There proved to be virtually no chance to get to know the men under his command because the day after his arrival embarkation orders were received. The Homayun was a dirty little steamer which before being drafted into war service had plied the route between Bombay and Arabia, conveying pilgrims to Mecca and back again. About a thousand men were finally crammed aboard: the Palamcottahs, a detachment of sappers, the Punjabi Coolie Corps and about thirty mules and four dozen sheep, which had to be tethered on one of the decks.
Gabriel found himself sharing a small cabin with two other officers, a doctor from the Indian Medical Service, and a tall thin major from the Welch Regiment called Bilderbeck, who had been at the staff college at Quetta but was now attached to the expeditionary force’s headquarters staff as intelligence officer because he’d served in East Africa before the war.
Embarkation was completed by the thirtieth of September. The last mules were winched on board, the last lighter had deposited its load of excited coolies and had returned to the wharves. The Homayun got up steam and moved slowly out of Bombay harbour until she was some three miles offshore.
Then with a rattle of chains the anchors were released and she stopped once more. Gabriel assumed, as he looked over the railing at the distant shore, that they were waiting for the rest of the fleet to form up.
The days went by with an inconceivable slowness. Two, three, four, five. The Homayun rolled heavily at anchor in the ocean swell and to a man, it seemed, the coolie corps went down with seasickness. A widening slick of human effluence polluted the sea around the immobile ship. Gabriel inspected his company twice a day, just to give himself something to do. They were thin-faced, resentful men in baggy uniforms and thick khaki turbans. The Indian officers — the jemadars and subadars — seemed too old and slack, and treated Gabriel with caution and suspicion. On the seventh day new Maxim guns were ferried out and each company supplied with two. Seizing the opportunity, Gabriel held machine-gun drill every afternoon, teaching the lethargic sepoys how to strip down, load and fire the bright, shiny weapons. They fired at empty barrels thrown over the side, kicking up the scummy surface of the sea with a flurry of bullets.
Ten days went by and still the Homayun swung listlessly at anchor. Gabriel fell into a state of thoughtless passivity of which he would never have believed himself capable. After breakfast he would make a cursory inspection of his troops, send the sick men to the surgery, and then retire to the shadiest part of the ship and try to write letters. His life was so empty that once he’d got beyond, “Dear Mother and Father, here we are still on the Homayun…” there seemed little point in going on. He tried several times to write to Charis on more personal matters but to his consternation he found that even harder. He did think about her a lot, and the emotions he experienced were genuine, but when it came to giving them some shape, pinning them down in a few heartfelt words, he found it impossible to identify and name correctly what were in actuality only the most vague and nebulous sensations.
“My Darling Charis,” he would write. Then he would pause. What could he say? That he loved her? But surely she knew that; it wouldn’t do to state things so bluntly, he needed a more elegant turn of phrase…And he would drift off into a doze until it was time for luncheon. In the afternoon came yet more sleep, or else vacant staring at the shoreline. Sometime she would plunge into the sailbath that had been rigged up and for ten minutes feel more alive. In the evening he’d mix uneasily with the other officers, but nobody really knew each other and the talk was desultory and formal. No orders had been issued and Lt Col. Coutts, the portly, ageing commanding officer, had nothing to report at the few briefing sessions called. As on the Dongola most officers ended up passing the time by playing cards, or deck quoits. Gabriel played a few hands of whist, but he didn’t know how to play contract bridge and couldn’t be bothered to learn.
Eventually, sixteen days after they had embarked, the Homayun finally weighed anchor and took its place in the convoy that sailed out of Bombay harbour. No explanation for their wait offshore was ever forthcoming: it was assumed that someone had forgotten about them. As India gradually disappeared from view Gabriel was possessed briefly of a thrilling and venomous anger at the nameless staff officer whose order had condemned them to the two-week purgatory they had lived through. Sixteen days, roasting motionless offshore. Sixteen entire endless days of petty irritations, extreme discomfort and near-fatal boredom. Gabriel felt his face go taut with frustration and his eyelids twitch with angry tears. He felt sure that he could have killed the man responsible without a qualm, slowly, intricately and with excruciating pain…Calm down, he told himself, calm down, at least they were on the move.
Just before they left a launch delivered mail from Europe. There were three letters: from his mother, Felix and Charis. The news was six weeks old. He opened his mother’s first.
My dear Gabriel,
The news from France is most depressing. Your father says we have lost a battle at a place called Mons. He has pinned a large map on the library wall where the entire household is invited each day to hear the latest news of the fighting.
Charis is well, despite a slight cold. She was so sad after you had gone, but has buckled down with a will helping us organize collections of provisions for the poor Belgians. She has decided to stay on in the cottage even though there is so much room in the house. However she comes to us for most luncheons and dinners.
Felix received a letter from the War Office telling him to go to the OTC recruiting office at Oxford. But it now seems they can’t take him because of his eyes. I always knew that boy read too much. Your father refuses to speak to him so he has gone up to London to stay with his friend Holland. I think it’s for the best, for the meanwhile, anyway.
Henry is up to his ears in work at the Committee of Imperial Defence. He told Albertine not to worry; he will see Greville gets a staff posting (Greville is not to know about this, it seems). Nigel Bathe, however, is going to a place called Mesopotamia. Henry says there is nothing he can do. Poor Nigel is most disappointed: he so wanted to go to France…
His mother’s letter continued in this vein for several more pages. Felix’s was briefer.
…you will have heard I am not to be called to the colours. Such a disgrace. Father practically accused me of arrant cowardice. It was pointless to remind him that there are so many volunteers that anyone not 100 % fit is turned away. Cyril, of course, was snapped up. I’ve never seen anyone look so pleased…
Your dear wife has wisely decided to remain in the cottage. She seems well, running about the county with Dr Venables collecting blankets for the Belgians. Life at home is more intolerable than ever, what with Father’s nightly (compulsory) briefing on the course of the war.
I am going to stay with Holland, also rejected by the Army. We will be going up to Oxford together in October, though goodness knows what the place will be like with everyone off at the war. Nigel Bathe has been sent to guard some desert wastes. He thinks the war is some vile and complicated plot to thwart and discomfit him…
Gabriel saved Charis’s letter until last. He sat and looked at her handwriting on the envelope trying to conjure up an image of her face in his mind. They had had three nights in the cottage before he had left for Southampton. Three nights in which they had managed to repeat the solitary success they had enjoyed in Trouville. Gabriel leant back on his bunk and shut his eyes. He could feel his heart beating faster at the uncomfortable, somehow embarrassing memories. He opened the letter.