The Elephant Keeper's Daughter Read online

  Henry swallowed hard. “You’re right,” he answered after a pause. “I smoke opium and I deserve your candor.” He took a step forward and, in the local tradition, placed his palms over one another and bowed his head. “My name is Henry Odell, surgeon to the Fifteenth Infantry Regiment in Kandy. Would you please tell me your name, venerable hamudru?”

  The monk’s eyes widened in surprise as Henry switched to Sinhalese. “I am Mahinda Dharmapala, the abbot of this monastery.”

  Meanwhile, a carriage was drawing up outside the residence of the British governor. Henry’s brother, Charles, jumped to the pavement. He carried a leather briefcase and a rolled document.

  He took a good look at himself. That morning his orderly had polished his boots until they gleamed, and his pants were freshly pressed. As he smoothed down his red jacket, his hand brushed the metal star hanging from his chest on a colored ribbon. After the Uva Rebellion, Governor Brownrigg had awarded him the medal for his commitment in the fight against the rebels. He’d also promoted him to major in the Royal Engineers.

  Today Charles had an appointment with Brownrigg’s successor, General Edward Paget. Glancing at his pocket watch, he saw it was just after eleven. And already intolerably hot, he groaned to himself. Beneath the thick uniform, his skin was hot and clammy. His muscles ached and his eyes were burning. How he loathed this humid heat, which unfailingly hit him like a wall and from which there was no escape even at night. He pulled himself together—no place for feelings here—straightened his bicorn hat, and walked decisively up to the entrance.

  The British governor’s official residence was an extensive white structure built in Dutch colonial times. It was in the old fortress area of Colombo, not far from the harbor, the markets, and the red-light district. Shielded from the native population, this was where the British resided. There were churches, theaters, garrisons, a cricket pitch, and shops selling everything the British heart desired: from Indian tea and French lavender water to English shotguns. Still, the heat, the palms bordering the avenues, and the airy verandas of the houses were an unmistakable reminder that one was in the tropics, not the cool of England.

  Charles walked past the statue of George IV, the reigning monarch, and the horde of small gray monkeys clambering about on it, and bounded up the steps. Soldiers of the Ceylon Rifles stood right and left of the grand double doors and saluted him. Charles let the knocker fall, and the door was opened by a butler in full livery. While Charles was waiting in the pleasantly cool reception hall, he examined the portraits of all the previous governors of Ceylon. The first governor, Patrick Agnew, had come into office twenty-seven years ago in Trincomalee on the east coast. Sir Edward Paget, the eleventh governor, had been in office only a few months. Charles had met him for the first time at his inauguration.

  “The governor requests your presence,” announced the butler. He opened the office door and bowed as Charles walked through. There was little light in the room, as the windows looking onto the park were covered by shutters against heat and mosquitoes. In spite of a palm fan operated by a servant, the room remained stuffy. Bookcases and filing cabinets covered the walls. The Union Jack hung in the corner, beneath a portrait of the conqueror. Against one wall there was a heavy writing desk piled high with papers. As Charles entered the room, Paget snapped shut the file he had been reading and got to his feet. He was a wiry man in middle age, dressed impeccably in a general’s uniform, complete with a medal from the Napoleonic Wars.

  “Major Odell! Delighted to see you.” He greeted Charles with a handshake. “I’m keen to view what you have brought with you.” He pushed a pile of folders to one side. Charles placed his briefcase on the floor against the desk and unrolled the document. Paget bent excitedly to look at it. “A map! Very interesting! Is this to be the new road from Colombo to Kandy?” He tapped at a thick dark line marked with charcoal.

  “Quite right, Your Excellency. Here you can see the course of what will be the most important transport route in Ceylon,” Charles confirmed. “I have carried out a comprehensive survey. This is the shortest possible route between Colombo and Kandy. When it’s ready, we’ll be able to move troops and supplies from the coast to the interior faster than has ever been possible.”

  “If we’d had that road in ’17 and ’18, it wouldn’t have taken so long to subdue the rebels,” remarked Paget as he traced the line with his finger. “How many miles?”

  “Roughly eighty, and twenty-four feet wide. That way, two goods wagons can pass in comfort. If you will permit me, I’ll explain in further detail.” Charles smoothed down the map. “The land is extremely difficult and makes considerable demands on our engineering expertise. We shall have to traverse rivers currently not bridged. In the interior, we’ll come up against dense jungle, ravines, waterfalls, and steep terrain. The highest point is the Kadugannawa Pass.” Charles took a small notebook from his briefcase and leafed through it. “I have been so bold as to list the materials needed. For jungle clearance, I need carts, working elephants, and coolies. We’ll recruit men from the surrounding villages and coolies from India for the simple tasks. My Royal Engineers will do the demanding, specialized work, such as bridge construction. The Fifteenth Infantry Regiment will take on supervision of the workers and protection of the British engineers.”

  “How much should we pay the workers?” asked the general.

  “Pay? The coolies?” Charles looked at him in amazement. “I don’t believe any payment is necessary. These people are accustomed to forced labor. They had to do it for their own king.”

  Paget looked doubtful. “The Sinhalese kings were their acknowledged rulers. We’re now the unloved masters from Europe.”

  Charles made a dismissive gesture. “Let me deal with it, Your Excellency. I know how to handle these people. With your permission, I’ll explain my plans further.”

  At Paget’s nod of agreement, he carried on. “After the jungle clearance, sand and gravel need to be brought in for the road surfacing. That’s the only way to make the road sufficiently resilient. I’ll construct it with a fair bit of camber so the monsoon rain has good runoff. To the right and left of the road, there’ll be drainage channels—” Charles broke off and gripped the edge of the desk. His face was flushed.

  “Are you all right, Odell?”

  “Absolutely, Your Excellency. But I could wish for less of this damned heat.” He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

  The governor nodded and turned back to the map. “This project will be an expensive business, but without a good network of roads, this jungle will never become a modern country. What do you think, Odell? How long before your road is ready?”

  “Five years, Your Excellency,” replied Charles. “Though it will move that quickly only under my leadership. Nobody knows the terrain as well as I do, and nobody else has worked on the planning with such attention to detail.”

  Paget raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Five years is an ambitious target.”

  Charles stood to attention. “I consider ambition a virtue.”

  “And how will you deal with the villagers living in the path of the road? Isn’t there likely to be conflict?”

  “I’ve already given this thought, too, sir. The people will be moved.”

  “And if they don’t want to go?”

  “Why shouldn’t they want to go? There’s any amount of uninhabited jungle they could live in. And besides, I’d like to start the construction work in Kandy, not Colombo.”

  “What? Isn’t that highly impractical? All the material will have to be transported through the jungle to the uplands.”

  “That’s right,” said Charles. “I’d prefer to start off with the most difficult part of the route, and it’s in the uplands that the terrain is most problematic. It’s motivating for my engineers if they deal first with the hardest tasks and then the easier ones.”

  Paget smiled with satisfaction. “I see you have thought of everything.”

  �
��With respect, Your Excellency, you will find no better engineer in our colonies on the Indian subcontinent.”

  Paget glanced at his pocket watch. “What are you doing now, Odell? Are you staying for luncheon? My wife will be deeply grieved if she can’t converse with you again about her petunias.”

  Charles stood even straighter. “Does that mean I have the commission?”

  Paget gave a hearty laugh. “Who else, Odell? You have sold yourself magnificently. But the work will require one hundred percent effort. And you can only manage that if you yourself are one hundred percent fit.”

  “I certainly am,” Charles assured him as he followed the governor to the door.

  “I don’t doubt it. However, before the work begins, have yourself examined by a doctor.”

  Charles frowned. “I consider that quite unnecessary, Your Excellency. After all, I’ve braved the climate here for years now.”

  Paget held the door open for his guest. “Without that medical examination, I cannot give you the commission. But that’s all routine for you, surely?”

  “So you’re here! I’d already prepared myself for hunting you down in the filthiest doss-house in town.” Charles stepped inside Henry’s small room at the boardinghouse and paused in surprise. “Packing? Your leave has only just started. Or are you actually going to do something sensible with your free time for once?”

  Before Henry could reply, Charles spotted the orange monk’s habit on the bed. “What have we here?” He drew closer, grinning broadly, and held up the garment between two fingers.

  “A monk lent it to me; that’s all there is to it.” Henry took a pile of shirts from the cupboard and went over to his trunk, open in the middle of the room.

  “Lent? Are you hoping to become one of their dirty beggar monks?”

  “Just tell me what you want.” Henry went on stacking shirts in his trunk.

  “Answer me first. Why are you packing?”

  Henry went back to the cupboard and took out a pair of trousers. “I’m going back to Kandy.”

  Mahinda Dharmapala’s words had had a profound effect on him, so profound he had decided to cease his opium use at once. He had seen himself through the monk’s eyes and was disgusted when he thought about the kind of person he’d become. If he was ever to regain his self-esteem and any control over his life, he had to leave Colombo and the temptation of the opium dens. However, he had no desire to talk about that with anyone, least of all his brother.

  After the Uva massacre, Henry had carried out his threat and reported Charles to Governor Brownrigg for the atrocities and his tyrannical behavior. Yet to Henry’s dismay, Charles was not punished but rewarded with a medal and a promotion. By contrast, Henry had been warned to pay attention exclusively to his medical duties in the future and not to involve himself in military strategy.

  “You may congratulate me, my dear brother.” Charles dropped the monk’s robe back onto the bed. “Governor Paget has commissioned me to build the new road from Colombo to Kandy.”

  “Congratulations! Just the thing for someone with a disease like yours,” Henry said sarcastically, and then took a close look at his brother. Charles’s face was pale, glistening with sweat; his eyes were glassy and had dark shadows underneath. “Now I understand.” He went over to a shelf where he kept his shaving equipment and toothbrush alongside several small brown medicine bottles. He picked one up and tossed it to Charles. “This is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  Three years earlier, Charles had contracted malaria, but he concealed his condition to avoid it interfering with his career. The first time he had come asking for quinine powder, Henry told him to look for another doctor. However, Charles had caught him stealing laudanum from the medicine cupboard and used this to blackmail him.

  Charles unscrewed the bottle, shook out a white powder onto his hand, and licked it up. “Why does this stuff have to be so damned bitter?” He grimaced in revulsion.

  Henry didn’t answer and went on packing his trunk.

  Charles watched him for a while. Then he said, “You’ve got to certify me fit.”

  Henry straightened up and stared at him. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, unfortunately.” Charles took off his hat to fan himself. “Paget wants evidence or he won’t let me build the road. He says it’s no use to him to have a chief engineer who can’t stand the climate.”

  “I agree with him there,” replied Henry. “And that is precisely why my conscience as a doctor will not allow me to lie in this matter.”

  “Since when has an opium addict had any conscience as a doctor?” said Charles with a superior smile.

  Henry’s jaw tightened, but he would not change his position. “Go and look for some other idiot to aid your deception.”

  “As you wish, dear chap,” answered Charles. “But you know I’ll have some stories to tell your commander about your naughty habits.”

  Henry brought down the lid of his trunk with a loud bang. “You rotter! Get out of my room and leave me in peace!”

  “I’ll go as soon as I get the medical certificate. It’s up to you.”

  Henry clenched his fists, and for a moment Charles thought his brother was going to punch him. But then Henry forced out, “You win.”

  Charles smiled again, satisfied this time. “Very good, little brother. Anyway, I’ve got even more good news for you. I’ve asked Paget for your regiment to accompany me as support during the whole construction project.”

  “Magnificent,” said Henry. “I must follow you into the jungle to treat your malaria in secret.”

  “Don’t take it so badly. I want to build this road, Henry, but I need you in order to see it through.”

  “Fine,” declared Henry after some thought. “And I won’t be treating only you, but everyone who needs my help as a doctor.”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “The coolies don’t need a doctor. If one of them collapses, we get another one.”

  “You heard my conditions.” Henry turned back to his trunk.

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Charles responded with a sigh. “Suit yourself. If you really want to be saddled with the extra work.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mapitigama, July 1822

  “Grandma!”

  “Yes, Thambo? What is it, treasure?” Anshu straightened up with some difficulty and tucked a stray lock of silver hair back into her bun. It was almost midday. She had spent the morning planting sweet potatoes in the vegetable garden by the hut which, for almost four years now, had been her home in Mapitigama, together with her daughters and her three-year-old grandson. Now she was spreading cow dung over the vegetable patch to keep away snakes and ants.

  “There, Grandma!” The child was pointing excitedly toward the jungle.

  Anshu followed his gaze and saw a group of six horsemen in red uniforms trotting toward the village. At the forefront was a young man whose dark hair and features seemed vaguely familiar. As the redcoats drew closer, she was horror-struck. Their leader was the same man who had brutally raped Samitha, whose soldiers had tortured Mihiri to death, who had ordered Jeeva’s execution and razed to the ground an entire village.

  “Grandma? Who are they?”

  Anshu struggled to pick up the child, then ran inside her hut. She set him on the floor and crouched down in front of him.

  “Thambo, listen to me very carefully,” she said, taking his little hands in hers. “You must stay indoors and be very quiet until I, your mama, or Aunt Phera come for you. Under no circumstances are you to leave this hut. Do you understand me?”

  The boy stared at her, his eyes huge, and nodded silently. Anshu held his head in both hands and kissed his silky, dark hair. Then she went outside, pulling the palm-straw door closed tight behind her.

  Mapitigama was a settlement of twenty huts a short distance from the Kadugannawa Pass, surrounded almost entirely by virgin forest.

  For generations, the village had belonged to the dissava of the royal province of Matal
e. During the Uva Rebellion, the dissava had joined the insurgency and, like so many, been captured and executed. His family had fled to India, and Mapitigama had been left to itself. The villagers believed their new masters knew nothing of the existence of their village, hidden away in the jungle.

  Little huts of mud and straw, animal quarters, and the rice storehouse clustered around a village square, the sacred Bodhi tree at its center. Cinnamon peelers or farmers belonging to the respected caste were permitted to live in the heart of the village. Launderers and palm-wine producers, members of a lower caste, lived toward the edge of the settlement, while those who dealt with the dead resided a little outside the village, as befitted those with no caste.

  Anshu’s family hut was in the village center, as was appropriate for members of the noblest caste. However, the three women owned nothing more than any other village residents, cultivated their own garden and rice field, and occupied a mud hut with only a single room.

  While the young worked out in the rice fields and the cinnamon, nutmeg, and clove plantations, the older people took care of manual jobs close to home, watched over the small children, and tended to their gardens. Here they would grow fruit, vegetables, and herbs for daily use, as well as medicinal plants.

  Outsiders strayed into Mapitigama only rarely. The Moorish merchants, who came twice a year and brought fabrics, cooking pots, and the latest city news in exchange for betel, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, had been the only visitors in recent years. The people had not set eyes on British soldiers for the four years since the rebellion, so these arrivals were viewed with fear by the old and bewilderment by the very young.

  Meanwhile, the horsemen had reached the village square, its ancient Bodhi tree supported by wooden posts, its canopy of leaves spreading above a small shrine with a reclining Buddha. They pulled up their horses and looked around. The leader dug his spurs into his horse, making the animal rear up, snorting.