Chapter 1: Arrival
The great steam engine thundered across the burning plain. Behind it rattled a string of carriages, windows open to admit what little cooling breeze was available. Inside the passengers sweated in the brutal heat, enduring the smoke and smuts blowing from the engine so they could obtain what little relief the open windows offered.
Augustus Marchwood sat in a first class compartment alone, his uniform stuck to his skin and he was very tired but soon he would be arriving at Malagar junction ready to take up his first posting. He could not believe it after what seemed the most rudimentary basic training he was now apparently ready to command a platoon of men in the Indian Army. The thought filled him with apprehension and excitement.
Some time later the train pulled into the station. Porters rushed to claim passengers' baggage and young Marchwood climbed down onto the platform and was besieged by men in turbans wearing armbands proclaiming that they were official Indian railways porters. Most of them jabbered at him in a language he did not understand, presumably Hindi but one fellow seemed to have some rudimentary English.
"Sahib, please I carry baggage," he demanded.
Marchwood nodded in assent and allowed the man to lead him to the baggage car to identify his trunks. As the fellow assisted by two of his companions loaded his baggage onto a barrow two soldiers shouldered through the crowd towards him and then came smartly to attention and saluted
"Havildar Narayan and Sepoy Gupta reporting Sahib," barked the older man who sported three chevrons on his sleeve.
Marchwood suddenly remembered he was supposed to return their salute and clumsily executed one himself.
"Subaltern Marchwood, very pleased to meet you chaps," he replied.
"Now we go to hotel Sahib," Narayan announced.
"But aren't we going to the regiment?" asked Marchwood.
"Long journey Sahib. Leave in morning. Now please come to hotel," Narayan explained.
He then delivered a stream of instruction to the porters in Hindi and led everyone in a procession out of the station. As they walked along Marchwood examined his companions. Havildar Narayan was a tall imposing fellow with a bristly moustache tinged with grey. Gupta was quite the opposite, he seemed too small to be a soldier, perhaps only five and a half feet with pointed features and broken teeth. Nevertheless, Marchwood noted that on his sleeve he wore the crossed rifle badge indicating that he was an excellent marksman.
The Railway Hotel proved to be a traditional Indian building constructed on four sides around a courtyard which they entered through an archway. The porters deposited Marchwood's luggage and demanded an exorbitant sum for their services which drew a loud retort from Narayan.
"Sahib, much too much price. Only 1 anna is enough."
Marchwood gave the fellows two annas which they accepted with good grace and departed.
Marchwood was greeted as he dismissed the porters by the proprietress of the hotel, a large but comely white lady. "Good afternoon, you must be Mr Marchwood. I am Mrs Cummings, welcome to the Railway Hotel. I hope we shall do everything we can to make your stay as comfortable as possible."
Marchwood bade farewell to his two sepoy escorts who promised to collect him bright and early the next morning. He was then escorted to his room by Mrs Cummings followed by a small retinue of hotel servants bearing his luggage. She showed him to a commodious and cool bedroom overlooking the courtyard with a seating area and washing facilities attached. A large punkah or fan flapped overhead, operated by a punkah wallah in the courtyard, bringing in a cool draft of air. All in all a very pleasant suite of rooms for his overnight stay.
When he was settled, Marchwood washed away the soot and sweat from his journey with the cool water and soap provided and changed into evening dress. He spent the remainder of the afternoon writing a few letters to post before he departed and finally went to the dining room when he heard a gong announcing the arrival of dinner.
He proved to be the only guest but Mrs Cummings asked if he would like her to join him for dinner and he eagerly agreed to this suggestion in order to gain some company. Mrs Cummings was a plump woman, perhaps in her forties, who still retained some of the charms of her youth. She had dressed formally in a ball gown, which had perhaps seen better days. Nevertheless, the low cut front displayed her fine bosom to great advantage and she had adorned herself with a gold chain and locket and gold earrings and put up her dark hair in a bun. Over dinner, he tried hard to look into her eyes which were a delightful green colour but he could not help allowing his gaze to stray to Mrs Cummings delightful cleavage and the swelling mounds surrounding it.
Servants began to serve an elaborate meal in the Indian style with curries accompanied by dahl, rice, chapatis and a variety of pickles and sambals. Marchwood was only just getting used to Indian food but was rapidly acquiring a taste for it and greatly appreciated the impressive array which was deliciously spicy without being brutally hot.
Mrs Cummings quizzed him a little about where he had come from and what had motivated him to join the Indian army. With some gentle probing, she readily began to reveal her own life story. Her husband had been a sergeant in the British army and she had accompanied him to India. They had had three children who had all sadly succumbed to the dreadful climate and diseases, which took such a toll on Europeans. Her husband had then also taken ill with the typhoid and passed on leaving her virtually destitute apart from a tiny army widow's pension. Thankfully, the colonel of her husband's regiment had taken pity on her and arranged a small loan which had allowed her to purchase the run down Railway Hotel and start her own business. Malagar Junction was the nearest station to Amalabad where Marchwood's regimental headquarters was located. There had been talk of building a branch line but nothing had become of it so most travellers to Amalabad were obliged to stay at the only hotel in town before embarking on the day's journey by horse or carriage to Amalabad. As dinner was coming to an end over some excellent Malabar coffee and a glass of brandy Mrs Cummings made a curious revelation in muted tones.
"Mr Marchwood we do provide certain discreet services for our guests should they so require it. You only have to say the word."
