It was early in the fifth month after Herbert Compton had seen the
shores of his native land grow dim in his aching sight, that the bold
western coast of the peninsula of India met the earnest and watchful
gaze of all who were assembled upon the deck of the noble vessel which
bore them over the blue and sparkling sea.
All that day, before a fresh and lively breeze, the ship had careered
onwards to her haven, dashing from her bows the white and hissing foam,
which spread itself around her, and mingled in her wake; while, startled
from their gambols in the deep, many a shoal of sprightly flying-fish,
rising from under the very bows, would take a long flight to leeward,
and disappear within the limpid breast of their mother ocean.
Above, the sky was blue, and without a cloud to dim its brightness; and
that pureness gave to the sea an intensity of colour which is unknown
save where those cloudless skies exist. The fresh wind had curled the
sea into graceful waves, which threw their white crests upwards to the
sky as they broke, in seeming playfulness, or rejoicing in their
gladness. Away through the glassy depths darted the gaudy dolphin and
merry porpesse, now chasing each other with many an eager bound, now in
a shoal together leaping far above the crystal billows, or appearing to
reach the summits of the lucid waves, and, as they broke, sinking down
to rest for an instant among their sparkling foam, only to renew the
sport in endless variety upon others.
Scattered around them was the fleet, some vessels near, others far
distant; some nearly buried under the load of canvas which was stretched
to court the wind—others, under a less quantity, gracefully surmounting
every wave, and at times showing their brightly coppered sides amongst
the white foam in which they were encircled. They were like living
beings, urging their way over the bright ocean; for at that distance no
human form could be distinctly descried upon their decks, and their
rapid progress seemed to be an act of their own gigantic power.
‘Land! land on the lee bow!’ was the joyful cry heard towards noon from
the main-topgallant cross-trees. ‘Land!’ was re-echoed by all on deck,
and each turned to congratulate his fellow-voyagers upon the happy news.
Even as they looked, a wreath of white smoke burst from the side of the
leading frigate, and mingled with the blue wave; while, with the report
which followed, the joyful and long-looked-for signal of land flew to
the mast-head, and was repeated by the fleet far and near.
Now every gaze was turned from the deck, and men looked with straining
eyes to pierce the haze of the horizon, as if the land lay still above
it; and soon there appeared a darker blue outline of rugged form
visible; for a while, to an unpractised eye, it was only that of a mist
or distant cloud; but it became gradually firmer and more decided, and
ere an hour had elapsed, there was no doubt that it was the land of
their destination—the land in which many were to die—many to suffer
privation and hardship, in war, in captivity, in weary sickness—from
which few were destined to return, except with ruined health, bronzed
features, and altered tempers from those which in youth and ardent hope
they now bore with them.
Few, however, had thoughts of the future; the day was bright and joyful,
and, as they neared the shore, it appeared to smile a welcome upon them.
The naked precipices of the Ghats reared themselves out of the dark and
endless forests which the brilliant sun and soft warm atmosphere
softened with tender tints; and as many a one longed to roam far away
among those recesses, little thought they how there lurked the demon of
deadly fever, who would have smitten them with death had they ventured
to intrude upon his solitary domain—solitary, except to the wild
elephant, the bison, the bear, and the serpent, which roamed unmolested
everywhere, and shared it with him.
As they neared the coast, many a white sail of picturesque form could be
seen gliding along it; others, issuing from little harbours and creeks,
whose shores were clothed with groves of tall palm-trees, which all had
heard of, but none as yet had seen. As the fleet was descried from the
shore, little boats shot out, spreading their wide sails, and as they
neared the ships, became objects of intense interest. They would now
first see a native of that noble land—a Hindoo, one who worshipped
idols, whose faith and manners had been undisturbed for ages; while in
the West had spread new faiths, new systems, where everything was daily
advancing in civilisation. Fearlessly did the tiny boat advance upon the
ship, giving a signal for a rope; and as it was thrown, one of its
dark-skinned crew leaped into the chains, and was on deck in a
instant—an object of wonder and admiration to those who for the first
time beheld him. Tall and finely formed, his figure was a model of
symmetry, his eyes large and lustrous, his features regular and amiable
in expression, his body naked, except a white cloth around his loins,
and a small cap upon his head, quilted in curious patterns.
He had brought fish, he said, to those who, from having made a few
voyages, had picked up some few words of his native tongue; and had a
few plantains, some eggs and butter, vegetables of the country, and sour
curds—all delicious luxuries to those who had long been confined to the
usual shipboard fare with dry biscuit. Soon his stock was disposed of,
and descending the side, the rope was cast off, and once more his little
barque danced over the sparkling waves towards the shore.
They were yet far from Bombay; and as evening approached, the signal-gun
and requisite flags warned the fleet to take in sail and stand out to
some distance from the shore.
The sun went down in glory. As he descended, a few light clouds formed
about him, and the wind dropped to a gentle whispering breeze, but just
enough to fill the sails, and the fleet glided onwards in quietness.
As the sun sank, the heavens became one mass of gold, almost too
brilliant to look upon! and the clouds, tinged with reddish tints, could
only be distinguished by the dazzling colours of their edges. At last it
disappeared into a sea of waving, restless, molten gold; and as the
waters gradually and lingeringly gave up their brightness, and the beams
of light faded from the sails of the ships, the heavens became a mass of
most gorgeous colours—crimson, and gold, and purple, fading into dim
greenish yellows and tender violet tints on each side; which, as the
mind strove to remember them for ever, and the eye to fix them there,
but appeared for a while, then faded away, and were no more seen.
Gradually but swiftly night clothed all objects in gloom, and the
horizon and sky appeared to blend into one; except in the west, where,
so long as light remained, its restless and ever-varying form showed
against the last lingering light of day. For a while all watched the
beauty of the heavens, spangled with brightly-gleaming stars, and fanned
by a gentle and cool wind, which, blowing from the shore, brought with
it, they fancied, perfumes of flowers such as those with which they
could imagine nature in her profusion had decked the land of which they
had had a transient, yet exquisite glimpse. Then, one by one, they
dropped the cheerful converse into which they had fallen in groups, and,
as the night advanced, sank into gentle slumbers, rocked by the easy
motion of their vessel,—to dream of the glories which the coming morrow
pictured to their excited imaginations; or of a home, humble perhaps,
but endeared by a thousand remembrances of love, of parental affection,
of wandering in cool and shady places, beside streams whose murmurings
sounded gently in their ears.
Herbert’s were thus. A feverish vision of palaces amidst gardens, where
the graceful palm-tree and acacia waved over fountains which played
unceasingly, and threw up a soft and almost noiseless spray into the
air, and where he wandered amidst forms clad in such oriental garbs as
his fancy supplied, gorgeous and dazzling with gold and gems—gradually
faded from him, and was succeeded by one of peaceful delight.
He seemed to wander once more with Amy, amidst the green and mossy
glades of Beechwood: again the well-known path beside the stream was
threaded,—his arm was around her, and the familiar converse they had
held sounded in his ears,—reply and question, even as they had uttered
them together. He had drawn her closer and closer to him as they
proceeded, and, as he strained her to his heart in one long and ardent
embrace, he thought the murmur of the stream was louder, and he
awoke:—it was only the ceaseless splash of the waters against the
vessel’s side, which came audibly to him through his open port-hole, and
which at once dispelled the illusion.
But he composed himself again, to endeavour to recall the fleeting
vision, to hear again the words of ideal converse, to hold in thrilling
embrace the loved form which only then had been present with him. Vain
and futile effort! and strange power of dreams, which enables us often
to hold communings with those beloved—though thousands of miles
intervene. How strongly does the mind in such moments supply the
thoughts and words of two, amid scenes sometimes familiar, more often
ideal, and yet palpable in sleep, but dissipated by waking fancy, and
often leaving no traces of their existence upon the memory but a
confused phantasy, which imagination strives to embody in vain!
Herbert lay restless for a while, and failing of his purpose, he roused
himself, looked out over the waters which glistened faintly under the
rays of a waning moon; and feeling the air to be fresh, as though it
were near the dawn, he arose, dressed himself, and went on deck, in
order to watch for the first break of morning over the land they were
approaching.
The scattered ships had approached each other during the night, and
stood on under easy sail; dreamy they looked,—even as giant spectres
walking over the deep. There were some from whose white sails the moon’s
faint light was reflected, and which glistened under her beams. Others,
dark and deeply in shadow, showing no token of the busy life which
existed within, or the watchful care which guided them onwards.
Gradually a faint gleam shot up into the eastern sky, a paler colour
than the deep blue which had previously existed; it increased, and the
lustre of the stars was dimmed. Soon, as all gazed to welcome it, a
blush of pink succeeded; and as the day sprang into existence, the
frigate’s signal-gun boomed over the quiet sea. The joyous day grew into
being rapidly; hues of golden, of crimson, flashed upwards, and spread
themselves over the sky, revealing by degrees the long and broken line
of mountains, which, in parts obscured by the mists floating upon them,
and again clear and sharp against the brilliant sky, continued as far as
the eye could reach from north to south. Light mists covered the coast
and the foot of the mountains, and concealed both from their longing
gaze; but as the sun arose in dazzling brilliancy, and the red blush of
his morning beams rested upon the ships, the sea, the mountain peaks and
naked precipices, the clouds seemed gradually to rise from their
slumber, until, broken by his power, they floated upwards slowly, as if
nature were purposely lifting her veil from the scene and revealing her
beauties by degrees.
They were soon at the entrance of the harbour of Bombay. The islands
which guard it rose like fairy creations from the breast of the ocean,
wooded and smiling under the light of the sun. Away to the right were
the noble range of Ghats,—their peaked and broken summits presenting
forms strange to eyes used only to the green and swelling eminences of
verdant England; the grounds below them were covered with everlasting
forests, and the shore lined by groves of palms, from among which peeped
many a white temple with conical roof, or mosque with slender minarets.
Before them stretched out the magnificent harbour, studded with bold and
lofty islands, among which the mysterious Elephanta and gloomy Carinjah
reared their giant forms and wooded sides, bounded by the town and fort
of Bombay, which arose from the water’s edge, and whose white and
terraced houses and noble fortifications gleamed brightly in the
sunlight.
Many a tall ship lay there, resting from her travel over the deep, and
craft of every description shot here and there over the waters. An Arab
dhow, with her high and pointed stern, the pavilion upon it gaily
painted—her decks crowded with men clad in the loose robes and heavy
turbans of Arabia, and her huge square sail set to catch the
breeze—sailed near them. Many gaily-painted Pattamars, with their lateen
sails as white as snow, mingled with the fleet; while others of smaller
size could be seen stretching across the harbour from the Mahratta
continent, bearing their daily supplies of market produce for the
populous town.
It was a scene of novel yet exquisite beauty; and, lighted up by the
powerful beams of an eastern sun, could not fail of making a lasting
impression upon those who, after their weary voyage, saw their eastern
home burst upon them in such splendour; nor was there one of all the
numerous host contained in those vessels who could look upon it without
feelings of mingled emotion.
From the General who commanded,—who, remembering the brilliant career
which others had run, hoped in the coming wars to win fame and
wealth,—to the lowest private, whose imagination revelled in fancied
scenes of excitement far removed from his ordinary dull routine of duty,
or of dissipation, which the cold climate of England could not
afford,—all were excited far beyond their usual wont; and exclamations
of surprise, of wonder, or of gratification, as things new or beautiful
or strange passed under their observation, arose from the various groups
upon the deck.
Herbert Compton had left England without contracting a particular
friendship for any of his brother officers; his close connection and
constant intercourse with his own family, and latterly his attachment,
had prevented this; but he had not the less observed a cheerful and
friendly intercourse with all. He was pained, however, to see how,
during the voyage, and the constant and unrestricted intercourse of
which the space of a vessel was naturally productive, many of them
showed tempers and dispositions which debarred him from joining in such
intimate association as their absence from home and residence in a
foreign land ought to have engendered.
He was grieved to see, also, how some gave themselves up to
intemperance, as if to drown in wine the memory of things they should
have held most dear;—how others betook themselves to cards or dice, to
pass away the monotonous hours of their long voyage; how these and other
vices had already changed many whom he had at first been inclined to
esteem sincerely, and forced him to contract gradually the association
which he fain would have had intimate and general.
But there were nevertheless two with whom, though his intercourse had
been slight at first, yet it had steadily progressed, and who returned
his advances towards a sincere and unreserved friendship with
corresponding warmth. One, Philip Dalton, was his equal in rank, and
slightly his senior in age, and in the regiment. The other, Charles
Balfour, his ensign, a youth even younger than himself, a fair and
sprightly fellow, whose joyous spirit nothing could daunt, and over whom
care had not as yet flung even a shadow of her sobering mantle.
Dalton was grave and religious, it might be even tinctured with
superstition, at least with a belief in destiny; and while his spirit
recoiled at once from those thoughtless or vicious companions by whom he
was surrounded, whom he shunned the more as he perceived the
uncontrolled licence they were prepared to give to their passions upon
landing, and whose only conversation consisted in the prospects of
indulgence which were opening upon them,—he soon grew into intimate
association with Herbert, as well from a similarity of tastes and
disgust of the others’ wild revelry, as from seeing at once that he
possessed a deep religious feeling, and gave expression to his sincere
thoughts upon the subject, when it was openly ridiculed or sneered at
among the others.
The three were standing in a group by themselves, and Herbert’s busy and
skilful pencil was rapidly sketching outlines of the mountains and views
of the harbour as they successively presented themselves, with the new
and curious forms of the boats and vessels around them.
‘I envy you that talent, Herbert,’ said Dalton; ‘how valuable it would
be to me, who feel that I shall so lack occupation that the time will
often hang heavy on my hands; and how gratifying to those we love to
send them even scraps of scenes in which we live and move!’
‘Nay, Philip, you have never tried to use your pencil; I would have
given you fifty lessons while we have been on board, but you have never
expressed the wish. Here is Charles, who is already a tolerable
proficient, and who sketches with most meritorious perseverance.’
‘It is well for him, Herbert; it will help to keep him from vicious and
corrupt society, and on his return to our dear England, you will both
have the pleasure of comparing your graphic notes, and talking over
these beautiful scenes together. But with me it is different: I feel
even now that yonder glorious land will be my grave, that the name of
Philip Dalton will live only for a while, and that some fatal shot or
deadly fever will free me from this earthly existence.’
‘Nonsense, Philip!’ cried both at once; ‘why should you be so gloomy
amidst so bright and joyous a scene? As for me,’ continued Balfour, ‘I
intend to defy bullet-shots and jungle-fevers, to become a major or a
colonel at least, to serve my time out here, and then go home and marry
some one. I don’t intend to get bilious or brown or ugly, but to keep my
own tolerable looks for ten years at all events. That bright land is an
earnest to me of success; and as it now smiles upon us a hearty welcome,
so do I feel my spirits rise within me proportionately. Why should I
forbid them?’
‘Ay, why should you, Charles?’ said Dalton; ‘I would that mine were as
light as yours, but they are not so, nor ever have been; and I am
thankful too for this, for I have been led to think more deeply of
serious matters than I otherwise should have done, and thus in some
degree to prepare for the change which must soon come to me. Your career
will, I hope, be very different, and I trust that your own bright hopes
will be fulfilled; but remember, that though the sky and land are bright
and fair, fairer than our England, yet death strikes many more of our
race here than there, and that we have to encounter dangers in the
field—active and brave enemies—so that we had need to be prepared
whenever the blow comes, either by a shot upon the battle-field, or by
the slower but equally fatal disease. Is it not so, Herbert?’
‘It is, Philip; and yet I would not allow, were I you, such dismal
phantasies and thoughts to possess me. Surely, when God has thrown
around us such beauties as these, our hearts should bid us rejoice, and
enjoy them as they are sent, and we ought not to think gloomily upon the
future, which may lead us insensibly into discontent and repining. Let
us only continue this our unreserved and sincere friendship, whatever
may be our position, and I feel confident that we possess in it the
elements of much happiness, perhaps of mutual assistance in many
difficulties.’
‘With all my heart and soul I promise it, Herbert,’ cried Dalton, and he
was followed with equal enthusiasm by Balfour. ‘There will arise many
adverse parties in the regiment, I foresee, but we need know none;
singly, we might be obliged to belong to one or other—united, we may be
thought singular, but we are safe, and I for one am ready to brave all
obloquy on this score in your society.’
‘Then we are agreed, Philip,’ said Herbert; ‘if it be possible we will
live together; it will take some time perhaps to arrange this, but if it
can be done, are you willing?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘And you, Charles?’
‘Certainly; there is nothing I should like better than to be near you
both always, for I feel that my wild spirits might lead me to do things
in company with many of the rest, who are very pleasant fellows, that I
should feel ashamed of afterwards.’
‘This is, then, a happy termination to our voyage,’ said Herbert; ‘one
unlooked for at its commencement, one which already is a comfort to me;
for I am assured that, whether we are safe in barracks, or in the danger
of service, in action or in sickness, we shall be much to one another,
and that we shall have always some one near us on whom we can rely in
any strait.’
‘I confess that many of my gloomy thoughts have passed away already,’
said Philip; ‘but let us for the present keep our own counsel, lest we
be denounced as a party even before we go on shore. There, your sketch
will do, Herbert; it is capital! And now put up your book, for I suspect
we are not far from our anchorage, as the frigates are shortening sail;
at any rate, you should look about you.’
They had sailed gradually on under the light morning breeze, which was
fast falling, and hardly served to carry them to their resting-place;
but still they moved, and thus the enjoyment they felt at the novelty of
the scene around them was insensibly prolonged. The fleet had now all
drawn together, and many greetings were exchanged between friends on
board different vessels, who had been unavoidably separated during the
voyage. The ships one by one shortened sail, and as they watched with
anxiety the movements of the leading frigate, they heard at last the
splash of her anchor as it plunged from her bows; simultaneously a
wreath of smoke burst from her sides, and the first gun of her cheering
salute awoke the echoes of the islands and shores of the harbour; ere it
was finished her sails were furled, and she lay peacefully upon the
smooth water, ‘a thing of life,’ seemingly enjoying rest after her long
and ceaseless travel. Her consort followed her example—then the ships of
the fleet in rotation; and the fort and vessels in the harbour saluted
in return, a joyful earnest of a hearty welcome.
Many a telescope was directed to the crowds of people who lined the
shores, the piers, and the fortifications, and many were the
speculations upon their varied appearance and costumes. All, at that
distance, appeared bright and clean and cheerful, and the inmates of the
vessels longed fervently to set foot upon the land once more. As they
anchored, each ship became surrounded by boats; and the shrill cries of
vendors of fruit, vegetables, fresh bread, with eggs and other
refreshments, resounded on all sides,—a din which almost bewildered
them.
Their turn came to be visited by the staff-officers from shore; their
men were paraded, and each company, headed by its officer, was
inspected. They were shocked by the appearance of their
inspectors—sallow and pale—as if disease of the worst kind possessed
them; they seemed more like men who had just arisen from their
death-beds, than any in active performance of very onerous and fatiguing
duties.
‘To this must we come, you see, Charles,’ said Philip Dalton, as the
staff-officer, having inspected his company and complimented him upon
its appearance, passed on to another; ‘pale faces, death-like looks,
seem to be the lot of all here who attain to blue coats, cocked hats and
plumes. It was but just now that you said you _would_ preserve yours, in
spite of all climate; you see the result of time and hot weather better
than I can tell you.’
‘I cannot bear to think of it,’ said Charles; ‘but surely all cannot be
so, Philip? However, we shall see when we get ashore. When are we to
land?’
‘This evening, I believe; they are preparing our barracks for us; till
then we must admire at a distance.’
‘More than we shall on shore, I daresay,’ said his companion, and so
indeed it proved.
The landing in the close warm evening,—the march through the Fort over
the dusty roads,—the aspect of the narrow streets and oddly fashioned
houses,—the heat, the flies, the smells of various kinds, some not the
most fragrant,—particularly that of fish under the process of
drying,—the discomfort of their first night on shore, passed in beds but
ill adapted to defy the attacks of their bitter foes the musquitoes,
completely dispelled all the romance which they had hoped would be
attendant on a landing in the gorgeous East, but which they discovered,
with no small chagrin, existed only in their imaginations. All their
beautiful gardens and gilded palaces, their luxurious couches and airy
fountains, had passed away, and given place to the bare and dull reality
of a barrack-room; not half so comfortable, they thought, as their old
quarters in England, to which many of their thoughts wandered painfully.
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