By Eastern windows (5 page)

Tipu Sultan readily signed the Peace Treaty and then sent down to his vast treasury and paid over the three million rupees demanded.

‘We will meet again,’ he said coldly to Lord Cornwallis.

Cornwallis nodded. ‘I have no doubt that we will.’

‘You red-coated
Angrezi
will not always win the battles here in India.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Cornwallis replied curtly, removing the hat from under his arm and placing it on his head. ‘But I think we can agree that the
Angrezi
have very easily won
this
one.’

*

The soldiers of the 77
^th
left the plains of Mysore under a torrent of hard monsoon rain, every fibre of their tunics soaked, and many wondering why they had gone to Mysore in the first place? All they had defeated was the treacherous passes of the Ghauts, and now they must wade through the mud and tramp up and down them again.

The return journey was horrific. Bullocks hauling the cannons dropped dead in the mud from exhaustion and men were forced to take their places under the harness. Baggage and supplies had to be dropped and left behind in the slough. The men's rice rations diminished, leaving them only a handful of biscuits to sustain them at the end of each tortuous day.

Boats were hired to sail them down the swollen Belliapatam River. Lachlan sat in his boat as if in a nightmare, trying to swiftly identify the corpses that swirled past, the corpses of soldiers who had drowned from capsized boats.

Lachlan began to feel sick, very sick. He was soaked to the skin and had not eaten for three days. He had lost his tent and most of his baggage on the Ghauts. He had also lost his horse that had slipped and foundered, breaking two of her legs; he had almost wept when her big eyes had pleaded with him to take out his pistol and shoot away her pain.

Back on land, Lachlan trudged with his men through miles of mud and rain until finally they came within five miles of Tellicherry on the Malabar Coast. Tellicherry was civilisation, a coastal town with well-built houses and a small British community.

Three miles from Tellicherry, Lachlan received the news that General Abercromby and all the officers of the High Command had already reached the town, and even junior officers were being offered accommodation in the houses of the British community.

His head thumping with pain, Lachlan felt too wet and dirty to resume the gilded role of an officer in the civilisation of Tellicherry, choosing instead to roll up in his camp cloak and sleep on the floor of a deserted old hut near to the main camp. Outside the hut, the jungle steamed under the heat of a new sun.

Some hours later he awoke inside his mother's comfortable home on Mull, Donald was bending over him, a hand on his brow.

‘Donald?'
 

Delirious at seeing his brother again he attempted to raise himself, but the pain banged inside his head, his bloodshot eyes blinking in puzzlement, unable to understand why Donald's face was shrouded in fog.

‘Fever,’ McKenzie said, turning to the soldier standing beside him. ‘Make speed an' tell Surgeon Anderson that Lieutenant Macquarie is lying in a filthy hut shiverin' and shakin' wi' fever.’
 

Lieutenant Dr Colin Anderson was in his twenty-seventh year, the same age as his closest friend, Lachlan Macquarie. He arrived at the double, his face white with apprehension as he examined his patient.

‘Malaria,’ he said finally.

McKenzie was staring hard at his lieutenant; at the dark patches under his closed eyes; his tanned skin had a grey hue, his face drenched in perspiration, and every breath he drew sounded like a strangled rasp.

McKenzie whispered. ‘Will he make it?’

‘Hopefully,’ Dr Anderson replied. ‘He is fit and strong which always helps. I've given him a large dose of quinine and mercury, as well as a few opium pills to deaden the headaches. But he is dangerously ill and could take a fatal turn for the worse. He will need a servant to look after him, day and night.’

‘He's already got one,’ McKenzie said stoutly. ‘He's got me, hasna he?’
 

Dr Anderson looked dubiously at the big Scotsman who had just promoted himself from the ranks into the personal service of an officer – an enormous man, built like a bull.

‘Is this simply your way of escaping the drudgery of the ranks?’

‘Nae sir.’ McKenzie glared. ‘It’s ma way of looking after ma own lieutenant until he is well and fet again. Then I'll go back to ma comrades in the ranks.’

After a pause, Dr Anderson nodded tiredly. ‘Very well, I shall arrange it with Colonel Balfour.’

‘Aye, do that,’ McKenzie said. ‘An’ while you're at it, mebbe ye could arrange for a couple of coolies to come
 
an' help me clean up this place.’ He looked disdainfully around the hut. ‘This will no' do for ma lieutenant. This will
no'
do at all!’

‘I'll send some coolies,’ Anderson said, turning to leave.

‘An` blankets,’ McKenzie called after him. ‘He'll be needing' a few more clean blankets to keep him comfortable when the shivering gets really bad.
 
An` water! I'll need water to keep his face freshly sponged and cool. Ye'll see to that an all, will ye?’

At the door, the young military surgeon abruptly stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at the audacious private, eyeing him up and down as if unable to believe his insolence.

‘Oh – an` some tae!' McKenzie added. ‘If I'm stayin' here awhile I'll need a drop of the auld life saver.’

Dr Anderson turned and thrust himself out the door before his patience and temper escaped him.

*

When the doctor returned some hours later, the interior of the hut was as clean as a corporal's kit. A kettle was boiling on a small oil stove and McKenzie was ladling a spoon of the East India Company's tea into a pot of boiling water.

‘Oh, this is
much
better!’ Anderson said with surprise.

‘Aye.’ McKenzie nodded. ‘But I had to promise them two lazy coolies that I'd give `em the last of ma bescet ration before they would even make a start to help me. Will ye have a drop o' tae, sir?’

Dr Anderson shook his head and moved over to his patient. When he turned back some minutes later, he saw McKenzie sitting with a contented expression on his face as he dipped a biscuit into his tin mug of tea.

‘My, my,’ the doctor said dryly. ‘I thought you said you had promised the last of your biscuits to the coolies!’

‘Aye, I did, sir. But not until they had done one final job for me.’

‘Which was?’

‘The Last Post, sir. I told them to go and find the Last Post and give it a good scrub down. Make it nice and clean. And no' to come back until a corporal or sergeant had signed a chit confirming they had done so.’

McKenzie dipped another biscuit in his tea. ‘I told them any soldier would tell `em where to find the Last Post.’

It was an old trick pulled on very young and raw recruits. Dr Anderson could not help smiling as he pictured the faces of the soldiers who would very kindly send the two coolies running here, there, and everywhere, in search of the Last Post – a military bugle call sounded at sunset and military funerals.

McKenzie sniffed.
 
‘I made a guess that ye'd already paid them to do the work, sir.’

‘Your guess was correct.’

‘So they had a reet cheek bargaining for ma bescets as well!’ McKenzie exclaimed. ‘That's why I sent them to the Last Post.’

Dr Anderson turned to leave. ‘Well, McKenzie, if you look after Lieutenant Macquarie as efficiently as you look after your biscuit ration, then I think we may have no fear about his safety and welfare.’

‘No fear,’ McKenzie agreed. ‘I'll treat him like a brother.’

‘You most certainly will not!’ Anderson snapped in final outrage. ‘You, man, will treat him like an
officer
!’

McKenzie stared at the young surgeon's furious face and, not wishing to jeopardise his new career as an officer's aide, hastily assumed a look of sublime contriteness.
 
‘Yes, sir, like an officer, sir. I'll salute him day and night, sir. Every time he wakes up, sir.’

At the door Dr Anderson looked back at the soldier coldly, ‘Damn you and your thickheaded insolence, McKenzie. I sincerely hope that when Lieutenant Macquarie gets better, he will have the good sense to boot you and your audacity back to whence you came!’

‘Yes, sir.’

McKenzie's face remained complacent. Such expressions of endearment from the officers were routine.

‘I’ll be back at three.’

‘Verra good, sir.’

*

In the week that followed McKenzie cared endlessly and tirelessly for his lieutenant while the fever raged, forcing the required doses of mercury and opium into him; finally smiling happily when he managed to spoon-feed a cup of boiled rice down his patient's throat without it coming up again.

‘Och, ye'll soon be in fine fettle, sir,’ McKenzie said cheerfully. ‘A few more days and ye may even decide that a drop of the army's brandy would be a better medicine for ye than mercury. Aye, brandy's a gleg medicine for easing' the shivers. I'll order the brandy for ye now, sir, if ye like?’

It was an order that McKenzie had already attended to. As soon as his lieutenant had again fallen into a sleep, he slyly produced the small flat metal flask from inside his tunic, took a long drink and smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘Scotland for ever!’ he gushed, and downed another gulp before returning the bottle to its hiding place.

A week later Lachlan had recovered enough to move into more comfortable accommodation in Tellicherry, procured for him by Dr Anderson, in the house of an elderly official of the East India Company and his wife.
 
And McKenzie, as his official servant, went with him.
 

Lachlan spent the first night luxuriating in a hot soapy bath, his mood thoughtful as he contemplated his life since he had left his home on Mull to travel to India. What had he gained since then?
 

Nothing but malaria.

He lay in thoughtful stillness and let his mind drift home to Scotland and his family. He thought of his mother, still working her farm, and still depending upon financial assistance from her son in India. And poor Donald, working from dawn to dusk and constantly keeping an eye on the hilltop for his brother’s return.

Lachlan climbed out of the tub, dried himself swiftly, knotted the towel around his waist, and searched through his leather holdall, the only possession he had not lost on the Ghauts, and wrote a short letter to his mother.

He chose his words carefully, because as his mother was unable to read, he was forced to write to her through the medium of his Uncle Murdoch who – when he had the time – would ride over from Lochbuy to read the letter to her.

His letter was short and cheerful, telling her of the wonderful and carefree life he was enjoying in India. Then he counted what money he had. It was not much for an officer in India, but a fair amount to a Scottish widow.

He walked to the door, opened it, and rang the bell on the floor outside which brought an Indian servant rushing to serve him. ‘My aide, Private McKenzie,’ he said in Hindi. ‘Please ask him to come at once.’

When McKenzie arrived he was surprised to find his Lieutenant sitting on the bed, dressed in only a towel. ‘Och, sir! This will no' do! This will
no'
do at all! Ye've just had the fever and must keep warm after a bath. An’ that is a fact!’

Lachlan held out the money. ‘First thing in the morning, I want you take this money and get a bank draft, signed and guaranteed by the Army, and made out to this name. Do you know where to go?’

McKenzie shook his head. ‘But it'll no' take me long to find out.’

When McKenzie had gone Lachlan added a postscript to the letter, asking his uncle to see that the draft was cashed on behalf of his mother.

Then he sat and added it up. He had nothing left. He had just given away every rupee he possessed, but somehow he felt richer for it.

*

The following morning McKenzie woke him with his breakfast and the bank draft. Lachlan sealed the draft inside the letter and ordered McKenzie to arrange for it to go in the mail on the next boat out.

An hour later he received an order to report to his commanding officer. As always, Lachlan dreaded the worst. During the last year out in the field, whenever Colonel Balfour had sent for him, it was usually to reward him with some filthy job that kept him building batteries or roads, or standing to arms throughout the night on piquet duty in the rain, while other officers lounged in their tents and complained of the hardship of running out of claret.

For some reason Balfour seemed to be testing him more than any of the other officers, but he was determined not to waste time on resentment or complaint, not even inwardly to himself, because what would be the point? The British Army and the wage it gave him was the only thing that kept his mother and his poor beloved brother from complete impoverishment, and for this reason alone, whatever Balfour heaped upon him he was determined to respond with grit and resolve.