Zachary had to fight back an urge to stamp his feet, like a petulant child.
‘I don’t want to marry her! I don’t want to marry anyone.’ A look of concern came over Mrs Burnham’s face. ‘Oh but Mr Reid, of course you must marry, and soon at that, or else your old ailment may again claim you. If any good has come of our connection, it is surely that that chapter is closed. Now that you have cured yourself you must not, on any account, allow yourself to relapse. All the most enlightened men are agreed on this subject — better the bordello than the indulgence of selfish, solitary pleasures.’
‘Surely, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary, ‘you are not urging me to resort to knocking-shops and bawdykens?
‘By no means,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘What I am urging you to do is to conquer the primitive who lurks inside you. We are in an age of progress and in order to belong to it you must destroy everything that is backward in yourself. And I am convinced that if you set your mind to it you will not find it difficult. With hard work, prayer, regular exercise, a soothing diet and cold baths you can surely vanquish the affliction. You must become a man of the times, Mr Reid — you must change yourself. If you succeed the whole world will be at your feet! It is what I expect of you; it is what you deserve.’
‘It’s all very well for you to say so, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘But what I really deserve is for you to make good on the promise you had made to me — about how our connection would end.’
‘Now, now, Mr Reid.’ Her tone had changed now; there was a note of command in it that he had not heard in a while. ‘You’re not a child; you mustn’t make a tumasher of it.’
With a wave of a handkerchief she ushered him towards the door. ‘You must be off before the harry-maids come back.’
For a moment Zachary stood his ground, in mulish defiance, so she leant closer and whispered into his ear: ‘Remember, Mr Reid — if my husband should have the faintest suspicion he will destroy us both. So please, you must get ahold of yourself.’
Slowly Zachary’s feet began to move. On reaching the door he turned to her again: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Burnham.’
She was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Goodbye, Mr Reid.’
He opened the door and stepped out.
*
It wasn’t till the end of January that Kesri learnt where the Bengal Volunteers were going. It was Captain Mee who told him: ‘Havildar, I have some important news. The Burra Laat, Lord Auckland, and the Jangi Laat, General Sir Hugh Gough, have received formal instructions from London. Our orders are to proceed to southern China.’
This stunned Kesri. China had seemed to him so unlikely a destination that he had discounted all the rumours. But when Captain Mee asked if he wanted to reconsider his decision to volunteer he answered without hesitation. ‘No, Mee-sahib. I’ve given my word and I will go. But about others I don’t know.’
‘You think we’ll lose a lot of men?’
‘Let’s see, sir,’ said Kesri. ‘Some we are better without.’
Kesri mustered the company the next day and Captain Mee made the announcement in his usual businesslike way, speaking through an interpreter. He ended by telling the sepoys that if they wanted to change their minds they had three days to do so. Later, when it was Kesri’s turn to speak to the company, he elaborated on this a little, explaining that anyone who wanted to withdraw from the unit would have to return the travel battas and other emoluments they had received for volunteering. This too would have to be done within three days; after that no withdrawals would be permitted: anyone who developed second thoughts would be treated as a malingerer.
Kesri knew that the prospect of having to return battas and emoluments would be a deterrent to most of the sepoys. He did not expect many withdrawals — but in this he was wrong. Nine men, almost a tenth of the company, came to see him and asked to be sent back to their units. He released them immediately and had them removed under escort, so that they would have no further contact with the company: better to be rid of them now than to have them lingering and spreading their poison.
After the third day had passed, Kesri reminded the company that the time for withdrawals was over. From then on he kept the men under even closer watch. Mutiny or disaffection was not what he was afraid of — in the enclosed circumstances of Fort William signs of recalcitrance would be easy to detect and quell. What worried him more was another possibility: desertion. Now that the eastern expedition was public knowledge, the men were free to apply for permission to leave the fort for short periods. Kesri knew that in the company’s present state of morale, a few desertions were inevitable and resigned himself to dealing with them when they came.
But the disclosure of the expedition’s destination did have one fortunate consequence: Kesri was free at last to visit the paltani-bazars and Sepoy Lines, to make a start on something that he had had to postpone all this while: the business of putting together the company’s contingent of camp-followers — a body that would exceed the fighting men in number when all the necessary dhobis, darzies, cobblers, bhistis, bhandari-walas, porters and baggage handlers had been recruited. On top of that there were the auxiliaries and daftardars to be considered, which would consist of another sizeable contingent, including medical attendants, clerks, interpreters, accountants, gun-lascars, golondauzes, fifers, drummers and the like.
Recruiting the camp-followers was a tedious business but it was not without its rewards. The followers were usually provided by sirdars, ghat-serangs and other labour contractors, many of whom made handsome profits from the army’s contracts and were willing to pay good dastoories in order to secure them. The officers generally left this matter to the senior NCOs and clerical staff who were often able to collect quite substantial sums from the contractors. This was an accepted perquisite and Kesri knew that he could count on it to bring in a tidy little sum.
There were no such benefits attached to the choice of auxiliaries, who were all employees of the military establishment. But in this matter too Kesri was able, with Captain Mee’s support, to pick and choose his men. He was particularly careful when it came to choosing the drummers and fifers, who were provided by the army’s Boy Establishment. These youngsters, some of whom were as young as ten or eleven, were mainly Eurasians. Some were the illegitimate sons of British soldiers and came from orphanages; some were descended from the legendary ‘topaz’ corps — the Goan and Portuguese artillerymen who had served the British during their early conquests in India.
Although the ‘banjee-boys’, as they were known, were relatively few in number, Kesri knew that they played a disproportionate role in keeping up morale. They often became mascots for their units, and the sepoys sometimes grew so attached to them that they treated them like their own sons.
Kesri insisted on auditioning the boys himself, calling on them to step out of line, one by one, when they mustered for inspection. During one audition a boy accidentally dropped his fife; he was eleven or twelve but tall for his age, with amber eyes, brown hair and a snub nose. He carried on bravely, but at the end of the performance his lower lip began to quiver. Kesri understood that he was afraid that he would not be picked so he beckoned to him to step forward.
Naam kya hai tera? What’s your name?
Dicky Miller, havildar-sah’b.
Do you know where the expedition is going?
Ji, sir. China.
And you’re not scared?
The boy’s amber eyes suddenly brightened. No, sir! he replied, puffing out his chest: Main to koi bhi cheez se nahin darta! I’m not scared of anything!