By Eastern windows (30 page)

And two years later, in 1801, when the British Prime Minister decided that the French must now be driven out of Egypt in order to protect the British possessions in India, Lachlan and the 77th Regiment sailed out Bombay, destined for the Port of Suez, and George Jarvis went with them.

SEVENTEEN

After an absence of fifteen months, and after scoring a triumphant victory against the French Army at Alexandria, a huge welcoming crowd gathered at Bombay harbour as the British troop ships returned from Egypt.

Disembarking with George Jarvis into a masoolah boat which cruised swiftly towards the dockside, Lachlan saw a number of friendly faces waiting to greet him: John Forbes, Colin Anderson – and there also was the huge bulk of Corporal McKenzie, furiously shouting to the jostling crowds of coolies, ordering them to stand back.

‘Stand back, ye bastards, stand back!’

From his seat in the masoolah boat, Lachlan found himself eyeing McKenzie with suspicion, thinking to himself sarcastically, ‘Well, his voice is still loud enough,’

McKenzie – upon hearing of the Egypt campaign – had immediately suffered a heart attack, and had been declared unfit for the gruelling march of the desert, escaping orders to prepare for battle, on the grounds of ill health.

Lachlan had doubted the veracity of McKenzie's heart-attack, certain that the big Jock was faking it all the way, but he had let it go, deciding that McKenzie would be more of a hindrance than a help out in the desert. His complaints alone would be enough to kill any officer unfortunate enough to be in charge of him.

As soon as the boat reached the shore McKenzie was the first to reach down and give Lachlan a hefty hand ashore.

‘Welcome back, sir, steady on yer feet now, safe and sound on dry land again. Every day I was fearful for ye in that desert, sir, certain ye might suffer the death o' sunstroke.’

Lachlan looked at him wryly. ‘Still, I see
you
have recovered fine and well, McKenzie. In fact, I don't think I have ever seen you looking so hale and
hearty.
’

McKenzie, suddenly remembering his heart attack, knew what the major was hinting, and immediately changed his demeanour.

‘Och, no, sir, it's just me puttin’ on a brave face to welcome ye back,’ he said wearily. ‘I'm not fet for much, as ye can surely see. The truth is, sir, I'm a done man.’

Lachlan might have said more if Colin Anderson had not touched him on the shoulder then, and from there on he was greeted with handshake after handshake from his fellow officers.

‘
Bappoo! Bappoo! Assalaam alaikum!
’ George Jarvis shouted excitedly, breaking into a run, pushing through the crowds until he reached Bappoo who hugged him like a young brother home from the war.

‘
George Jarvees!
’ Bappoo, in his voluminous pantaloons and a new green turban, jiggled and laughed like an hysterical child. ‘
Vaalaikum salaam!
’

Still laughing, they pulled back and stared at each other for signs of change, but only George had changed; he was at least three inches taller, and now that he was almost seventeen, he was showing signs of approaching manhood.

‘
Aappaa kyaa haal hai
?’ Bappoo asked eagerly.

‘
Shukriiyaa, mai Thiik hui
.’ George shrugged nonchalantly. He was well, fine, excellent, he assured Bappoo.

The crowds of soldiers and coolies on the docks began to thin, baggage was carried off, and officers subsided into palanquins or tongas and were jogged away in the direction of the fort.

Lachlan and his entourage ended up at John Forbes's house where an extravagant dinner was served. The talk centred on Egypt and the French, and finally the recent Treaty between Britain and France.

When dinner was over, and while conversation buzzed, General Balfour slipped Lachlan a military dispatch.
 
‘I could have waited and given this to you tomorrow, dear boy, but I wanted you to have it as soon as possible.’

Curiously, Lachlan unfolded and read the letter which was from London, from Colonel Brownrigg, informing him that His Majesty was graciously pleased to appoint him to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.

Balfour was at his happiest, as he always was when something good happened to one of his own. ‘Well done, dear boy,’ he said, blue eyes crinkling, enjoying Macquarie's surprise. ‘Good news, eh what?’

Lachlan smiled. ‘Very good news.’

‘Splendid! This calls for more claret I think. More claret, Gupta!' Balfour called gaily to the
khidmatgar
by the table. He called all the Indian servants Gupta if he didn't know their name, but he was ever courteous. ‘More wine, Gupta, if you please.’

*

In the servants' quarters at the back of the house, Bappoo was sitting cross-legged on the floor, opposite George Jarvis. George had finished eating but Bappoo was still tucking into a huge dish of spicy meatballs and yellow rice.

Throughout the meal Bappoo had listened silently to everything George Jarvis had told him about Egypt, occasionally nodding his head in understanding as he ate his food without pause and with relish.

At last, Bappoo paused in his eating, took a long drink of sherbet, smacked his lips, then looked keenly at George Jarvis and asked the most important question of all – the only thing he wanted to know about Egypt.

‘
Khaanaa kaisaa lagaa?
’

George sighed, and told Bappoo that the food was not good at all. And even when it was almost good, it was nowhere near as good as the food in India.
Cus-cus
was all the Arabs seemed to eat. Bowls of
cus-cus –
a grain that was tasteless and not spicy like pilau rice.

Bappoo was smiling, no longer envious. ‘Oh well,’ he said happily, reaching for more rice, ‘it was written then, by a kind God, that I not chosen to go to Egypt and left here to take care of Lachlan-Sahib's house.’

George assured Bappoo that if he
had
been chosen to go to Egypt he would surely have died during the Army's ten-day march across the burning desert.

‘From Suez we were forced to march for ten days across the desert to the Nile,' George explained. `For ten days, Bappoo, all that was required of us was to suffer. Such barrenness! Such solitude! All of us so tired, staring at a scenery that never changed.’

‘Bad, bad ...’
 
Bappoo kept eating.

‘A flat open plain without one palm tree for shade from the sun,’ George continued, ‘and no living creatures – not even a lizard or a serpent – the usual creatures of the desert, not one did we see. Even the birds hated that desert, Bappoo, in all ten days of the long march, no bird did we see flying above. Not even a
vulture
.’

‘Good! No vultures! Vultures are bad birds,’ Bappoo said carelessly, not totally believing George's dramatic tale.

George knew what Bappoo was thinking, but every word he had said was true. After marching forty miles from Suez and then twenty miles into the basin of the desert, all their water had gone, and not a sign of a well. No water to drink, and no water to cook the rice.

And the
heat!
 

Even the suffocating heat of India in the hot season could never compare to the blinding dry heat of the silent desert. But the torture of the heat was nothing to the craving thirst, a gravelly thirst so painful some of the soldiers began to cry just to lick their own tears.

There was even a time when George thought he might die from the thirst, until he remembered an old Arab trick taught to him in his childhood by his mother from Morocco – to carry a small stone in the mouth to keep the tongue moist when thirst was bad.
 
Quickly he had searched for a stone, and found one, and passed the trick on. Within hours every soldier was searching for his stone, and even if it did not quench the thirst, it greatly helped to ease the mouth from dryness.

Two days later they had found the first of only two wells on that hundred-mile passage across the Egyptian desert; but by then, the desert had claimed three dead soldiers from the 77th.

‘For two long days, Bappoo,’ George said in all truth, ‘I have no water, no food. For two days all I have in my mouth is a small stone to suck.’

‘A
stone!
’ Bappoo stared at George in horror, and then slowly his face moved into a disbelieving smile.

‘
Chut!
’ said Bappoo, and threw back his head and roared with laughter, delighted with life and even more delighted with George Jarvis who, in the past, had tried to convince him that he was
not
a rascally son of slave, but the son of a prince and a descendant of kings!
 
And even now George was
still
making up his funny and fanciful tales.

‘
Accha!
’ Bappoo reached across to slap George's shoulder in laughing praise. ‘Very good!’

*

It was dark when Lachlan returned to his own house. He found a packet of letters from England awaiting him. He left them where they lay, too tired to read them now; plenty of time tomorrow to find out what was happening in the world outside the East.

As always, he awoke before daybreak. The
chik
sunblind had been raised and the air was still cool from the night.
 
He got out of bed and pulled on a robe. The rest of the house was still sleeping. He collected his letters, found himself a glass of mango juice, then returned to his room and propped himself against the pillows to read his letters.

The first was from Lestock Wilson, bearing an unusual address,
Jerusalem Cafe, London
, and was seven months out of date. He read the letter with pleasure, smiling as he turned the pages.

The second letter was from Maria Morley. He read it with interest. She had written him ten letters in all, and in each her expressions of affection for him grew less inhibited. ‘My dear,
dear
Lachlan.’ She longed to see India again.

Finally, he opened the last letter of the batch. This one was from Scotland, from his Uncle Murdoch. His breath expulsed sharply as he read it – his brother Donald had died – a short illness, a quiet and peaceful death.

The Chinese clock on the sidetable ticked noisily in the silence. Poor Donald ... all his years of waiting and watching the hill for his brother's return had been in vain.

Lachlan's sorrow welled around a sharp stab of guilt. His preoccupation with Jane over the years had relegated Donald to that distant part of his life which no longer existed. He felt sorry, painfully sorry, that he had neglected to care for his quiet and forlorn brother beyond the assistance of money.
 
His sorrow swiftly changed to anger – anger at himself.
 
But it was too late, much too late, to try and make amends now.
 

He moved off the bed and sat in the cane armchair by the window, staring at the sky already bereft of stars in the silver dawn. Soon he saw the first far-off glimmer in the eastern sky, watched the pale rays rise higher and become stronger until the morning sun swept over the trees and streamed through the window.

There was a jingle of crockery at the door.

‘
Chota hazri
, Huzoor,’ Bappoo said cheerfully behind him, laying down the morning tray of tea and fruit. ‘I leave here on table by bed.’

After a pause, Bappoo exclaimed in a bright chatty mood. ‘Oh yes, good show, you read now all letters from your Blighty. Now you happy! Yes? No?’
  

Lachlan did not stir nor answer. He was engrossed in thoughts of home … his home in the West.
 

PART TWO