Bhurtpore, a month later
H
ervey sat on the crumbling wall of an old well, in a large straw hat and very unmilitary clothes, sketching. 'Sir David Ochterlony makes but one stipulation,' he had written to Emma's husband, before leaving Dehli: He would have me do more than merely gawp at the walls of Bhurtpore; he would have me bring back a thorough knowledge of all its defences. And all this, of course, I am to accomplish without for a moment giving cause for anyone to know what I do in that city. To what end this spying may be directed I can little imagine, except that Sir David speaks darkly of the need, perhaps, of such information in years soon to come. At first I imagined him to mean that he himself, Sir David Ochterlony, might have to do what Lord Lake had been unable to accomplish. But although I believe Sir David to be game for the hardiest adventure still, I am certain he understands the circumstances would be no more favourable now than they were for Lord Lake. I have read much of his lordship's siege, and I cannot imagine that success could be accomplished with fewer men and guns, and Sir David does not have one half of Lord Lake's force at his own disposal. I believe, therefore, that Sir David would put before the Council in Calcutta a proposal for the stronger reinforcement of his command were it ever to come to a fight, and that meanwhile he is taking all prudent steps to acquire intelligence of any nature. He does not confirm me in this opinion when I ask him, but he does not oppose it either… Hervey was not by any reckoning an artist, but he had been taught to draw, and his practice in field sketching in the Peninsula had made him proficient in the reproduction of landscape with correct proportion and perspective. For several days he had wandered about the city drawing anything he could see which was of no military significance in order to establish his credentials as a travelling antiquarian. No one had shown the slightest interest in him, but he had wanted an alibi – a portfolio of architectural drawings that would serve as evidence of his innocent intent when he began work on the defences.
One sketch he had been especially minded to hide, however. Its subject appalled him – sickened him indeed. He had scarcely been able to keep down his gorge as he drew. And it took him longer to complete than some of the more elaborate works of decorative detail, for he had wanted as faithful an impression as possible; one that might have the same effect on a viewer that the archetype had on him. It had been a repetitive work, a business of drawing skull after skull. He had tried to estimate how many there were: the column was as tall as Trajan's in Rome, and his guide had said it was neither hollow nor filled with sand. Here was no bas-relief of bones, but a solid pillar of Lord Lake's dead. No Christian burial or cremation according to native rites for these men – King's and sepoys alike. The gamekeepers at Longleat would string up their trophies to discourage predators and to impress by their zeal. The Futtah Bourge, the 'bastion of victory', was but the same. How loathsome it stood by comparison with that eloquent commemoration of Trajan's victory, an affront to every decent instinct of a Christian-raised man, and a gesture of contempt for the customs of war. Peaceful Hindoostan might be, but a sight such as this said that peace was an unnatural thing. Hervey considered it well that he concealed his sketch, and thought it best that he hide it from view of his fellows too.
This next stage of his work occupied him a full week. 'The fortress of Bhurtpore is without doubt the largest I have ever seen,' he wrote to Eyre Somervile towards the end of October: It stands on a plain broken and rugged towards the west but otherwise bare, affording little cover, and I calculate the perimeter to be not very much short of five miles. Any siege force would have to be great indeed to invest the entire fortress. I have now been able to make a very faithful comparison of Lord Lake's dispositions, and it is at once apparent that his insufficiency in men was greater than I had supposed when reading the usual texts, for with the Maratha cavalry harassing him he was obliged to hold ready reserves to deal with them, and he had not thereby the means either to starve out the garrison in the old way or breach the walls in enough places and in sufficient strength to bolt the defenders.
A broad and deep ditch runs the entire length of the perimeter, from the inner edge of which rises a thick and lofty wall of sun-baked clay and stone, flanked by no fewer than thirty-five turreted bastions. I have been able to draw in plan the location of each, though for reasons of economy in time, and so as not to appear excessively interested should I have been accosted, I was minded to draw elevations of only those I judged would command the likely approaches. The citadel itself occupies a natural height, rising above all else in the city, and is itself enclosed by a ditch 1'0 feet wide and fifty feet deep. And, as if Vauban himself had directed the fortification, there are ravelins and lunettes, fleches and demi-lunes the entire length of the walls.
And how blessed are the people of Bhurtpore, too, since the moats and ditches are dry, so they are not plagued by the mosquitoes that thrive on still water, and they may drive their animals wherever they wish. I have learned that water when it is needed to fill the moats comes from a jheel to the north-west of the fortress, a very practical and happy arrangement. This water and these walls would pose the best engineer a test of his science. And when the water and the walls are covered by the guns of thirty-five bastions and countless other outworks, the infantry might very well become so many companies of forlorn hopes unless directed by a general of exceptional address. In the skill of the siege artillery and the field gunners reposes their fate. No fortress is impregnable, we must understand, but it is my decided opinion that if ever a fortress came close to such a condition it is Bhurtpore…
And then he had confided in his friend the unhappier detail of his detached duty – unusually, for it touched only on the business of the Sixth: I am resolved to have Green out. He daily becomes more awkward in his dealings with everyone. In truth I can scarcely bear to speak to him. Every blemish in both his character and appearance seemed magnified in Dehli, there being no multitude of other officers to draw away attention. I have therefore written to Joynson and advised him that he speak severely with him about the advisability of his remaining in the regiment, for I have concluded that he could never make an officer, and if ever it comes to a fight the outcome would be very ill indeed – for himself, principally, for there could be little enough damage he might do to any of the dragoons, such is his subsidiary role. Yet were he ever to encounter a half decent swordsman the result must be disaster.
But, on the other hand, I am pleased to say that Perry is a fine lieutenant, on whose account I need have had no fears, and I shall take leave hence, before returning to Dehli, to see the great white mausoleum at Agra, about which you always spoke so much…
These letters he then took with him to Agra, where there were trusted hircarrahs to carry despatches down the Jumna and thence to Calcutta, and from where he himself could take a boat back to Dehli with greater ease. He had indeed grown fond of his licence. The days were still warm, and at night it was good to sit before a fire reading or in contemplation. He lacked the company of English-speakers, Jaswant Sing having now returned to Dehli, but this gave him opportunity to practise his Urdu with a certain confidence, and in any case he had never been fretful in his own company – except at the very end of his stay in Bhurtpore, but the fever had not developed its full power, and he was abed for no longer than a day.
Five more he gave himself to see what had once been the proud Mughal capital, Agra. On the last evening he sat beside the hearth in a comfortable haveli which Jaswant Sing had arranged for him, below the red walls of the great sandstone fort. The place was strangely peaceful for so teeming a city, and he contemplated its lessons. He laid down his glass of arrack – he had come to rely on it as a faithful aid to digestion, no matter how tempestuous the dinner served him – leaned back in his chair and drew long on the mildest of cheroots. The tobacco smoke mixed agreeably with that of the sandalwood burning in the grate, and he closed his eyes for a moment the better to hear the nightjar – stranger, as a rule, to the haunts of men.
In a while he opened them again, and picked up his journal from the table next to him. It had commanded more time than usual of an evening, for it was his sole entry at Agra: 12th November 1824 The work at Bhurtpore being done – and greatly more of it than I had ever imagined, so immense a place is it – I travelled thence to the Jumna again, under the admirable arrangements of Jaswant Sing, and reposed two nights at the ancient capital of the Moguls. The palace called the Taje Mahl, which means crown palace, is spoken of throughout India as one of unsurpassed beauty, the place of burial of the wife of a great emperor to whom it was erected in praise. I visited it the first day on arriving and was not disappointed. While it is visible in whole from the river, approached from the south through the main gate only its dome and the four minarets, at each corner, of white marble, are to be seen above the circumadjacent trees of a Persian garden, in the way that the dome of the Pope's basilica in Rome can be seen above the crowding buildings of the Borgo. Only when, like the basilica, one comes right upon it can its entire beauty be imagined. I have attempted to sketch it, but it is wholly beyond my skill to render it any justice, and I have instead resolved to find an artist hereabout who will make me a fair likeness. Last night I visited the gardens opposed to it on the other bank of the Jumna, which are in very great disrepair, yet which are called the Moonlight Gardens for here is where, legend has it, the emperor would come at the full moon each month to recall his lost love. It was planted with all manner of herbage that gave off sweet scent by night, and there is still too a night scent, though the place is very jungled…
Hervey's journal pretended to nothing more than being well-kept. For the most part it was in note form, serving as a memorandum of movement, acquisition, accomplishment; or occasionally of intention, hindrance or opinion. But never of emotion, not even anger. Had it been his practice to include such feelings he would have filled pages since coming to Agra, for in that moonlight garden he had for a time begun to question the true intensity of his former love. It had been Emma Somervile's suggestion – insistence, indeed – that he visit Agra. There, she said, he would see the perfect expression of a grieving man's love. It had been no mawkish sentiment, for he had spoken with her of raising some memorial to Henrietta, and had done so with perfect calm. Henrietta was not yet dismissed habitually from his mind – thoughts of her, especially of their moments of intimacy, came on him still, and often – but he could now think of her with reason and cool judgement, quite unlike before. And Emma's suggestion had been far from unwelcome, for he had read and heard much of the white marble shrine: it would surely be instructive to see how a man who had grieved and had the means to memorialize that grieving had done so. However, the palace had seemed more and more a rebuke to him. Here stood a memorial as much to the constancy of an emperor's love as to the empress herself. Where was the evidence of his own constancy? In truth, the evidence was to the contrary – his bibi, the letters to and from Lady Katherine Greville, more sportive with each return.
Only later, on leaving Agra, as he read fitfully on the budgerow plying upstream for Dehli, did he learn that in time the emperor had abandoned the city and set up his court in the old Mughal capital – just as he, Hervey, had abandoned England and set up his domain in India. But Mumtaz Mahal had begged her husband not to pine for her, and to remarry. Hervey could not slough off his guilt so easily. And in any case his sins were mingled. He no longer honoured his wife's memory with his body, but neither did he say his prayers with system or regularity, let alone conviction. And he might as well have forgotten the offspring of their union. Somervile had been wont to say that many a man had lost his reason in India as well as his soul. But such men, Hervey supposed, had sought consolation in drink or some other opiate. He relied only on activity. No, he had no fear of losing his reason. But in India colours were brighter and shadows darker. It was not always so easy to judge things faithfully.
A noisy skein of bar-headed geese recalled him to the present. He turned up his collar against the freshening Jumna breeze, and picked up his volume on the Maratha wars again. How had Lord Lake miscalculated so? The walls of Bhurtpore had stood then as they did now. What had been the cause of so fatal a misjudgement? He must have it. And he knew he must then pray that in all his forgetting activity he could himself keep a right judgement in things, civil or military.