19 November 1860
Davey:
I will not burden you with the tiresome details of my administration of this wretched band, but I must concede that your admonition has turned out to be perfectly true: this singular authority is as unrewarding as it is onerous. I therefore urge you Godspeed on your swift return to England so that you may resume it for yourself.
Regardless of my dislike for the task, I believe that I have acquitted myself appropriately and effectively in the duties laid upon me. I have managed this despite the annoying and sometimes obstructive efforts of your subordinate, Mr. Jackson. While he is punctilious in his duty and possesses a remarkable memory, two qualities which would otherwise recommend him, I cannot but suspect that he is constantly working at cross-purposes to my own—and therefore to your own interests. This may be for purely selfish reasons—unless, of course, you have given him secret instructions of which I am not aware. He retains his position at my sufferance, and also because it would do me no good to allow such a potentially disruptive force to be excluded from my consultations and thus work outside of them.
I hope to God that 1861 brings more good news than 1860 did: of that I have low expectations but high hopes.
Yours sincerely,
T. Carlyle
28 November 1860
My dear Will:
It is not with any particular pleasure that I admit my errors, particularly when I must at the same time concede that you were right.
Your choice of Carlyle as your deputy was, however, exactly correct: he has dismissed much which is foolish, responded to threats with firmness, maintained your mandate in preventing any of our committee from troubling Mrs. Esdaile—and, to my surprise, has exchanged friendly correspondence with Dickens. The Great Man has not appeared at any of our meetings, but he did send a modest pecuniary contribution despite his earlier avowed intention to cease doing so. This is no doubt due to the esteem in which he holds the great Carlyle.
As for the man who presently directs our affairs in your absence, his perception of his own worth is of a magnitude that even exceeds your own—an extraordinary thing, I assure you. It may break the bonds of credulity to conceive of it, but I assure you that it is true. Still, even despite the size of that self-image, he has backed up his assertions with his actions. I cover my chagrin with my well-known efficiency; Carlyle occasionally suggests—when he is at his most irascible—that he will dismiss me and replace me with Browning or some other literary victim, but has as yet not done so. I begin to think of this as no more than an acrimonious if somewhat playful threat on his part.
In short, matters are as well in hand as you might possibly have hoped and I have little of consequence to report. Since you departed in November, there has been scant news of our colleague, the new Mrs. Daniel; I presume that she continues to recover from her injuries. Daniel is almost certainly in India by now. If you cross his path, I trust that your low opinion of his abilities will be tempered by the power of that which he may be able to summon to aid him.
I hope that this short letter finds you well. I hope that you are able to find what we seek and that you come home safely. I wish you—well in advance—a very happy Christmas and remain,
Your dear friend,
John W. Jackson
WILLIAM DAVEY
Georgiana and Gobinda joined me at the Auckland’s table d’hôte that evening. The staff seemed particularly miffed at the idea of serving a native—whether due to his race or because of the recent unpleasantness between whites and natives—but not long after we were seated, a well-dressed manager approached us. He seemed to know Gobinda rather well and offered his polite greetings to Georgiana. But his most effusive apology was to me.
“I truly am sorry for any unpleasantness, Reverend,” he said in a particularly unctuous manner. “The behavior of my staff toward the honorable Mr. Ahmadi is unacceptable, and I assure you that it will be dealt with.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr.—”
“Wilson, sir. David Wilson.” He took my hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “The proprietor of this hotel, your servant, sir.”
“Wilson Sahib is too kind,” Gobinda said, his head slightly inclined. I could see a hint of merriment in his eyes, perhaps with amusement at Wilson’s discomfiture.
“I shall see that you are personally provided for,” Wilson said, and offered another bow, then turned and hurried away. Out of earshot, he undertook a rather warm conversation with one of the head waiters, gesturing toward us.
“Your powers of persuasion are most impressive, Georgiana,” I said, sipping a glass of wine.
“This is the most famous hotel in Calcutta, and David Wilson would like it to stay that way. He far prefers this position to his previous form of employment.”
“Which was?”
“Confectioner,” Gobinda said. He made a minute adjustment to his turban.
“That is a noble profession,” I ventured.
Georgiana and Gobinda exchanged some sort of knowing glance. “Well—” Georgiana began, and Gobinda said, “Wilson Sahib—”
They both stopped, leaving me somewhat baffled. Gobinda extended his hand and gave a bow of his head.
“Mr. Wilson,” Georgiana said, “is in the enviable position of being master of the most celebrated hotel in English Calcutta. He relies on the custom of patrons who come from all over the Empire—but he also benefits from having them in his lobby, at his dining table, at his card tables and in his salon. They speak of all manner of things, and he listens.”
“And that information makes its way across the street,” Gobinda added, gesturing toward the louvered windows that fronted on Courthouse Street.
“You mean he’s a—”
“Loyal subject,” Georgiana cut across my sentence, which I had intended to complete with the word “spy”—but that was somewhat inaccurate, since he would more properly be termed an “informant.” It made sense—but it also suggested a problem with our own privacy, even at a remote table in the dining room.
“This is as secure a place as any,” Gobinda said, as if perceiving the direction of my thoughts. “I have employed turn-aside gestures to keep intrusions away, and Lord Shiva casts confusion in their ears.”
This time it was Georgiana who offered a secret smile. I did not quite know what technique Gobinda was using to “cast confusion,” it was no doubt some skill taught in the Shivan mesmeric school.
“I still entertain some doubt regarding a conversation in this venue.” When Gobinda began to protest, I added, “There is an informant of another sort who is here. He was waiting for me when I arrived. He has nightfall creatures at his command—or at least on call. I do not know what Lord Shiva can do about that.”
“You disbelieve in His power?”
“Mr. Ahmadi—”
“Gobinda is sufficient, Davey Sahib.”
“Gobinda. I am on my guard against all manner of powers, and am skeptical of all types of claims. I have seen what—what a disciple of your school can do.” I looked over at Georgiana, who offered a smile in return. “But we are all in terra incognita, and with the stakes as high as they are, I prefer to take no chances.”
“This caution belies the confidence I am told you possess in abundance. You seem to have had no lack of it on the docks this morning. I understood you to be bold and decisive.”
“I am those things. But I tire of this banter, Gobinda. You know why I am here in Calcutta, I trust, and what I seek.”
“Yes. Of course. Georgiana Memsahib—” He smiled. “Old habits die exceedingly hard. You seek the object. Georgiana and I have both had opportunity to be close to it, and would know it right away if we saw it.”
“Or sensed it,” Georgiana said.
“Indeed,” Gobinda agreed. “If it is here in Calcutta, we would certainly know by now. I assume, therefore, that if it is anywhere nearby, it is in Hooghly, where the Doctor Sahib practiced. Where he took his wife.” The phrase had multiple meanings; we all knew that.
“Then we should go there. I am concerned, however, that this other informant may follow us.”
“Then he must be dealt with.”
Gobinda said the words dispassionately, as if dealing with Richard Daniel was something akin to swatting a fly.
“I hesitate to commit outright murder,” I answered at last. “Regardless of the man’s lack of innocence, I do not think that is appropriate.”
“This is some species of gentlemanly courtesy. Or perhaps an example of Christian charity, I suppose. A few minutes ago, you alluded to the stakes—does that not require any means to achieve the desired result?”
“No. Not anymore. Two years ago, I would have agreed wholeheartedly—but not now. It has cost too many people too much. I will not stoop to any means: if I had employed that policy then—”
“This is where we are now, Davey Sahib, and your temporizing and regret do not change the situation. If it is your wish to absent yourself from this decision, I shall attend to it myself.”
Gobinda’s expression never changed: he retained his polite smile, his inclined head, his demeanor of indifference to the situation.
“You will do as you must,” I said. “But it may not be that simple.”
Gobinda did not answer, simply retaining his serene expression.
“Hooghly is a few hours up the river,” Georgiana said at last into the silence. “And we can travel by train. Is there a reason to wait? We could leave tomorrow.”
I spread my hands wide. I could offer no useful opinion on the subject.
“Some time would be required,” Gobinda said. “A few days, at most, should be sufficient.”
Georgiana seemed dubious about delay, but said nothing.
“And what are we looking for in Hooghly?” I asked.
“Answers.”
The experience of being in a land as unusual—as alien—as India is difficult to describe. I was nearly fifty-three years old when I made this journey and had never previously been further from home than Paris or Edinburgh. Calcutta was almost halfway around the world, still raw from the wounds of the Mutiny, not yet transformed into the jewel in Her Majesty’s crown. In Calcutta, I felt presences all around me: they were like little scraps of paper blowing in the air, ephemeral and invisible to anyone lacking the perception that skill in the Art provided.
Such beings come when called. I knew that when I was in Manchester and had my first direct encounter with the Levantine—I should have realized why he had been summoned, presumably to deal with Dr. Braid.
That was yet another casualty of my arrogance.
And even more than in Bombay, even more than in England, they were everywhere.
It is very simple, Gobinda told me. They are here at the behest of the being in the statue. They are here to help open the Glass Door.
It would have been easy to despair in the face of the problem. Two years earlier, things had looked much different—my enemies would have accused me of dissembling, but I was extremely conflicted during that period in Calcutta; on the other side of the world my countrymen were preparing for the Christmas feast, while I was quixotically pursuing an item of unknown power, in a mysterious land, with allies who kept more secrets than I did.
Despair was not the answer. But kindhearted trust was not the answer either. I refused to submit to the former or be gulled by the latter.
Eliza Weatherhead’s Calcutta, which she had revealed to me during our interviews in early 1859, had no railroads in it. The roads there at the end of 1860 were the work of the Scotsman Turnbull, who had undertaken a number of large railway projects at the behest of Lord Dalhousie, the Governor-General, in the intervening decade. Still, compared to the evolved state of the railways in Great Britain, the “fire-carriages” in the Bengal were archaic relics—uncomfortable and slow, using locomotives of a sort that had, on the home island, long since been replaced by more powerful ones. Steam hissed alarmingly and soot blew through the windows that, due to the heat, had to be left open.
Georgiana and I secured first-class seats through the judicious application of bribes and stout English determination—unwillingness to take “no” for an answer. As for Gobinda, he remained in Calcutta, declaring his intention to locate and isolate Dr. Daniel. I am not sure that he simply disliked, or even feared, the railways—Georgiana did not say, and I did not ask.
The entire journey was thirty miles, though it took almost three hours to complete—in part due to some manner of mechanical failure near a place called Barrackpore. While the train was stopped, it grew uncomfortably hot within the carriage, but Georgiana expressed herself unwilling to disembark.
“Barrackpore is where the Mutiny began,” she said quietly. “There is an aura here.”
I wanted to ask more, but she seemed unwilling to offer further information. Instead, I looked through the window and extended my senses. It took only a few moments to feel that to which she had alluded: there were a number of presences here. They were not as strong as the ones in Calcutta but less inchoate, as if they were ready and able to take form.
Idlers. Idlers in search of someone to help—and to serve their own ends.
“What are they waiting for?” I asked Georgiana.
“The Raj government believes that the flames of dissent have all been stamped out,” she said. “All that is necessary is to build academies and railroads and put all of the coolies to work, and soon India will be saved for civilization.
“But as long as it is here”—we both knew very well what she meant by it—“it will encourage more violence. Soldiers of the Prophet, servants of one or another petty king or zamindar or what-have-you—there are many natives, William, and altogether too few soldiers. What happened before can happen again. They are waiting … to be employed.”
After the train at last got underway, we rode in silence. We finally came to Hooghly early in the afternoon. Georgiana observed that the prison was larger than she had remembered it, and the hospital meaner and not as well kept up; presumably those employed there after James Esdaile’s departure were less devoted to its maintenance.
We made our way from the small train station, Georgiana in the lead, walking toward the jail complex—she seemed to know where she was going. I assumed, correctly, that she was seeking something in particular; when we reached the outskirts of the prison she stopped, looking both annoyed and baffled.
“What is wrong?”
“They have erected walls,” she said, gesturing toward the stout brick palisade that separated the building from the town.
“It is a prison. I am hardly surprised.”
“The building itself was once sufficient. The person I seek—I expected to see her near there, serving food to those who work in the hospital.”
“You look for Kajari Kaurá,” a voice said behind us. We turned to face an older boy, perhaps no more than ten or eleven, but with deep eyes and a wary expression.
“Yes, that’s right,” Georgiana said. “I am looking for Kajari. Do you know where I can find her?”
“Of course, Memsahib,” the boy said. “She is my great-aunt. She has a tea shop now.”
“Can you take us there?”
“Of course, Memsahib.”
The boy loped away, beckoning us to follow. He led us away from the prison complex, onto a narrow street with little shops of various kinds. His aunt’s tea shop was a small one, with two steps leading up from the street. Even from outside, we could smell the pleasant aroma of spices and baking bread.
“Tayi Kajari,” the boy said, running into the shop, “there is a sahib and a memsahib who are looking for you—”
A woman came out from the kitchen. She was not elderly, but clearly well into middle age; plain, but obviously strong—and her face was full of character, her eyes deep and piercing. She did not smile, but extended a hand with a gesture almost like a mesmeric one, silencing the boy in mid-sentence.
“Good, Janu,” she said, without looking at him. “I believe you have an errand to do for me, yes?”
“Yes, tayi!” he said. “But what—”
“None of your concern, little bhanja. Now run quickly and do as you were told.”
Apparently there were not many memsahibs and sahibs, who came looking for the woman, causing the boy to hesitate for just a moment—but out of a sense of duty, or more likely fear of the consequences of delay or defiance, he dashed off, leaving us standing in the empty tea shop.
“You have returned, Georgiana Memsahib,” she said, hands on her hips. “I thought you said you would never come back.”