Chapter 5: Madras

March 7h 1833. Government House, Fort St George, Madras. India.

“You say you have pursued this de La Zouche woman from Egypt to Madras? You must have a most significant motive to embark on such a journey.” The Governor said.

We sat, glasses of a fine Amontillado in our hands, in the comfortable study of Sir Frederick Adam, Governor of Madras Presidency

“Indeed I have, Sir Frederick,” I replied, and took a sip of sherry before continuing. “She is the woman responsible for the death of my first wife and our children; she has exsanguinated young girls, murdered many men, including Augustus Hardy, nephew of Admiral Hardy, and engaged an assassin to poison the heir to the throne, Princess Alexandrina. I mean to apprehend her and have her stand trial for her many crimes.”

Hermes had docked in Madras two days previously. Captain Hands, fatigue etched on his face, sighed with relief when the vessel was safely and securely moored alongside the wharf lying under the walls of Fort St George. He had been on watch for most of the previous three nights, taking catnaps during the day, as the vessel made the perilous passage along the Coromandel Coast of India.

“As soon as the fishing fleet disembark I am for my bed and sleep the clock around.” He rubbed his tired eyes. “You will be doing me a favour if you and Mimi remain on board tonight and keep Cai company. I will be sound asleep, and she will be lonely after bidding farewell to her friends in the fishing fleet.”

Even as Captain Hands spoke both Mimi and Caitlin were saying their goodbyes to the disembarking girls.

“It will be a pleasure to keep Caitlin -- Cai – company while you regain your vigour, Robin”

“Aye, and I will certainly need all my strength later. Cai has been denied my company for the last three days and nights, and she is a female who requires frequent...”

“Quite so.” I quickly changed the subject. “Which hotel would you recommend for my stay in Madras?”

“The Royal George is the premier hotel in Madras, but it will be full of fishing fleet females, and those Griffins lately arrived...”

“Griffins?”

“The term used to describe new arrivals in India, specifically John Company men newly minted at Addiscombe, the East India Company’s training establishment in England.” Robin yawned and stretched. “I expect you will be invited to stay at the governor’s residence. You are both members of the Order of The Bath and...”

“How will the governor know I have arrived, or who or what I am?”

“I handed the passenger list to the Harbourmaster soon after we tied up. When he sees there is a knight among the passengers he will inform the Governor’s Office.”

Robin Hands was correct in his assumption. After breakfast the following morning a young Ensign, smartly turned out in the uniform of the Madras Fusiliers, came aboard Hermes bearing an invitation from the Governor of the Madras Presidency, inviting Sir Elijah and Lady Mimi Greenaway to do him the honour of staying at the Residency during our stay in Madras. Naturally, I accepted the offer when I discovered the Governor was General Sir Frederick Adam, a man who I held in the greatest regard and respect. He had commanded a brigade at Waterloo; his brigade was posted to the right of the 2/69^th Foot when the Imperial Guard made their assault on what they imagined to be a beaten and wavering enemy. It was the 52nd Foot and the 1st Foot Guards of Adam’s brigade who threw back that assault. The fact the 2/69th contributed in part to the defeat of the Imperial Guard has been largely ignored, other than by Frederick Adam, who acknowledged the small but significant role the battalion played in the battle in a letter he wrote to Lord Brownlow, the Colonel in Chief of the regiment.

“The woman appears to be a monster, Sir Elijah, have you any idea where she might be? India is a huge country,” observed Sir Frederick.

“I know she and her late husband had contacts in Pondicherry, and I suspect that is where she disembarked from the Omani dhow she boarded in Egypt.”

He scowled. “Pondicherry! I could send a letter to the governor of the territory asking for details of the woman but it will take months before receiving a reply, and then I would doubt the authenticity of the information given by the Frogs!”

“Are relations so strained between Madras and Pondicherry, Sir Frederick?”

“Strained does not cover the state of affairs between us, Sir El – “ He paused, and then said. “We are both members of the Order of the Bath so I vote we drop all this Sir Frederick and Sir Elijah nonsense. My friends know me as Fred, and I understand that you are Jack to yours. I suggest we use that more familiar and less formal mode of address. What do you say, Jack?”

“I entirely agree, Fred.”

“Getting back to the state of affairs between Pondicherry and Madras,” he said as he refilled my glass. “The problem is the stiff-necked pride of the French governor, Jean-Paul Lavessoir. He knows that we, that is John Company, could annex Pondicherry in an afternoon, and have done so each time Britain and France were at war in Europe. He vents his chagrin by obfuscation and delay in replying to any messages I send him. For the life of me, I cannot understand why our government gave the Frogs the place back each time we took Pondicherry from them. I would have kept it in our hands and sent the French packing. You can be sure that would have happened to us if the boot had been on the other foot.” He paused, and I could see he was dragging up a long-buried fact from his memory. “I recall the French captured Fort St George in seventeen forty-six -- a young fellow by the name of Robert Clive managed to escape and carried the news to Fort St David fifty miles south of here. When the French attacked Fort St David they were driven off. However Fort St George -Madras - remained in French hands for three years.”

“It must be galling for the French to know they remain in charge of their colony only because of our magnanimity. Think how you would feel if you were placed in that invidious position, Fred.”

“Well, yes, I can understand Jean=Paul’s reason for being so recalcitrant, but he is like a petulant child in not facing facts as they are rather than as he would like them to be.” Sir Frederick gave a grin. “Of course there are other means of discovering what is happening in Pondicherry besides sending messages to Lavessoir.” He took a small brass bell from the table and gave it a vigorous shake. The ring summoned a slightly built, middle-aged man of dusky complexion, into the room.

“May I introduce my personal secretary, Miguel Cline,” Sir Frederick said. “Meet Sir Elijah Greenaway, Miguel.” I held out my hand, which Miguel Cline took and shook firmly.

“It is a great pleasure to finally meet you, Sir Elijah,” he said. He saw the puzzlement on my face at his statement. “I am Jewish, Sir Elijah, and your name is known to all Jewry as the man who returned the Star of David to its rightful owners.”

“I did not know there were Jews in India, Mister Cline.” I then considered his given name, ‘Miguel’, and made a swift assumption. “Possibly your ancestors arrived with the Portuguese?”

“Indeed, my grandmother could trace her ancestry back to a Jewish carpenter employed aboard a vessel that traded between Lisbon and Goa in the mid-sixteenth century. However, Jews were in India long before the Portuguese arrived, and there are fellow Jews, and members of Thomas Christians, in Pondicherry who keep me up to date as to what is happening in the colony.”

I did not understand his reference to ‘Thomas Christians’ and was about to question him when Sir Frederick chimed in.

“Miguel will send letters to his many informants in Pondicherry, asking for news of the de La Zouche woman.”

Cline nodded in agreement. “If I dispatch a messenger today I would expect replies within the week. In the meantime I would be honoured to escort you and Lady Greenaway around Madras.” He turned towards Sir Frederick. “Assuming the Governor has no other tasks for me?”

“No, Miguel, you go on your sightseeing tour,” Sir Frederick said and then addressed me. “Miguel is an expert on all things relating to Madras. He is a veritable mine of information, and can explain things far better than any encyclopaedia.”

“I will have a carriage prepared immediately and then escort you around the city, Sir Elijah.” Cline gave a half bow and left the room.

Half an hour later Mimi, me, and Miguel Cline were being driven through the streets of Madras in a horse-drawn carriage known as a gharry.

The city was an assault on the senses: sight, sound, scent, and seethed with humanity. The thing most noticeable to Mimi and me were the vivid colours. After the monotony of dun-coloured deserts in Egypt and barren rocks in Aden, added to the overwhelmingly black and grey coloured clothing worn in Egypt and Aden, the array of shades and colours of the vegetation, and of the clothing worn by the inhabitants of Madras, was overwhelming. Mimi and I were bedazzled by the lush greens of the foliage and the vivid reds yellows and purples of the fruit and vegetables on the market stalls. The brilliance of the garments worn by the inhabitants of the city was dazzling. Pink, orange, scarlet, yellow, cornflower blue and emerald green, in fact all the colours of the rainbow were to be seen in the clothing of the native women

Then there were the sounds. The raucous shouts from the many market traders; bells ringing from churches, gongs and cymbals sounding from temples, the undulating call of muezzins calling the faithful to prayer from minarets, were a background to the shrill squeaking of un-greased axles on carts being pulled by various animals, including camels, oxen, and donkeys. It was little wonder that the normal conversational tone of the Madras population seemed to be pitched only slightly under the level of shouting.

And the smells. The odour of rotting vegetation and unsubstantial sanitation underlay the stench of fires fuelled by dried dung, and cooking aromas enhanced by spices and herbs.

And the heat. It was if an oven door had been left open. Yet it was the humidity that both Mimi and I struggled with. The Egyptian desert and rocky Aden were oases of pleasure compared to the debilitating, sultry clamminess, and heavy air of Madras.

During our passage to India on Hermes Mimi and I had been dressed in the clothing we had worn in Egypt. Our European clothing remained stowed in our trunks, and of all the passengers on board we were the only ones who did not complain of the heat. I was quite content to continue wearing the clothing during our stay in Madras but Miguel Cline was appalled.

“It is not pukka for Europeans to wear native dress, Sir Elijah. I can take you to a tailor who will soon run you up some British clothing; coats, waistcoats, shirts, trousers, etc, and my cousins are the owners of an establishment able to provide Lady Greenaway with all the necessary British female garb.”

Mimi made a moue. “I was hoping to wear one of those beautiful garments the local ladies wear. What are they called, Mister Cline? “ She pointed to a bevy of colourfully costumed females picking their way across the road in front of us.

“The women are wearing saris, Lady Greenaway, but no British female would wear such garments. It would not be pukka.“

“What is pukka, Mister Cline? You have used the word several times.” I asked.

“Pukka is a Hindustani word that means ‘genuine’, ‘first-class’, ‘correct’, or ‘proper’, Sir Elijah. We British must show the natives that we are their betters, and we achieve that by being pukka in everything we do. To dress as a native would not be pukka as the natives would come to believe that they were of equal status to us.”

“That sounds rather arrogant, if you do not mind me saying so, Mister Cline,” Mimi said sharply.

“It probably does, Lady Greenaway, and I apologise. But how else are we to keep the natives in awe of us? There are millions of them and only a handful of us. They must respect and fear the British, otherwise they could rise up and massacre us.” Cline’s face was flushed, whether in anger or embarrassment, I could not say, but I ended the conversation.

“You are the expert here, Mister Cline, and we will take your advice and dress in the pukka, British mode,” I said.

“The style will be British but the material will be Indian; cotton, muslin, gauze, and other lightweight cloth, Sir Elijah,” Cline said, and I saw the relief on his face that the conversation had moved on. He gave a volley of orders in a language I could not identify to the Indian driver of the gharri that resulted in us turning into a broad, tree-lined, thoroughfare. There appeared to be no system as to which side of the road vehicles drove -- right or left -- and making the journey even more perilous were the many large, broad horned, cows that wandered all over the road, forcing traffic to take avoiding action.

“Where is the herder to round up the cattle?” I asked Cline. “I would think it not pukka to allow livestock to roam all over the city!”