to do with bearings and packings and lubricants; and the entirely separate and so-intriguing matter of turbulence and flow mechanics—”

  “Oh, Hector! Do stop!”

  “Oh, Catherine!” said Hector amicably. But he sat down at last and taking another of the little rosy bananas from the bunch on the tiffin table, he peeled it and ate it. “Well, I am glad you are coming with us,” he said. “You and Grace.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to the cholera, then.”

  The sun set; the moon rose. As night fell, the steamships continued up the river, throbbing in the moonlit velvety night. Even the pilots kept only a desultory watch, for the river here was deep and wide, smooth and slow, without tricky shoals or sandbars. The crew had been warned when they were engaged that these new ships would not stop and moor along the banks each evening, that anyone who signed onto these ships would not be allowed to go ashore to cook and eat their meals on dry land, as all good Hindus must. These ships had no time for such punctilio; so most of the crew members were Muslim or tribal people or outcastes who would accept this departure from the usual practice.

  Spur had dropped from view behind them.

  Catherine and Grace found their tiny half cabin comfortable enough except for the insects which had got in between the slats of the blinds and plagued them. Hector in his own half cabin was too anxious and restless to sleep well; he dozed and jolted awake at intervals—twenty minutes? two hours?—to listen to the sound of the engine, to feel the regularity of its vibration. Once, he rose and went to make sure that the pressure regulator for the boiler was still operating as it should and that the engineer had remembered to lubricate the shaft as required. It was, and he had. Hector went back to his bed, but he lay awake wondering whether Castor’s engineer had remembered, too. Toward morning he fell heavily asleep at last, and slept until the pilot sent to tell him that a favorable breeze had arisen. Rubbing his eyes, Hector came up and oversaw the hoisting of the sails and the shutting down of the steam engines. Then he checked them over carefully, tenderly, as though he were cooling out and rubbing down and feeding a hot bran mash to a good horse after a hard night’s gallop. The boats had never before been operated for so long a period, though far more sustained efforts were to be expected at sea. But like well-conditioned horses, the boats had not suffered from their long run.

  They consumed their coal at a great rate, though. About noon, still under sail, they hailed a coal-laden barge coming down from Burdwan and, after brief negotiations, bought the entire vessel, coal and barge and all. The barge was tied to a long line behind Castor, and the load of coal started back up the river again, whence it had come.

  Late in the afternoon, Pollux, ahead of Castor now, which was slowed somewhat by towing the coal barge, anchored off a substantial town. Hector and the steward went ashore, and when they came back they brought a small flat country boat well stocked with sheep, goats, fowls, one fine pig, eggs, wine, and firewood for cooking. There were sacks of potatoes and rice, and cabbages and beetroots, too. It fell to Pollux to tow this ark; and Hector assigned a boy to make sure that the towline never fell foul of the cambered-vane oar at her stern.

  Two days and nights passed; sixty miles of riverbank passed, green and brown, sandbanks and mud, countless villages and villas, temples and steps. The steam engines chuffed steadily, puffing and blowing like carthorses climbing a long hill. The sun blazed astonishingly hot from the instant of its rising, on their right, to its tardy setting, on their left. Brown-skinned natives baked on their boats, and village women came down with their water jars to the river even at full noon. But the chalk-pale, translucent-skinned Scots had to remain under the shade of the awnings, fanning themselves, ears blazing, with angry red spots standing out where mosquitoes had bitten them. The air around the boilers shimmered, and they took care to remain upwind of these whenever any wind could be detected.

  The sleeping cabins were above the waterline, for the sake of air and breezes; but even the rare breeze was hot, and the nights were stifling. The cargo hold, however, was mostly below the waterline, and down there it was cool. Catherine and Grace visited the ice several times each day. The hold smelled of rice-straw packing, and of ice melt. Catherine closed her eyes and sniffed, and remembered a brilliant sunny morning crossing a Highland pass after an April snowstorm, ice sparkling and dripping, the running-water sound and the smell of ice melting. She tried to remember how it felt to be cold, but could not.

  Hector and Mr Fleming conferred several times daily about their progress, passing between the ships under way on the little rowing tenders, the dinghees. Catherine contrived to be in her cabin whenever Mr Fleming came aboard Pollux. They were ahead of schedule thus far. The steam engines worked steadily, never tiring. The crews were made up not only of boatmen and river men but also of ironworkers hired to tend the boilers, men who knew how to keep a coal furnace fired at a steady heat—never overheated and never too cool. There had been no sighting of Spur since the first day.

  They ate cucumbers in yogurt—very cooling—and fish from the river prepared very spicy; and good butter kept fresh on the ice in the hold. There was tea to drink morning, noon, and night. Catherine dozed, daydreamed, stitched at her canvaswork, and remembered. She imagined Sandy passing up and down this v
ery river, stopping perhaps at this very village to buy fragrant ripe melons. And what would James have made of all this—this other side of the world?

  Pollux was faster than Castor, regularly drawing far ahead of her. Hector knew this was because of the greater efficiency of his cambered-vane rotary oar. So Pollux was given the heavier coal barge to tow, and Castor the lighter supply boat.

  On the morning of the third day, under a bronze sun, the two steamships veered into the westernmost channel of the river, called the Bhagirathi, the shortest route leading up to the main channel of the Ganges. They passed Murshidabad, the still-splendid former capital of Bengal, its gleaming palaces and temples shining in the sun. The Bhagirathi was shallow; its sandbars and shoals and mudbanks shifted constantly. The boats could not proceed at night, for the risk of running aground was too great. At dusk each evening they anchored until first light allowed them to get under way again the next morning. At Jungipur they paid the tax levied for dredging the river to keep a narrow channel open and deep enough for shipping.

  Finally, on the morning of the seventh day, they passed out of the shallow languid Bhagirathi and emerged onto the broader expanse of the great Ganges herself. The land flanking the river here was higher and much more interesting. Fields of mulberry were coppiced low for feeding the silkworms cultivated by the villagers, and there were broad fields of indigo. After so long a time in low flat country, as low and flat as Antwerp, Catherine was delighted to discern green hills along both banks of the river and, beyond them, higher bluer hills. In the hazy distance off to the north, she could see tall shadowy shapes that might be mountains.

  As they chuffed all afternoon into a lowering sun, Catherine realised that their heading, northerly hitherto, was now much more nearly westerly. She went to Hector’s cabin to confirm this on the charts spread out on his table. The Ganges, she saw, came from the northwest, draining all of the northern plains of India, all of the southern side of the high Himalaya. When these waters arrived in the lowlands of northern Bengal, they split into a network of dozens of watercourses, each taking its own route southward into the Bay of Bengal. The Bhagirathi river was the most westerly of these channels, the first to split from the mother Ganges and head southward to the ocean. And this network of Ganges watercourses, she saw, also met and mingled with the waters of the mightiest river of all, the Brahmaputra River, which came down from the Assam valley, far to the east.

  Even here in the main channel of the Ganges, the pilots remained vigilant. Twice they changed course abruptly to avoid being drawn into whirlpools, wide and deceptively lazy. Though the water was broad, Castor led and Pollux followed, and an experienced river wallah was posted at the bow of Castor to watch and read the water. They passed well clear of a little sloop aground on an invisible sandbar. Her crew members were waist deep and chest deep in the green water, heaving on stout lines, trying to drag her off into deeper water.

  The coal was gone; they sold the empty barge at Rajmahal, on the tenth day, and bought a pair of country boats stacked high with well-dried firewood. Hector spent a long time fussing about the fireboxes as they adjusted to devouring this different fuel.

  On the evening of the eleventh day, Mr Fleming invited the Pollux party to dine with him and Mr Sinclair aboard Castor. Catherine and Grace went over with Hector in the dinghee after sundown. Under a canopy, as far as possible from the boilers, a table was set with napery and cutlery, and a pair of pretty little braziers set atop buckets of sand burned pungent herbs to discourage the insects.

  “What a charming effect those colours have!” cried Mr Sinclair upon first seeing Catherine, for over her pale muslin dress she wore a thin vivid silk shawl wrapped around her neck and shoulders in the modest native fashion.

  Catherine had been putting on flesh, she realised; and although her low bodice above the very high waist of her gown would never attain the ripe fullness sported by the Mrs Todds of the world, she no longer had the bony fragile look of a new-hatched nestling. “Do you think so?” she said. “My ayah induced me to try it. Such a pretty piece of work, too; look at this masterful bit of weaving, this pattern along this end. And then the colours! One does not wear colours like these at home; they would never do there. But somehow, here, they look entirely necessary. Do you remember, Mr Sinclair, months ago—it was in Antwerp, that gray chilly place—do you remember longing, wishing, to discover some new colours in the world? Or to rediscover the old ones? And here they are; and here am I wearing them. Well!” Catherine was surprised to hear herself talking so much. She was apprehensive about being in company with Mr Fleming, she realised (but where was he?); and it made her oddly, nervously talkative. Still, she could not seem to stop herself. She went on, “How have you been entertaining yourself? It seems a long time since we have left Calcutta, but it is only eleven days. Have you been drawing a great deal of scenery?”

  “Of course. I am putting together quite a pretty little album of Bengal scenes. I only wish there were time to venture ashore to visit some of the more picturesque sights mentioned by the Daniells and William Hodges.”

  Mr Fleming’s head appeared; he climbed up the ladder from the throbbing engine bay below, and Hector came up behind him. As they found seats, Hector was still explaining, with rotating arms, how something worked or was supposed to work.

  “Good evening, Mrs MacDonald,” Mr Fleming said as soon as Hector paused in his explanation.

  “Good evening, Mr Fleming,” she said, and could think of nothing more. But Hector, having still a great deal to say about bearings and lubricants, engrossed Mr. Fleming again, so Catherine turned again to Mr Sinclair. “Perhaps you will have time to make some excursions from Patna,” she said. “Or shall you be in a great hurry to get up to Lucknow?”

  “I am in no hurry. In fact I have a letter to a gentleman at Patna who has reportedly amassed a pretty substantial collection of drawings and paintings in the native style—said to be well worth seeing,” replied Mr Sinclair. “I am told he has a nice taste, and a considerable talent of his own for drawing as well as painting, though he is an amateur. And although he is not in a position to award any substantial commissions on his own account, his recommendation, if I can get it, to carry with me up to the Nawab’s court at Lucknow would be worth having.”

  At a nod from Mr Fleming, the servant brought cool mango sherbets. “What is the name of this artistic gentleman?” inquired Mr Fleming.

  “I believe it is a Sir Charles D’Oyly.”

  “But I could have introduced you to Sir Charles myself,” said Mr Fleming. “Certainly I know him. He is the East India Company’s opium agent for all of Bihar, and I have known him for some years, even before he was appointed to Patna. It is quite true that he has a reputation as both collector and artist…. Ah! Here are the aubergines, and our ducks. Yes, Sir Charles and I are old friends. And then Lady D’Oyly is a charming woman, and she is an artist of some accomplishment herself. I am sure that you, Mrs MacDonald, will like her very much. You do not care for the ducks, Mr MacDonald? They are not barnyard ducks, of course. They are river ducks; that is why they are just a little fishy.”

  “Oh, it is not that,” said Hector, who was neglecting his duck with a look of anxious strain on his face. “Only I am hearing a certain pitch, a certain frequency of vibration which I do not quite like. I beg you will all excuse me for a few moments. I shall rejoin you just as soon as I have set my mind at ease about it.” Away he went, carrying one of the lamps, for by now it was growing dark.

  “Are we not to drop anchor tonight?” managed Catherine.

  “The pilots tell me they know of a quiet stretch of water with a good bottom just a little further ahead where they want to anchor for the night,” said Mr Fleming. “Then we shall be in an advantageous position to make our passage up a tricky channel past the Colgong Rocks first thing in the morning. Ah, here is our tea. Will you pour out for us, Miss Grace?”

  “I will, surely,” said Grace. As she poured, she asked, “Have you look
ed at the stars? Sharada has been teaching me about the stars. She says all the greatest astronomers have come from India.”

  “Indeed?” said Mr Sinclair. “What constellations has she been teaching you? Can you show me Gemini?”

  “I never have heard of Gemini.”

  “Never heard of Castor and Pollux, the very twins for whom these ships are named?”

  “No, but I can show you the Asvins, and they are twins, too,” declared Grace. “Come away from these lamps, and I will show you, if we are not too late.” She and Mr Sinclair left to lean against the railing at the stern. The servants cleared away the dishes from the table and went away, leaving only Catherine and Mr Fleming there.

  Catherine felt tongue-tied but at last managed to utter, “This Bengal scenery is so well worth—”

  At just the same moment, Mr Fleming said, “I hope that you and your little lass—”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said instantly, and would not be induced to repeat her remark, though he asked her to, and apologised for interrupting. What a silly remark it had been, after all!

  Mr Fleming poured tea for her and for himself. Catherine had to look away, for it felt nearly indecent to watch those tapered fingers of his, so assured on the fragile cups….

  “What is this tea?” she asked presently.

  “This is Qihong, but the water is not excellent. If there is time, I shall send for water at Sitakund. That is Sita’s Well, you know, just below Monghyr; it is a bright beautiful water which keeps fresh forever.”