Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [513]
He half closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander over the events of the last few years.
What an extraordinary time it had been. What a triumph for English arms and the bold foreign policy of Pitt.
First the six month voyage to Madras; then the encounter with the massive, steaming Indian subcontinent: its exotic, dark-skinned people in their colourful dress, its dust, heat, monsoons – wild fluctuations of climate he had never imagined; in Sarum his eye had been used, day to day, to seeing the lush greens of the countryside, or the red brick and grey stone of the town. Here, life itself had a different hue – saffron, ochre, cinnamon met the eye, and as for the smells, they had assaulted him, rich and heady, as soon as he walked off the ship. How could he describe them: urine, jasmine, cowdung, he could pick out these strange and pungent aromas from the land, but they were mixed with so many others, the bitter-sweet scents of cooking that rose from every house, of spices, perfumes: no, he could not describe them. But he knew that he had a thrilling, tingling sense that he was more sharply alive than he had ever been before.
His life at first was pleasant. The little regimental canton was a modest collection of buildings, but there was so much to see, especially when one sauntered out into the warm evening after the relentless furnace of an Indian afternoon. There were amusements, like pig-sticking, or watching the native women in their subtle and exquisite dances. And, he knew, soon there would be action.
For several years the French government forces and the East India Company – independent but backed by British arms – had been manoeuvring for control of the huge Indian trade in tea, coffee, silks and spices. Up to 1756, their action had mostly been confined to alliances between different Indian princes and to occasional skirmishes.
But now the incipient war was coming out into the open. Pitt demanded action. At the time he arrived in Madras, the regiment knew it could not be long before there was action.
First, however, there was a brief wait.
It was during this period that Adam first met Fiennes Wilson.
Sir George Forest had supplied the letter of introduction. His father had handed it to him just as he was leaving, together with twenty pounds in gold; but he had not fully understood the value of the letter until one of the lieutenants who was well versed in India told him:
“Fiennes Wilson? He’s a friend of Warren Hastings, and the other young bloods of the East India Company here.”
He understood that Wilson, of the wealthy Christchurch family, was attached to the East India Company in some way, but he knew little of Hastings or other names the lieutenant mentioned.
“Those are the men in John Company that are going to build India,” his lieutenant told him. “And make fortunes for themselves,” he added.
The vast accumulations of capital the India merchants could make were well known. Men of moderate means when they left England might return years later, if they survived the climate, with tens of thousands of pounds – nabobs they were called – who bought estates and even titles for themselves back in England.
“An introduction to Fiennes Wilson and Warren Hastings is a valuable asset,” the lieutenant went on. “Make good use of it, young fellow. I envy you.”
Fiennes Wilson was a tall young man of twenty-five. His face was so finely drawn and perfectly proportioned that he seemed to have stepped out of the classical world. His black hair was thinning, giving his forehead a look of greater height than it actually had.
To Adam, within minutes of their first meeting, he seemed like a Greek god and a hero.
It was not surprising. Fiennes Wilson had all the charm and easy manners of a young aristocrat; his eyes were sympathetic; he laughed easily; and he had a great deal of money.
He took in the young fellow at a glance and welcomed him like an old friend of the family.
“This is Mr Adam Shockley,” he told his other guests at their first dinner, “a friend of Sir George Forest’s.