By Eastern windows (3 page)

‘No,’ he deliberately kept his voice gentle, ‘but, Mother, if there was someone, and I did wish to marry, how would we live?’

‘Live?’ She blinked in puzzlement. ‘What do ye mean?’

‘This small farm can barely sustain the three of us. It's only the money I earn at Lochbuy that's keeping us going. For the past four months I've been working at Lochbuy as well as managing the accounts of this farm here – but despite what you and Murdoch say about my skill with figures, I can't work
magic
. I can't produce money from a box that is empty. Mother, you do realise that you don’t have a penny to your name?’

‘Not a penny, I know, I know,’ she said guiltily. ‘But it's no' my fault, Lachlan! The last few years were hard years for Scotland. Everyone suffered badly. Everyone fell into bad debt.’ She looked at him defensively. ‘At least I didna do that
-
fall into debt.’

‘Only because of the money I sent home from my Army pay.’

‘Aye, oh aye,’ she agreed, ‘only for that coming regularly I wouldna have been able to manage at all.’

He sat silent for a long moment, looking at her hopelessly. ‘Mother, can't you see there is no future here for me. No future here for any of us ... unless I go away again.’

She jerked on her seat in alarm. ‘No, son, no – there's no need for ye to go away again. I couldna bear it … could ye not ask Murdoch to pay ye more money?'

‘I wouldn’t ask Murdoch for anything,’ he said grimly. ‘And anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘Murdoch is in debt up to his neck. It took me only a few days of sorting through his estate papers to realise that. He's just about keeping his chin above the water. None of his accounting figures make any sense, yet he wants me to “balance” his books in any which way I can
-
cook them, fry them, lose them – just enough to satisfy the tax inspector, you understand?
 
His financial situation is dire and if things get any worse, he will have to sell Lochbuy.’

‘Sell Lochbuy?’ His mother frowned prodigiously. Before her marriage she had been a Maclaine and had been born and raised on the Maclaine’s family estate of Lochbuy. As the oldest child the estate should have fallen to her, but no, the law forbade her to inherit it because she was only a woman, and so it had gone to Murdoch, the son and legal heir. And now Murdoch was running the estate badly, wasting all of its income, constantly blabbing about the pittance he had spent on Lachlan’s education and now he was clawing it back as a debt
-
whilst she had spent all her married and widowed years living on a farm rented from the Duke of Argyll.

‘Murdoch already has a huge mortgage on Lochbuy,’ said Lachlan, ‘but from next week, he will have two huge mortgages on it.’

‘Two huge mortgages! From who?’

‘The Duke of Argyll.’

‘The Duke of Argyll?’ Mrs Macquarie tutted angrily. ‘By, that man must own half of Mull now. And he must be fair rich from all the rent we’ve paid him on this place.’

‘I’ve told you about the mortgages,’ Lachlan said, ‘simply to help you understand why no financial help is to be sought from Murdoch … and why I’ve decided to write this letter … to the War Office in London.’

Mrs Macquarie fussed with her apron and struggled with the blast of her emotions. ‘So that’s it … ye want to leave us again …
 
and go back to the Army.’

‘It's the only way,’ he said honestly. ‘The only way I can continue to support you and Donald. The only way I can continue to pay the rent on this farm each quarter day. I have no other choice but to go away and earn enough money to send back to you regularly.’

‘And … to get that money,’ she faltered miserably, ‘I must lose my youngest son again?’

‘No, to get that money means that you will be able to keep on taking care of
Donald
, without fear or worry. We
both
will.’

She saw, dimly, that Donald had come into the kitchen, carrying a box of rich green cabbages he had grown from seeds to full heads, the triumph and delight in his innocent eyes touching her heart to the core as he held them out for her approval.

 
‘Aye,’ she said huskily, smiling at him, ‘aye, ye did well, Donald.’

A moment later she looked at Lachlan and nodded resignedly, giving her agreement. If his going away provided the rent to keep her dear Donald safe and happy on this farm, then so be it.

The following morning Lachlan made the long ride over the hills to the town of Tobermory to post his letter to London. He did not expect a speedy reply, but he received one three weeks later, offering him a lieutenant’s commission in a new Scottish regiment which was being raised to serve in India.

‘It will be known as the 77th,’ Lachlan told his mother, his eyes on the letter. ‘I’m ordered to report to Colonel Balfour in London as soon as possible and be ready to depart for Bombay on the sixteenth.’

‘That soon?’

He looked at her, apologetically. ‘Aye, that soon.’ He folded the letter. ‘I’ll have to send a letter over to Murdoch informing him of the reason for my sudden departure. I wonder how he’ll take it?’

Badly.’ His mother nodded positively. ‘He’ll be ranting and raging for a week.’

Lachlan smiled. ‘Aye, I suppose he will.’

He had no smile later that evening when he saw Donald’s tears. Poor Donald just could not understand why Lachlan had to go away again. His eyes filled up with more tears as he implored Lachlan to tell him why he had to go.

‘Why, though
, why?’

Lachlan looked helplessly at his brother. ‘It’s a matter of necessity, Donald. It’s a job I have to do. Nothing more than that, just a job of work that will take me away for a while.’

‘So
when
will ye be coming back then?’

Lachlan did not know.

‘But I
will
come back, Donald, I promise. Wherever I go, I'll always come back to Scotland. You know that, don't you?’

Donald looked unsure. ‘Is India as far away as America?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Lachlan lied.

‘Not nearly ten years away?’

‘No, just a few months on a ship.’

It was three days before Jamie McTavish arrived at Lochbuy to deliver Lachlan’s letter, only minutes after Murdoch and the Campbell family had sat down to luncheon, the day before the wedding.

Murdoch was so upset by the letter he glared at Margaret. ‘I don’t believe it! He’s gone – again! Gone back to soldiering! Only it’s a
heathen
land
he’s gone to this time. All the way to
India
no less!’

Elizabeth’s face turned as pale as paper. She drew in her breath and realised the only place she wanted to be was upstairs in the privacy of her room and she ran to it, throwing herself down on the bed and crying noisily like a small child.

Margaret entered the room, full of concern. ‘What’s brought this on?
 
I can’t have you puffing and reddening up your eyes with all this bawling – and you to be bridesmaid at my wedding tomorrow!’

In the pain of her heartbreak, Elizabeth could not stop herself from sobbing out to Margaret the truth of her loss.

‘Oh, my wee hennie …’ Margaret crooned. ‘What you felt was nothing more than a girlish fancy. It’ll be gone in a week.’

‘No. I loved him, I truly loved him!’

‘Love? Oh, that’s all blah and nonsense!’ Margaret sniffed. `You should know that by now, I’ve told you often enough.’

Elizabeth did not answer, too engulfed in sobbing to argue. All she knew for certain was that her first true love affair had come to a bitter,
bitter
end.

PART ONE

Where the hedges drop pink rose-petals,

And the bulbul sings love songs in Persian,

And the Sahib lives in a little white house

In a garden which is, almost, home.

O
NE

The heat was unbearable. The marching feet of the men sent up clouds of dust, columns of soldiers in scarlet coats soaked with sweat, marching monotonously while their officers sat elegantly astride their mounts.
 

The march ended on a hill about fifteen hundred yards from Fort Avery, one of the enemy's crucial positions defended by a large garrison and a few small cannon. From the distance the soldiers could hear the screaming commentary of the enraged enemy as they watched the oncoming British.

The soldiers halted and formed into line. Immediately they were pounded with cannon balls that had no hope of reaching a distance of fifteen hundred yards. From the fort walls the enemy then sent out gunpowder rockets, but all fell too short.

General Sir Robert Abercromby surveyed the battle-ground before him and then looked up at the sun. It was after three o'clock, the sun had past its zenith, and only a few hours of daylight left. He turned to his staff officers. `Well, gentlemen, we are somewhat late, we have missed tiffin, so I think we should console ourselves with an early dinner.'

The General and his staff retired to the shade and accepted drinks from their servants while keeping an occasional eye on the enemy through their spyglasses. A large white tent was erected, a table unfolded, a white linen cloth draped over it. The silver and crystal were unpacked, bottles of Madeira uncorked, and the general and his staff sat back in preparation for a long campaign conference over an even longer dinner.

Except for the piquet lines, the rest of the soldiers were thankful enough to be given a stand-easy and drank thirstily from their water flasks.

Lachlan had flopped down under the shade of a tree beside Lieutenant Grant, who sat for a moment looking around him bleakly. ‘Why the hell did we ever come to this place anyway?’

Lachlan removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his hair. ‘Because we wanted to be soldiers, Edward, part of the great British Army.’

Grant shrugged. ‘Well, intrepid daredevil I may be, but I never thought I'd be expected to get involved in anything so extreme as an all-out battle.’ After another doleful moment, Grant sighed. ‘I thought we were certain of a very cushy life here in India.’

Cushy? For the past two years Lachlan had found life in India
unbearably
cushy, utterly dull and monotonous. Apart from the regular drills and parades and afternoons spent in language lessons with a native
Munshi
in order to learn Hindustani, there was little else for an officer to do. And with little to do, military life had lapsed into an endless round of regimental dinners and socialising.

As for India itself, the 77th had quickly discovered that India was a mish-mash of territories ruled by different governments; parts of the sub-continent were ruled separately by the British and Dutch, and the remainder by princes and maharajas of the Hindu, Mohammedan, and Afghan dynasties – the latter three always being at war with each other.

At least, that's how it was, until three weeks ago, when Tipu Sultan, the maharaja of Mysore, declared war on the British, threatening to reduce Madras and Bombay to ashes and drive every red-coated
Angrezi
out of India.

‘The impertinent bugger is clearly begging to be pole-axed!’ Lord Cornwallis, Governor-General of British India, had responded to Tipu Sultan's threat with fury. And now here the British Army were, in Cananore, before Fort Avery, preparing for battle with Prince Ali Rajah, a staunch ally of Tipu, who had
also
declared war on the British.
 

The enemy ceased its bombardment, clearly bewildered by the British who were blithely ignoring their cannon-fire and preparing to dine. Tents were being pitched on the hilltop while coolies and servants rushed around preparing cooking fires.

As evening approached, Lachlan received a summons to report to the tent of his commanding officer.

‘Sir?’ Lachlan saluted Colonel Balfour, a blue-eyed, fair-skinned man of robust build and a pleasant face that suggested a kind and genial disposition.

‘Ah, Lieutenant Macquarie!’ Balfour smiled warmly. He greeted all his junior officers as if they were his adopted sons. ‘A hot and busy day before us tomorrow, my boy.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘However, we do have to sort out a few problems beforehand,’ Balfour said in a low voice, as if confiding a great secret. ‘General Abercromby would dearly like to destroy the enemy's fort around dawn, but he is of the opinion that from fifteen hundred yards our fire is sure to fall short. Would you agree?’

Lachlan agreed. ‘Even the eighteen-pounders would need to be at least four hundred yards nearer to the fort.’

Colonel Balfour beamed. He had expected that answer, but pretended surprise. ‘Why! – That’s exactly the distance Major Jones suggested! How
very
astute of you, Lieutenant!’

It was something any junior officer would know, but Balfour raised a palm to Lachlan's protest. ‘You are absolutely right, dear boy, bang on, just as I knew you would be, at least four hundred yards nearer! Major Jones was just as specific.’