And how blessed are the people of Bhurtpore, too, since the moats and ditches are dry, so they are not plagued by the mosquitoes that thrive on still water, and they may drive their animals wherever they wish. I have learned that water when it is needed to fill the moats comes from a jheel to the north-west of the fortress, a very practical and happy arrangement. This water and these walls would pose the best engineer a test of his science. And when the water and the walls are covered by the guns of thirty-five bastions and countless other outworks, the infantry might very well become so many companies of forlorn hopes unless directed by a general of exceptional address. In the skill of the siege artillery and the field gunners reposes their fate. No fortress is impregnable, we must understand, but it is my decided opinion that if ever a fortress came close to such a condition it is Bhurtpore . . .
And then he had confided in his friend the unhappier detail of his detached duty - unusually, for it touched only on the business of the Sixth:
I am resolved to have Green out. He daily becomes more awkward in his dealings with everyone. In truth I can scarcely bear to speak to him. Every blemish in both his character and appearance seemed magnified in Dehli, there being no multitude of other officers to draw away attention. I have therefore written to Joynson and advised him that he speak severely with him about the advisability of his remaining in the regiment, for I have concluded that he could never make an officer, and if ever it comes to a fight the outcome would be very ill indeed - for himself, principally, for there could be little enough damage he might do to any of the dragoons, such is his subsidiary role. Yet were he ever to encounter a half decent swordsman the result must be disaster.
But, on the other hand, I am pleased to say that Perry is a fine lieutenant, on whose account I need have had no fears, and I shall take leave hence, before returning to Dehli, to see the great white mausoleum at Agra, about which you always spoke so much . . .
These letters he then took with him to Agra, where there were trusted hircarrahs to carry despatches down the Jumna and thence to Calcutta, and from where he himself could take a boat back to Dehli with greater ease. He had indeed grown fond of his licence. The days were still warm, and at night it was good to sit before a fire reading or in contemplation. He lacked the company of English-speakers, Jaswant Sing having now returned to Dehli, but this gave him opportunity to practise his Urdu with a certain confidence, and in any case he had never been fretful in his own company - except at the very end of his stay in Bhurtpore, but the fever had not developed its full power, and he was abed for no longer than a day.
Five more he gave himself to see what had once been the proud Mughal capital, Agra. On the last evening he sat beside the hearth in a comfortable haveli which Jaswant Sing had arranged for him, below the red walls of the great sandstone fort. The place was strangely peaceful for so teeming a city, and he contemplated its lessons. He laid down his glass of arrack - he had come to rely on it as a faithful aid to digestion, no matter how tempestuous the dinner served him - leaned back in his chair and drew long on the mildest of cheroots. The tobacco smoke mixed agreeably with that of the sandalwood burning in the grate, and he closed his eyes for a moment the better to hear the nightjar - stranger, as a rule, to the haunts of men.
In a while he opened them again, and picked up his journal from the table next to him. It had commanded more time than usual of an evening, for it was his sole entry at Agra:
12th November 1824
The work at Bhurtpore being done - and greatly more of it than I had ever imagined, so immense a place is it - I travelled thence to the Jumna again, under the admirable arrangements of Jaswant Sing, and reposed two nights at the ancient capital of the Moguls. The palace called the Taje Mahl, which means crown palace, is spoken of throughout India as one of unsurpassed beauty, the place of burial of the wife of a great emperor to whom it was erected in praise. I visited it the first day on arriving and was not disappointed. While it is visible in whole from the river, approached from the south through the main gate only its dome and the four minarets, at each corner, of white marble, are to be seen above the circumadjacent trees of a Persian garden, in the way that the dome of the Pope's basilica in Rome can be seen above the crowding buildings of the Borgo. Only when, like the basilica, one comes right upon it can its entire beauty be imagined. I have attempted to sketch it, but it is wholly beyond my skill to render it any justice, and I have instead resolved to find an artist hereabout who will make me a fair likeness. Last night I visited the gardens opposed to it on the other bank of the Jumna, which are in very great disrepair, yet which are called the Moonlight Gardens for here is where, legend has it, the emperor would come at the full moon each month to recall his lost love. It was planted with all manner of herbage that gave off sweet scent by night, and there is still too a night scent, though the place is very jungled . . .
Hervey's journal pretended to nothing more than being well-kept. For the most part it was in note form, serving as a memorandum of movement, acquisition, accomplishment; or occasionally of intention, hindrance or opinion. But never of emotion, not even anger. Had it been his practice to include such feelings he would have filled pages since coming to Agra, for in that moonlight garden he had for a time begun to question the true intensity of his former love. It had been Emma Somervile's suggestion - insistence, indeed - that he visit Agra. There, she said, he would see the perfect expression of a grieving man's love. It had been no mawkish sentiment, for he had spoken with her of raising some memorial to Henrietta, and had done so with perfect calm. Henrietta was not yet dismissed habitually from his mind - thoughts of her, especially of their moments of intimacy, came on him still, and often - but he could now think of her with reason and cool judgement, quite unlike before. And Emma's suggestion had been far from unwelcome, for he had read and heard much of the white marble shrine: it would surely be instructive to see how a man who had grieved and had the means to memorialize that grieving had done so. However, the palace had seemed more and more a rebuke to him. Here stood a memorial as much to the constancy of an emperor's love as to the empress herself. Where was the evidence of his own constancy? In truth, the evidence was to the contrary - his bibi, the letters to and from Lady Katherine Greville, more sportive with each return.
Only later, on leaving Agra, as he read fitfully on the budgerow plying upstream for Dehli, did he learn that in time the emperor had abandoned the city and set up his court in the old Mughal capital - just as he, Hervey, had abandoned England and set up his domain in India. But Mumtaz Mahal had begged her husband not to pine for her, and to remarry. Hervey could not slough off his guilt so easily. And in any case his sins were mingled. He no longer honoured his wife's memory with his body, but neither did he say his prayers with system or regularity, let alone conviction. And he might as well have forgotten the offspring of their union. Somervile had been wont to say that many a man had lost his reason in India as well as his soul. But such men, Hervey supposed, had sought consolation in drink or some other opiate. He relied only on activity. No, he had no fear of losing his reason. But in India colours were brighter and shadows darker. It was not always so easy to judge things faithfully.