Colonel Brandon's Diary

1792

Thursday 14 June

As I came off duty this morning, Green sauntered up to me and said, ‘Come with me if you want some sport.’

‘What is going on?’ I asked.

‘Wait and see.’

I followed him along the dusty road, with the sun hot on my back and the scent of musk in my nostrils, until we came to a turning. He led me along a little-used path until we came to a place far away from the camp. The noise hit us first, a whispering like the sea far off, and then growing louder as we drew nearer until we could distinguish cries and then words.

‘Three pounds on Cattering.’

‘Five pounds on the bullock!’

We entered a crowd of men who were busy placing bets, with money changing hands at a great rate. The objects of their betting were standing at one end of a dirt track. Cattering was harnessing himself to a heavily laden cart, whilst next to him was a bullock similarly harnessed. The carts and their loads were the same, and Green said to me, ‘Who’s your money on, Brandon?’

I looked at the bullock and then Cattering. The bullock was stronger, I had no doubt, but I had never met a more determined man than Cattering and I knew his will to win would be stronger than the bullock’s.

‘My money’s on Cattering,’ I said, placing my bet.

Green wavered, but then said, ‘The cart is too heavy for a man, even a man like Cattering. He will never move it.’

He placed his bet on the bullock.

There was some more fevered betting and then the race was on. The bullock made a good start, pulling the cart away whilst Cattering strained to start his cart moving. His muscles flexed and his sinews strained. Great veins stood out in his neck. And then the cart began to move, slowly at first, but picking up speed as he leant forward, driving his legs into the ground and pushing himself forward by main strength and sheer force of will.

He began to gain on the bullock, which had stopped to munch a blade of grass. Its driver drove it forward, but the bullock seemed to take a delight in dallying.

Cattering pulled ahead, cheered on by his friends. He had almost reached the finish line when the bullock suddenly decided it would like to move and it put on a turn of speed that drove the men into a frenzy of cheering and cat-calls.

Bullock and man were neck and neck. Cattering stuck out his head, pushed with his legs, heaved with his shoulders and surged across the finish line, leaving the bullock to take second place.

‘Well done, man!’

The words echoed from dozens of lips as Cattering’s friends — of whom, at that moment, he had a great many — clapped him on the back. Cattering could not reply, for he was done in. Sweat ran freely down his back and face, and he drew in his breath in deep, heaving gasps. But by and by he began to recover, and by the time Green and I left, he was being carried aloft and hailed as a Titan.

‘I was going to put in an order for two more bullocks to pull the guns, but I think I will use Cattering instead!’ I said.

Green laughed.

‘He would cost you too much. Bullocks can find their own grazing. Cattering needs solid meat.’

We walked back to our quarters, and when we arrived, I found a letter waiting for me. Green bid me adieu and I went inside, taking my letter with me. It was from Eliza. I opened it with pleasure, and saw at once that her writing was maturing, for the rounded babyish characters had given way to the more stylish hand of a young lady of twelve years old.

She told me all her news, that she was happy at school, that she and her friend Susan had been singled out by the dancing master as examples for the other girls to follow, and that her sampler had been judged the neatest in the class.

She enclosed a self-portrait for me, done in water colours. It is the wrong way round, she explained, as I took it from a looking-glass, but it is otherwise very like.

I hoped not, for the eyes were of different sizes and the mouth was distinctly crooked, but I treasured it none the less. It showed her with dark hair, which, if the colouring was to be believed, meant that she had lost her babyish fair hair and was now unlike her mother, perhaps resembling her father. I could not understand his abandoning her, for a more cheerful and charming girl it would be hard to imagine; romantic, too, like her mother, for she had discovered Shakespeare’s sonnets, and told me that I must read them, for she was sure that I would like them.

I folded her letter and put it with her others, a treasured pile in my desk, then turned my attention back to my work.

It has been my solace this last nine years, and climbing the ranks to colonel has given my thoughts a positive direction, but I find lately that I am dissatisfied with it and wanting something more. But what more can there be for a man who is above thirty, and whose heart is in the grave?

Monday 9 July

I looked over the new troops this morning and was pleased to see that they looked strong and likely to survive, for the climate kills off so many men I sometimes wonder there are any left to fight.

I opened my letters when I came off duty, and I had a jolt when I saw that one of them was addressed in Catherine’s handwriting. I opened her letter with some misgiving, and I discovered that Harry had been killed. He had been riding home — drunk, I supposed, though she did not say so — and he had taken a fall from his horse.

I looked at the date on the letter. It had taken four months to reach me. Harry would be long buried, and without a son to succeed him, the Delaford estate was mine.

I sat staring in front of me, not seeing my soldier’s quarters but seeing the green fields of Delaford, with the river running through them, and the walled gardens and the dovecots and the tall windows reflecting the sunlight. I thought of the drawing room and the sound of Eliza’s harp, and the ballroom and Eliza’s hand in mine, and the dining room and Eliza laughing at me across the table.

I thought of my father turning me out and forbidding me the house, and Harry lolling on the sofa, saying he neither knew nor cared what had become of Eliza, and my desolation on my last visit. And I wondered, Can I go back there, or will my memories haunt me?

I folded the letter and said nothing of it to anyone, not even to Green, for I wanted to be sure of my feelings before I shared them. If I claimed my inheritance I could leave the army and offer a home to Eliza. I could give her the life of which her mother had been deprived, and in time I could see her marry a good and honourable man, someone who would love her and would not care about the circumstances of her birth.

I thought of my Eliza, and how happy she would have been to think of her daughter at Delaford. I remembered her saying to me, in the rose garden, how much she loved the house, and I knew then that I would go home.

Tuesday 10 July

I spoke to my commanding officer, telling him that I would be leaving the army. He expressed his surprise and dismay, but, on learning that I had come into property, he congratulated me and wished me well for the future.

My fellow soldiers rejoiced at my good fortune. Only Green was downcast, but once I had invited him to stay with me the next time he was home on leave, he became more cheerful and sincerely wished me well.

And so I am to leave the Indies, which have been my home for more than a decade, and return to England. I do not know whether I am happy or apprehensive, but, whatever my feelings, I am now irrevocably set upon that path, and a few more months will find me at home.

Wednesday 5 December

This morning I visited Eliza’s grave, something I have never dared to do since the terrible day I buried her. I told her of my good fortune and I promised her that I would make her daughter happy. The wind sighed, and I thought that she had heard me.

Thursday 6 December

I dined with Leyton. He is now the proud father of four children, and he was delighted to learn of my inheritance.

‘This is splendid news, Brandon,’ he said, as we sat over our port. ‘It is about time you settled down.’

‘I can afford to, now.’

‘Have you been back to Delaford yet?’

‘No. I have some business to attend to in London first — ’

‘Buying a carriage, I hope.’

I smiled. ‘Yes, I mean to set myself up well. And then I want to visit Eliza.’

It was a relief to talk about her, for he is one of the few people who knows of her heritage. To the world at large she is my ward, although I am aware some people impute a closer connection, believing her to be my child, but to Leyton she is Eliza’s daughter.

‘It will do her good to have a settled home. Will you take her to live with you? ’

‘Not yet. She likes her teachers, and she has made many friends at school. I mean to have her with me in the holidays, but I am persuaded she will be happier in familiar surroundings with familiar people for the time being.’

‘You must buy her a pony.’

‘I intend to, and to teach her to ride.’

‘And a pianoforte. Abigail has one with a sweet tone. You must come to dinner tomorrow, and I will encourage her to play for you.’

‘I am relieved you have two daughters, Leyton, for at least I have someone to ask about Eliza’s welfare. Otherwise I would be lost.’

‘We are all lost!’ he said. ‘Women are incomprehensible creatures, even at so tender an age, and having two daughters has not made them any more comprehensible to me. They can be inconsolable over a ribbon that is the wrong shade of blue, but let some real tragedy befall them and they bear it like a man, indeed far better than many men I have known. But I will do my best to help.’

Wednesday 12 December

I visited Eliza at school today. She was lively and cheerful, telling me all about her studies, her masters and her friends. I told her I had inherited a house, and that I had left the army. She was excited to learn that she would be able to visit me in the holidays, and I have promised her that she can invite a friend to stay.