Not Yet Drown'd

by Peg Kingman

  “Beastly! Why must they be so beastly, these men?”

  “Some are not. My Sikander is not. Your Mr Fleming is not.”

  “He is not my Mr Fleming. And how can you say such a thing? He lives with that woman, that Harini, in his house.”

  “Surely he has explained to you, memsahib, that there is no sexual congress.”

  “Am I a fool?” demanded Catherine. But she was shocked at Sharada’s frank declaration.

  “But it is quite true, you know, memsahib.”

  “Sharada, how can you possibly assert such a thing?”

  “She told me so herself. But she did, memsahib! So she told me that day when we all were going up there in the steamships for the little feast at Mr Fleming’s house, and then to the garden of Dr Carey. She lamented to me then that he never would touch her, not though she was bringing to bear upon him all the high arts of seduction, not even though she was begging this favor of him in frank words.”

  Catherine bridled, scoffing: “I cannot believe she said anything to you of the sort!”

  “But so she did nevertheless,” insisted Sharada. “Hindu ladies who have rejoiced in ardent husbands are not like the memsahibs, such frightened virgins forever! No indeed! She so bitterly laments her four little children, and she is wanting nothing else in the world but a baby in her arms, to fill their so-painful emptiness. Nothing but that can be giving her solace, and this he knows very well, your Mr Fleming. But he does not and will not, she told me, because she has a husband living still. It is a misconduct, he says, and so he never is gratifying her in this matter.”

  Could this be true? Certainly there was no baby. Catherine thought about this: A woman who had produced four babies in five years of marriage could very likely produce another with only the slightest…encouragement. Presently she said, “I still do not see how this subject could possibly have arisen between you.”

  “Oh, yes, why speak to me? The poor creature; she is so very lonely, for no one will speak with her. Good Hindus have nothing to do with her; to them she is dead. As for me, I am outcaste, so she and I can be consorting. And she was asking if you are in love with her good Mr F.”

  “She asked you that!? What did you say to her?”

  “I said yes certainly.”

  “What made you say that?”

  “Anyone can see it is true. And as for fearing in Harini a rival, why, there you have no cause. But surely he has told you this himself! Are you not choosing to believe him? Oh, so clever, and still so foolish!”

  THE NIGHT WAS hot, and Catherine lay awake for hours counting over her errors. So many wrong turns! At last she attained a restless, shallow, sweaty sleep. But thunder awakened her before dawn, great claps of it rumbling through her body. Quickly she put on a wrap and went up to the roof deck of the pinnace. They were still anchored next to the big dusty island. Flashes lit up the strange green sky where curtains and veils of rain moved over the distant blue hills to the north, blown like curtains at a window. Then big heavy droplets dimpled the surface of the river—here is one, there is another, here, and here.

  The breeze comes, sudden gusts of cool air. Flashes, great thick bolts of lightning, straight down. Ashore, cattle bawl and dogs bark. The sound of heavy droplets slapping leaves. The smell of dust, which has been dry as ashes for six long months. The green light! More rain; the ground wetted, moistened. The teak deck wetted. The surface of the green opaque water dimpling, wrinkling, dappling. Rocks gleaming, dull jasper suddenly glistening bloodred. The dust laid at last.

  Then real rain, steady rain.

  A chill runs across the skin. Eyes can open wide now to the strange dim yellow sky. A cool wind redoubles the sound of rain, making droplets pelt down from wet leaves as well as from the dark sky.

  Wet earth, wet leaves, wet rock—these new smells.

  A tiny rivulet appears in a rut, finding its way. The rain softens, lightens. Is it over so soon? No, merely gathering its force; now it is a strong heavy steady downpour. Catherine is drenched, dripping, sodden, and still thunder rolls down the sky, and flashes light it up.

  It is here, it is here, it is here, it is here—at last! The long parching is over.

  Everything is moving.

  Is that steam, rising, blowing?

  Smells lying dormant in the dust now rise steaming to the nose.

  Her mistakes, her missteps, her detours, her wrong turns, her failures to see and to understand—suddenly Catherine comprehends: These are just what have brought her here. These are not errors; these are the route. These are not errors any more than the bends in the river are errors.

  She is not damaged; she is whole.

  Sharada is singing a monsoon song:

  My lover has gone away

  to some distant country.

  Dripping wet in our doorway I stand

  to see the clouds burst asunder.

  Sharada says, nothing can harm him;

  this passion has yet to be quenched.

  23

  a Sett of Men approaching an Enemy

  “I get to this point,” said Grace, “and then I don’t know what to do. How to go from here.” She was bent over her chessboard, studying and reenacting a game she had recently played with Sharada. Fewer than a dozen pieces remained on the board, and both queens had been captured. “It’s the most interesting, and the most difficult. I know what I need to do, but I just cannot see how to do it.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Catherine, looking out the window over the wet roofs of Goalpara. The everlasting canvaswork lay across her lap, but Catherine had no heart for it.

  “When I played this game with Sharada, I wanted to resign at this point—my position appeared so hopeless. But she wouldn’t let me. She made me play it out to the end.”

  “And how did it turn out?”

  “I forced a draw. But she says I could have won. She says I missed something important, but she will not tell me what it is. I am trying to see it for myself.”

  They had arrived at last at Goalpara, in Assam. The last four weeks of struggling up the broad swollen Brahmaputra in monsoon rains had been nightmarish. It was without doubt an undertaking for fools and madmen. After Catherine had refused Major Leslie, he had taken to having his bibi brought to his cabin quite openly every evening. Catherine had not noticed her before, but she could not help noticing her now, and feeling sorry for her: a pretty girl, though tired looking, for she had an infant and a two year old to look after all day. And she was certainly young—very young! Sharada said that Major Leslie had bought her, at the age of twelve, from her impoverished parents.

  It had been a vast relief, when at last the little boats had reached Goalpara, to part with Major Leslie and his little family.

  Here in Goalpara, at the lower end of the Assam valley, an hour seldom passed without rain. Mrs Hill’s husband, Colonel Hill, was the commanding officer of the station. He had evicted a couple of his subalterns from lodgings to make room for Catherine and Grace, for the town was very full. Many of the soldiers, with only canvas tents for shelter, were extremely wet and uncomfortable, though the camp was on high ground. The forces posted here presently consisted of one regiment of Europeans; four battalions of native soldiers, called sepoys (“two-legs”); a company of native artillery; and a company of native cavalry. Each battalion of five hundred sepoys had its complement of native officers in the dozens, and its European officers, too: a captain, two lieutenants, three ensigns, and one sergeant major. The town, and the high ground surrounding it, was a morass of soldiers and officers, cattle and horses, wagons and cannons, elephants and bullocks, camp followers and hangers-on, merchants, moneylenders, and prostitutes.

  There were political deputations in the town, too, coming and going; the deputations were from the various tribal chieftains in the hills of Jyntea and Cachar, Meghalaya and Manipur, and from further afield as well.

  One evening, Colonel Hill had explained to Catherine in confusing detail the history of the conflict, but s
he remained baffled by the convolutions. Apparently a succession dispute had sparked the present hostilities some three or four years ago, and two rival claimants to the ancient Ahom kingdom of Assam, in the heart of the rich Brahmaputra valley, had enlisted support in various quarters. The claimant who had actually succeeded in taking possession of the throne was Chunder Kaunt, who was backed by the king of Burma and supported by Burmese generals and advisors. The immensely rich kingdom of Burma lay beyond the great mountains to the south, and this king of Burma had lately been issuing outrageous demands, threats, and insults to the East India Company. He was also picking off Englishmen—elephant hunters and that ilk—all along their contested border down near the coast, around Chittagong and Arakan. It was perhaps not surprising then that the East India Company took the view that Chunder Kaunt was only a pretender, a puppet of the Burmese king, and that the rightful successor (who had applied to the English for help) was in fact Poorunder Singh. And so the East India Company had succored Poorunder Singh, and allowed firearms and unofficial advisors to go to his aid. Alas, these firearms and advisors had not been sufficient to secure him a victory, and this rightful claimant was routed and the borders between the two forces had become scenes of unspeakable atrocities.

  Once seated on the Ahom throne, however, the pretender Chunder Kaunt promptly tired of his high-handed Burmese ministers. So he dismissed them, and assassinated the ones who would not be dismissed. Thereupon, the East India Company revised its view that Rajah Chunder Kaunt was merely a puppet and pretender, and allowed firearms and advisors (the very same advisor, in fact—a Mr Bruce) to go to his aid now that he attempted to expel the hostile Burmese. For a year or so, the fighting had gone this way and that, with no clear or decisive victory for Rajah Chunder Kaunt; nor for Poorunder Singh (who was indeed still in the running); nor for the Burmese forces from the south.

  But then last year the king of Burma had sent to Assam his mightiest general, leading an army of 18,000, who had finally routed Rajah Chunder Kaunt—and took up the cause of Poorunder Singh! Alas, consensus remained elusive, for the East India Company had discerned by this time that its original candidate, Poorunder Singh, had in fact no legitimate claim and was merely a puppet of the Burmese.

  The mighty Burmese general and his army soon discovered they could do without Poorunder Singh, too, and installed instead a governor to rule Assam as a province of Burma. Then the general and his army had gone home, leaving some two hundred men to support this new governor; for it was becoming clear that the mighty general and his army would be needed soon along the disputed coastal territories of Arakan and Chittagong.

  Thus Assam had been left relatively quiet for the last eight or ten months. Or so it seemed. All the tribal princes in the hills took the opportunity to rearm and negotiate alliances as fast as they could; and certain supply masters in the Honourable Company’s forces along the Assam frontier had gotten quite opulent while the supplies, ammunition, and arms for which they were responsible had seemingly evaporated or been lost or spoiled or stolen or simply disappeared.

  A very bad business, it seemed to Catherine, when all was explained to her. Despite Mr Fleming’s warning, she had somehow failed to fully understand the ugliness of the situation here. But here she was. And now that she had succeeded in getting here, what did she propose to do next? Where was Sandy? How was she to find out? And how was she to get to him, wherever he was? The rain outside was sluicing down, and someone had burned some food nearby; it smelled terrible.

  “Aha,” said Grace to herself, and moved a pawn.

  Sharada scratched at the door and came in. She did not look discouraged at all. She looked pleased, her black eyes glittering. “A letter for you, memsahib,” she said, and handed Catherine the letter, dry, from under her shawl.

  A letter—here, in this remote fold of the world! It was a handwriting that Catherine did not recognise, but certainly a woman’s hand. She opened the letter, and glanced first at the signature; but it was an unfamiliar name. As she read, however, she realised who it was:

  Weiking House

  The Gold smiths bazaar

  28th June 1823

  My dear Mrs MacDonald,

  I cannot express my delight in learning that you are actually here, in Goalpara! I would call upon you instantly, only that my confinement has been so recent, that I am not yet permitted to go out, and therefore I beg you will do me the favour of calling, just as soon as you are able,

  upon your most devoted friend,

  Mrs Maria Babcock

  ps: It is a daughter, and I have named her Constantia, just as I said I would. Surely you remember.

  pps: My lodgings are behind the bazaar. Your servant knows the place.

  Sharada watched Catherine’s face as she read, watched as the understanding dawned there. “But it’s Mrs Todd! How astonishing!” cried Catherine at last. “Wherever did you come across her?”

  “I was as astonished as yourself, memsahib, when I chanced to be catching the sight of a perfectly black and shining face at the market this morning. It was of course our friend Anibaddh, who took me back to her mistress and the baby. It is a fat pink strong girl, the poor creature, born only a few weeks ago. But no father, alas, for the poor little infant! For Lieutenant Babcock took fever and died a month before the birth, and Mrs Babcock is left a widow yet again, and the poor infant born an orphan.”

  “SO VERY GOOD of you to come to me!” cried Mrs Babcock and wiped away her tears. “But you were ever kind. Oh, dear, I seem to have been crying a great deal lately. You must forgive me. But I have had such sorrows…not that there have not been joys as well. Oh, dear! It is only that I am so happy, and—and—astonished to see the face of a friend once again, and in such a place as this, and after all I have been through.”

  Anibaddh brought in the infant to be admired: a bald waxy grub with a face like a pink potato. “Oh, she will be a beauty,” said Catherine. “One can see it already. Constantia, a lovely name.” Anibaddh seemed even more statuesque than when Catherine had seen her last in Calcutta, and in response to Catherine’s inquiry she flashed her bright smile and declared herself very well.

  “I think she is very well and happy,” said Mrs Babcock when Anibaddh had taken the baby away again. “I know it is selfish of me, but I cannot help feeling a little angry with her. I fear she is about to leave me, to be married.”

  “Married! Here! To whom?”

  “It is the son—no, no, the nephew, I believe, so very difficult to understand the families of these people—the nephew of one of the important native chieftains, who has been here in the town on political business these last two months. He is very handsome! And he declares that she is a goddess, Kali herself, the finest woman he has ever seen. Imagine that! My black maid! They would make a handsome couple, it cannot be denied, and I suppose it would be a very good match for her, for he is of an eminent family, as these things go among the natives. How they manage to talk to each other I do not know. But I suppose it must be settled soon one way or another, for his people are soon to leave the town and go back to their hills. I have begged her not to leave me alone here. But—love! Who can defy it? He was so very good to me, my dear Babcock! And this time, you know,” she added in a whisper, “I am a genuine widow, an actual respectable widow. Ah, me! Are hearts made for this, to be so twisted and wracked? But you, Mrs MacDonald…well. I shall have them bring us some tea. No, no, you must stay and talk to me. Do not dream of running away so soon. We have been through too much together for a mere formal visit of a quarter of an hour. Now, tell me, how in the world have you washed up on this particular shore?”

  And so Catherine told Mrs Babcock a version of her story, omitting the most personal aspects.

  But Mrs Babcock immediately inquired, “But what of Mr Fleming? I cannot understand how he has let you make your way up into this wilderness to seek your brother all alone when he has those marvelous steamships at his disposal. Oh, do not tell me, Mrs MacDonald, that you have quar
reled with him!”

  “Oh, no, not to say, exactly, quarreled….” said Catherine. But she corrected herself: “Oh, aye, I suppose we have quarreled, in honest truth. It was about—oh, it was quite foolish. I cannot explain it.”

  “That is a great pity,” said Mrs Babcock decidedly. “He is a good man, and he held you in the highest regard—anyone of judgment would, of course—but it was always your company in particular he sought out. Your tastes and interests were so very compatible—oh, music and books and those clever bluestocking sorts of things. I would have been terrified, myself, to try to say anything intelligent to him, but your conversation suited him very well. And not just your conversation. Anyone could see, it was just your own self entirely which he admired so.”

  “Oh, no, I daresay not—I never noticed anything particular in his conduct,” protested Catherine.

  “Do you mean that you two quarreled, and parted, without his even declaring himself?”

  “Oh, Mrs Babcock, you must excuse me if I cannot discuss any private communications I have had with Mr Fleming.”

  “I beg your pardon! One must not pry. I suppose he did declare himself then. But there I go again! A thousand pardons! Here, let me refill your cup. It is dreadful tea, but a great luxury nevertheless here in this remote wilderness. My dear Babcock went to I don’t know what lengths to get it for me. Now I promise to say nothing more of Mr Fleming. The important thing is that here you sit before me, in the very flesh, and your poor dear lost brother is actually alive after all!”

  “Or so I am determined to believe,” said Catherine, draining her cup—it was poor, stemmy stuff. “And here I am, undoubtedly, but I have no idea what to do next or where I am to look for my brother. I cannot get even so much as a map of the district. I have only the faintest idea where we are, or where anything else is. Apparently all the maps and surveys are closely guarded secrets during so dangerous a time as this.”

  “Oh, but I can give you maps and surveys,” said Mrs Babcock. “Indeed, there is a chest full of them which I have not had the heart to go through. Oh, yes, for my dear, dear Babcock was a surveyor. No one has come for them yet. Let us have them brought.”