Literary Journal Issue#5 2011 - Cranbrook School

BENCHMARK
Conversations with Jane continued
been assigned in 1792, the last time the British had
attempted to defeat the rebels. His company had gouged
makeshift roads for heavy artillery up the rough
escarpment. It had seemed an endless challenge: to carve
a flat surface into the rock hard land. It had taken them
weeks. At times Macquarie had felt the task was
insurmountable.
The roads had been for more than just the soldiers
heading into battle. Thousands of camp followers made
the trip from Bombay to the fortress. Each soldier had a
convoy of servants, chefs and families, as well as all the
materials that they would require for war: cannons and
canvas, gunpowder and swords. Continual rain and
several unannounced attacks from small groups of Indian
rebels had made the journey arduous and nigh on
impossible. But Macquarie, with his band of sixty men,
had brought glory to themselves and England.
He remembered with pride when he was entrusted with
the duty to build a battery base from which eighteen
pounders could fire onto Fort Avery, which they had
encountered on their way to Seringapatam. Without any
weaponry and the majority of his men being
inexperienced soldiers, he had the battery built in one
night and by morning the fort had been taken. The young
men had worked exceptionally well, obeying all of his
commands without hesitation. It was the day he truly felt
he had become a leading officer. All night the rebel
musketeers had hurled heavy assaults at Macquarie’s men,
and only one soul was lost. Laying the final sandbags onto
the battery emplacement, a young sepoy he knew only as
William was mortally wounded. Upon his return to the
main column, Macquarie’s superior officers told him not
to worry about the young Indian: he was expendable. But
Macquarie had mourned when the boy died of his wounds
early that following morning.
Macquarie continued to scan the landscape above the
tumult and his eye drifted onto the tall trees in the
distance. They reminded him of Macao, where he had
spent his last moments with Jane.
Beautiful Jane.
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The very thought of her made Macquarie step back and
compose himself. It had been three years but his loneliness
and depression were still with him, the hurt still sharp.
When they had first arrived in Macao, Jane had seemed so
joyful. Yet there had been little hope. Her doctors had
recommended the voyage, assuring him that the clean,
crisp sea wind would be beneficial to her consumption.
Macquarie had hoped that perhaps it was the heavy
Bombay air that was promoting her disease. But he had
been wrong. In truth, even before they had advised them
to embark the doctors probably suspected the worst.
Macquarie did not resent them for lying; they were just
trying to offer him a chance that she could recover. In
retrospect, he was thankful that they had not told him
that the consumption had already done its worst. Had he
known, he might not have been able to bear her last days.
He never left her bedside. He did not sleep. He missed
meals. Friends urged him to go swimming or riding –
anything for a few hours respite. But he could not leave
Jane. Not until the night that took his love had passed.
Only then had he left her side.
It still hurt in his bones when he thought about her death.
Most nights as he lay in bed, Macquarie wondered
whether he’d ever recover. And now to his depression were
added angst and frustration because he was not on the
battlefield with his men. He had waited so long for this
opportunity. There was little glory in what he was doing
now; standing here, watching from a hill, safe from
danger. He felt like a child who was not allowed to go on
an adventure with his more courageous brothers. He
touched the black armband on his left arm. He still
couldn’t take it off. His friends had even stopped
mentioning it.
‘Is it my fault you’re not out there?’ Jane’s voice was soft.
Although it had been three years, he could still imagine
her voice perfectly. And he still heard it, always when he
needed her most. He realised that if he told anyone about
her visitations they’d think his mind addled. But what
could he do? He never wanted her to leave.
‘Of course not. I’m just ill, my dear. The doctors thought
it best that I not take part.’