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By Root 975 0

even learn the ropes, though, he was assigned to an artillery unit stationed in Mhow, a city in central India, 350 miles (563 kilometers) and a ten-day trip away. But no sooner had he arrived in Mhow than the military action had moved on and he was once again reassigned. This time, he was instructed to turn around and make the long journey back to Bombay, though this was complicated by troops, moving in the opposite direction, receiving transport priority. When finally allowed to leave Mhow, he ended up riding solo on a “bullock train,” an oxen-driven cart. “Not much danger,” he noted, “but most men on road armed,” and to his astonishment, a leopard and other exotic animals boldly crossed their path. In a certain way, this was exactly what he had signed up for—an adventure worthy of Bellot—yet he could not get back to Bombay fast enough. The job awaiting him there was, as he put it with unalloyed joy, “The very thing I had wished for!” He had been appointed the anatomy professor–cum–Anatomy Museum curator at the newly established medical school for Indian students, Grant Medical College, as well as being named a staff surgeon at its affiliated hospital—positions that would instantly grant him the elevated status he craved. In other words, Henry Vandyke Carter was about to become, for all intents and purposes, a Bombay Henry Gray.

RETRACING CARTER’S EARLY steps in India is relatively easy. From the moment he disembarked in Bombay, he recorded his every movement, as though he’d placed himself under surveillance. On his trip to Mhow, he even charted the number of miles covered, day by day, village to village. Still, his words take one only so far. Typical for a diarist, he stints on atmosphere, which is a shame because, in those rare instances when he is moved to do so, Carter’s diary writing can be transporting. Three days before he is to give his first anatomy lecture to his Indian students, for instance, he finds himself in a sanguine mood and takes a moment to capture the beauty of the day. “Though the monsoon [season] has begun,” he writes on June 28, 1858, “the view and prospect from these quarters of Fort George towards the harbour [is] pleasant and lively. All shines outside, and the splendid home-ships ride at anchor like seated queens.” In a rush of images, he describes “all those little details which serve to complete a picture”: the “simple native boats…the passing clouds and towering hills, and variety of light and shade,” and in the foreground, “the small unfinished native pier, bit of beach, and timber-logs of palms.”

Somewhere between these sentences, he has an epiphany. “Truly, there is some pleasure to be found in such scenes,” he writes, “and at these times when Nature shews her peaceful and smiling face. Why not then rise to the contemplation of Nature’s Lord and Maker?” Indeed, why not? Though this day was Sunday, he had not attended church, and yet here, by simply taking in the view from a window, he felt the Lord God’s presence. “At last His mercy and goodness are revealed to my dull vision. At last I have found Him.” Completing the picture that Carter has painted is my image of him, propped against the sill, writing, happy.

Actual images of Carter are rare. Only two are known to survive, both showing him as an elderly man. So on our second day in London, Steve and I decide to play out a hunch. We visit the British Library to see what is described in the catalog as an “Album of views of ‘The Grant Medical College and Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy Hospital, Bombay.’” The photo album, containing forty large vintage platinum prints, is among the library’s vast holdings of material related to the British rule of India. While the photographer is unknown and the dates uncertain, what makes the album sound so promising is that it contains views not only of the buildings but also of the staff. Could we match his name to an unidentified face?

Getting permission to see the album, however, requires an interrogation of sorts, as the BL is very selective about who is (and who is not) permitted access to its historical