Colonel Brandon's Diary

1779

Wednesday 24 March

And so I find myself on a ship bound for the Indies, and at last I have found my sea legs and I can manage to keep my food inside me. The vessel is an East Indiaman, and as fine a ship as ever sailed the seas, or so her captain tells me. He is a talkative fellow, prosperous and well-made, and instils confidence into those around him.

‘This is my fourth run,’ he told me as we stood together on the deck. ‘Yes, I’ve done very well out of the East India Company. I’ve had three good runs and amassed a fortune. How much do you think I have made?’

I guessed at five thousand pounds, and he laughed. Then I guessed at ten thousand, and he laughed again.

‘Double it and then some,’ he said. ‘Almost thirty thousand pounds! What with free transport for freight giving a man a chance to make something out of his own bit of cargo, and the salary, it’s a good life, being a captain. A man would have to be a fool to make less than four thousand a trip, and I’m no fool! On my last trip I made twelve! But this will be my last voyage. I could make more money by staying, there’s always work for experienced captains, but I’m tired of making it. I want to spend it. When my ship retires, so do I. It’s a hard passage, and it takes its toll on men and ships alike.’

He told me of his plans to buy a small estate and find a wife, and I wished him well, but being in no mood to hear him talk about the woman he would like to marry, I soon left him and joined my comrades; a varied group, but I liked Green and Wareham, and I thought I would soon be able to call them friends.

The talk was all of Warren Hastings. Being eager to learn as much as I could about the strange new world that was opening up around me, I listened avidly as they spoke of bribery and corruption, and of Hastings’s governorship, and of the difficulties that lay ahead of me. As I imagined the exotic locations awaiting me, England seemed a long way away.

Friday 30 July

The Indies are strange beyond my expectations. The heat is like a furnace. I rise early and work as much as I can before the sun explodes over the horizon. By the afternoon it is too hot to do anything at all, and the evenings are little better.

The men who have been here some time say that I will get used to it, but I wonder if I ever will.

The colours are as fierce as the heat, and the food is fiery, burning my mouth and throat. I ate my first Indian dish today, and I had not taken two mouthfuls when I grabbed at my throat and felt the tears running down my cheeks. The others laughed, and poured me more wine, but drinking it only made my mouth burn the more and the sweat ran down my face in rivers.

I tried to remember the soft summers of England to cool me, but I could not bring them to mind, for it seemed impossible that I had ever been cold.

I ate no more of the strange dish, but I must accustom myself to the food ere long, or else die of starvation.

Monday 9 August

I have seen my first elephant!

I remember hearing about such beasts long ago, but I thought the stories were exaggerated. Having seen one, I think that, if anything, the stories were too tame.

It was the oddest thing I have ever come across. It dwarfed a horse as a horse dwarfs a dog, and it was covered in a thick leathery hide that hung in folds from its legs like a pair of ill-fitting breeches. It had a short tail at the back, and at the front it had a head of such monstrous appearance that it seemed impossible such a thing could exist. Large ears, eyes too small, and huge tusks were the least of it, for in between them was the strangest thing of all: a nose, but what a nose! It had the length and appearance of a snake, and it swayed from side to side as the creature walked, snuffling along the ground like a blind thing looking for food. Then, finding something, the trunk lifted like a misshapen hand and dropped the morsel into the creature’s mouth.

I stood still to watch it. As I did so, it found another use for its appendage and, lifting it up like a ceremonial trumpet, it let out a great bellow.

‘It sounds like a cow with a cold,’ said Green.

‘Though a good deal louder,’ said Wareham.

‘Quite a sight, is it not?’ said Green, as the creature walked past.

‘I have never seen such a monstrous thing in my life. Those tusks, that nose — ’

‘Almost as large as Ullswater’s proboscis!’ said Wareham, to much laughter.

Ullswater took the raillery in good part, saying, ‘The elephant has the advantage of me, for I have not learnt how to forage with mine.’

‘Yet,’ said Wareham.

Ullswater laughed with the rest of us, but added, ‘You may laugh, but when rations are short and I turn up delicacies, then I will be the one doing the laughing!’

Thursday 2 September

I am becoming used to my new country, with its elephants and bullocks, its spicy food and its scents of jasmine and musk. I am becoming adept at giving orders and having them carried out. I can fire a musket, and I believe the men respect me; those who are still on their feet, for the life is cruel and many of those who arrive from England do not survive. Sickness, the climate, accident and injury carry off more than half of them.

Friday 10 September

Wareham wanted to buy a necklace for his sister and he invited me to go to the bazaar with him. We were soon wandering between the stalls, surrounded by the din of moneychangers arguing with their customers, the sight of bright fabrics and the smell of pungent spices. The goldsmiths and jewellers were busy, and Wareham stopped to buy his sister a gold chain. I watched the jugglers as he completed his purchase and then we returned to camp, where I found a letter waiting for me.

I felt a chill as the air of England seemed to blow over me, for the handwriting was my sister’s. Knowing that whatever news the letter contained would already be a few months old, I opened it and scanned the pages quickly, learning that my father was dead.

I folded the letter and stared in front of me, unseeing. If only Eliza had been strong for another few months, my father’s death would have removed the barrier between us. We could have been married. Only a few months! The shock of it turned me to ice.

‘Not bad news I hope?’ asked Wareham.

I roused myself.

‘My father is dead.’

‘I am sorry,’ he said.

I thought of my father as he had been when my mother was alive, and I remembered him smiling. And then I thought of him as I had last seen him, showing no remorse at the fact that he had forced Eliza to marry my brother, and I crumpled the letter in my hands.

Now he was dead and buried, and my brother was the new head of the family, and the owner of the estate.

And suddenly everything I had worked so hard to run away from caught up with me and I could no longer deny my memories of England. I recalled it in every detail: the soft landscape, overshadowed by mist; the variety of greens, from the verdant emerald of the lawns to the lime-green of the ferns and the dark sage of moss and late summer leaves; the clear water, running through streams and basking in lakes; the sun rising, mild and clement, in the morning. And Eliza would be there now, cutting roses in the garden and wandering across the meadows, her hat swinging by a ribbon from her hand. I prayed my brother treated her well, and that she was happy. With kindness and diversion I hoped she would be, if not happy, at least not unhappy, and it gave me some comfort to think of her at Delaford, where she was meant to be.

I went outside and was immediately scorched by the sun, so different from the mild friend of England. The buzz of the mosquitoes irritated my ears, and I slapped at my neck in anger as they bit into me. The exotic colours dazzled my eyes, and I thought how far we had come in such a short time, Eliza and I, for if not for her marriage I would still be in Oxford, with its mellow stone and its rustling river, and she would be there with me.

Monday 13 September

I woke early and set to work. The sergeant soon came to me and, after the usual preamble, said, ‘Johnson is dead, sir.’

I rubbed my eyes and said, ‘Very good,’ and thought, Another man lost to the climate.

I dismissed the sergeant and then threw down my pen and went out of the tent, watching him drill the men and hearing the familiar commands: wheel, turn, march, counter march, advance, retire.

Their numbers were depleted, for there were the usual absences due to illness, caused by the heat or tainted food or disease, and to deaths. I thanked God I had acclimatized, and that I no longer felt the agonies produced by the exotic spices and rotten meat.

My eyes wandered to the bullocks walking past, carrying loaded panniers, and I wondered if we would have enough of them to pull the guns and ammunition wagons when we broke camp.

Carstairs joined me, evidently thinking the same thing, for he said, ‘Do you think we should buy a couple of elephants to pull the heavy guns?’

‘They are expensive,’ I said. ‘Can we afford them?’

‘The purchase price, yes, but the maintenance?’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps not. At least with bullocks, they can graze off the land. It is a pity, though. A couple of elephants would make easy work of it.’ His eyes wandered to the men, who were forming a square. ‘They seem to be shaping up well.’

‘Not well enough. They are not ready for battle. Their formation is sloppy, and they do not react quickly enough to commands.’

‘They will improve.’

‘I hope so, or they, too, will soon be dead.’

He looked at me curiously, for I used not to be so grim, but I cannot rid myself of the thought that, if only Eliza had had more strength, we could be married now, she and I, and we could be happy.

Tuesday 21 September

Another letter from Catherine arrived this morning, already many months old, giving me news of my father’s funeral, and telling me of Eliza.

We are staying at Delaford with Harry and Eliza. Harry is worse than ever. I lectured him on the evils of drink but he took no notice of me. He was already drunk when we sat down to dinner and he could barely stand by the time Eliza and I withdrew. Eliza was pale and seemed unwell. Her spirits must have been sadly affected by my father’s death, for she spoke barely two words to me all evening, and I cannot think what else she has to make her unhappy.

I hope it is only the melancholy occasion and my sister’s presence that caused her low spirits, but I fear it is her marriage. If she still regrets it, what torment for her.

What torment for us both.

Friday 24 September

I am finding it impossible to control my thoughts. They are not here with me, but at home, with Eliza. Is she happy? Is she well? Is she thinking of me?

I turn a thousand possibilities over in my mind. If I had not left home, if I had returned sooner, if ... if ... if....

I must gain control of my thoughts soon or I fear for my sanity. My only solace is work, and I am determined to think of nothing else, for how else will I survive?