Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  During his stay in Nayanpur, Deeti came to visit, with her daughter. She had looked a little careworn and had stayed only a couple of nights: but as far as Kesri could tell she was content with her lot – she had certainly made no complaint and just before leaving she had painted a picture of Kabutri and given it to Kesri. He still had it in his keeping.

  It grieved Kesri now to think of his little sister as a widow already. He could not understand why his family had not written, or sent word of what had happened.

  Six

  November 4, 1839

  Honam

  Two days ago an urgent letter arrived from Zhong Lou-si, who is away in another county, touring with Commissioner Lin. The letter said that Compton and I were to leave immediately for Whampoa, to catch a passage-boat. We were to travel to Humen, which is the location of a customs house where every incoming ship has to obtain clearance to proceed to Canton.

  Apparently a British-owned vessel, the Royal Saxon, had just come in from Java; the captain, an Englishman, had indicated that he wanted to proceed to Canton with his goods. The captain had even indicated that he was willing to sign a bond, forswearing the opium trade, on penalty of his life. This was good news for us, because Captain Elliot has for the last several months prevented British merchants from coming to Canton because he did not want them to sign the bond. But here at last was a sign that British merchants were at last willing to defy the Plenipotentiary himself – this was exactly what Commissioner Lin has been hoping for. One other English vessel had already broken Captain Elliot’s embargo: if the Royal Saxon too was able to proceed to Canton then many others would surely follow – it would be a great victory for Commissioner Lin!

  Our instructions were to serve as translators for the customs house officials who’d be dealing with the captain and crew: our job was to make sure that there were no misunderstandings. The sailors were mainly lascars, which was why it was necessary for me to be present. Since I’m classified as a yi, a foreigner, Zhong Lou-si had enclosed a special chop, to make sure that I encountered no official difficulties.

  Humen overlooks the channel that Europeans call the Bogue or Bocca Tigris – the ‘Tiger’s Mouth’. It is about one hundred and eighty Chinese li from Guangzhou – about sixty English miles – and the journey, by boat, usually takes a day and a half.

  We had no time to waste: the tide had just crested at Guangzhou and Compton said that the passage-boats would depart when the current turned. I went home to pack a few things, and we met again at Jackass Point, in the foreign enclave. From there a ferry took us to Whampoa where we caught a passage-boat for Humen.

  The se boats are long, caterpillar-like vessels, crowded with passengers, livestock, cargo and vendors. Our official chop was a big help and we were able to find a quiet corner in which to settle in for the night.

  We reached Humen in the late afternoon, on the second day. The town is of modest size, but it adjoins the largest defensive field-works of the Pearl River. There is a fort there with a massive battery of guns; it serves as the channel’s gatekeeper – foreigners call it the fort of Anunghoy. Behind the fort, the shore slopes steeply upwards, to form a crested ridge. At the top of this hill there is another fortified gun-emplacement with a powerful battery of cannon.

  The harbour at Humen is dominated by the customs house: this is where we had been told to go. On arriving there we learnt that the Royal Saxon was already at anchor nearby: the ship’s captain was under instructions to proceed to the customs house next morning, to sign the bond. But in the meantime, a squadron of British vessels, with Captain Elliot on board, had also sailed in from Hong Kong, no doubt with the intention of preventing the Royal Saxon from approaching Humen. Everyone was on edge, wondering what would happen the next day.

  Compton had thought that we would stay either at the customs house in Humen or at a nearby yamen. But on inquiring we learnt that there was no room for us in either. We were told that we would have to make other arrangements. Although Compton was disappointed, I was relieved: it was clear that the customs house officials were suspicious of me despite my official credentials; I was none too keen to remain there.

  We went into Humen, to look for an inn, but these too were filled to capacity: apparently a massive project is under way to strengthen the fortifications of the Tiger’s Mouth, and large numbers of workers and overseers have flooded into the town.

  Fortunately, Compton has relatives nearby, which is only natural since he is a native of that county. They live in a hamlet, on a neighbouring island called Shaitok (foreigners call it Chuenpee). We took a ferry over and met with a warm welcome from Compton’s relatives.

  In the late afternoon the boys of the house took us for a long walk. The island is lush and leafy, with two conical hills. But its prettiness is deceptive: like Humen, Chuenpee bristles with cannon. Right on the water, there is a massive gun-emplacement: it looks across the Tiger’s Mouth towards Tytock, on the far side of the channel, where there is another large battery. On the summit of Chuenpee’s tallest hill there is another fort, a small one. The hill commands a panoramic view of the surroundings. The landscape was breathtaking: it was as if a scroll-painting had appeared before my eyes. To the east the estuary broadens into a wide funnel, with Hong Kong on one side and Macau on the other; to the west, the Pearl River meanders through a verdant plain, heading off in the direction of Guangzhou. The water of the estuary is a brilliant, sparkling blue, broken here and there by forested islands. On the far shore there are jagged mountains, with misted peaks.

  Compton had brought a telescope with him, and we took turns examining the ships below. The Chinese fleet was concentrated at Tytock, on the other side of the channel: it consisted of sixteen war-junks, with castella-tions, fore and aft. Matted sails hung from their masts, projecting obliquely upwards, like the wings of moths. They were bedecked with streaming pennants and banners, and their bows were decorated with large, painted eyes. They were certainly faa faa hik hik – extremely colourful in appearance, but in size they were small, no more than a hundred feet in length, about as much as the Ibis if not less. Even ordinary trading junks are larger; as for European vessels, even a sixth-rate British warship is far bigger and heavier.

  Swarming between the war-junks were many small boats and a dozen or so rafts with black flags: these were ‘fire-vessels’ Compton said; they are used as incendiary weapons, to spread flames amongst enemy ships. Some of them also carry ‘stink-bombs’ – chemical devices that disperse noxious gases and fumes.

  The British ships were a couple of miles to the east, where the estuary broadens. The squad was a small one, consisting of a couple of ships’ boats and two warships. By British standards these were small vessels, and far from fearsome; one was I think a sloop-of-war and the other a small frigate. I guessed that according to the Royal Navy’s scale of ratings, they were fourth-rate warships.

  Between the two squadrons, like a plump fish caught between two schools of predators, was the Royal Saxon, anchored beside an island. Scanning her decks with a spyglass, I spotted many turbaned heads – lascars! I began to wonder how I’d have felt in their position, caught between British and Chinese warships?

  On the way back to the hamlet, Compton said he thought the British warships would beih fung tauh – avoid trouble. There are just two of them, what can they do against sixteen ships?

  I thought it best to say nothing.

  Next morning we went back to the customs house at Humen. The officials told us that we would not be needed after all: a chop had already been issued to the Royal Saxon and she would soon be coming through, on her way to Whampoa.

  There was nothing for us to do, so we decided to go back to Chuenpee to pick up our things. As we were approaching the hamlet, we saw the boys of the house running towards the top of the hill. We began to run too and soon caught up with one of Compton’s nephews. We went up the hill together and on reaching the top we saw that the Royal Saxon had hoisted sail and was heading towards the Chines
e customs house at Humen. This had roused the two British warships to give chase: they were about half a mile behind her, with every mast and yard crowded with canvas.

  All of this had happened very quickly, and the Chinese fleet was clearly taken unawares. The war-junks and even the smaller boats were still at their moorings; not a single vessel had budged.

  The two British warships closed quickly on the Royal Saxon. First the frigate flashed warnings with her signal flags. Then, with a puff of smoke and a booming report, a single cannon-shot was fired across the Royal Saxon’s bows.

  Compton, who was standing beside me, could not believe his eyes: Are they going to attack an English ship?

  I told him that they weren’t really attacking the Royal Saxon – they were warning her not to break the embargo by proceeding to Canton.

  The Royal Saxon had taken heed and had already begun to change course. She now tacked steeply to starboard. Meanwhile, the Chinese ships had begun to move too; led by the largest of the junks, they brought their bows around and began to advance towards the British ships.

  The two English warships slackened pace a little, but when it became clear that the junks were on course to intercept them, the sloop fell behind the frigate, to form a line of battle.

  The war-junks were now bunched together, with the fire-boats and rafts swarming between them. As the warships drew abreast, one of the fire-boats was set alight and pushed towards the approaching frigate. Neither of the warships veered from their course – the fire-boat was moving too slowly to do them any harm. Holding steady, the English ships closed to a distance of less than a hundred feet. When the Chinese squadron was directly a-beam of them, the frigate flashed a signal, and the two warships unloosed their first broadside.

  Puffs of smoke blossomed along the starboard beams of both warships. By the time the sound had crossed the water, the Chinese fleet was obscured from our sight by a dense white cloud. Moments later a noise of a different kind came across – a sickening sound of splintering and crackling, pierced by screams and shouts.

  When the smoke cleared the stretch of water where the Chinese fleet had been was utterly transformed: it was as if a sheet of lightning had come down from the sky, to set the channel on fire. Dozens of masts had been shattered; some had been blasted into the water and some had crashed down on the junks’ decks, killing and maiming the men below. A couple of junks were listing steeply, their bows rising as water flooded into their punctured hulls. Of the burning fire-boat nothing remained but a few, flaming pieces of wood. Around the wreckage, the water was churning with flailing limbs and bobbing heads.

  I had to shut my eyes. When I opened them again I saw that the largest of the junks had begun to move again: apparently this was the only vessel in the Chinese fleet that was still capable of functioning. Although two of her masts were gone, she slowly turned her bows around and fired off a volley. It served no purpose: the two British warships were far away, turning sharply for their next run.

  Compton told me the big junk was Admiral Guan’s and handed me his telescope. Putting it to my eye, I caught a glimpse of an elderly man, trying desperately to rally his blood-spattered, reeling crew. In the meantime, the two British warships had completed their turn and were heading back to deliver their second broadside. As they drew abreast, the admiral turned to face them, looking directly into the cannon: it was an act of hopeless defiance.

  Once again a curtain of smoke rose from the flanks of the two warships; once again the junks disappeared from view. This time, the sound of the fusillade was followed by a much greater noise, an explosion that sent great sheets of flame and debris shooting into the air. When the blast reached the hill the ground shook beneath our feet. It was clear that they had hit a magazine because a great tower of flame rose from the water.

  When the smoke cleared we saw that one of the junks had burst open, like a shattered eggshell. The detonation hurled a mass of flying debris at the surrounding vessels, riddling them with gaping holes.

  In the distance, the two British warships were sailing serenely back to their anchorage. They had suffered no damage other than a few minor burns caused by flaming debris.

  Around us, many were weeping, including Compton’s nephew.

  It’s the end, he sobbed, it’s finished.

  Compton put an arm around his shoulders. No, it’s not finished, I heard him say. This is just the beginning.

  Infidelity and unfaithfulness were unknown countries to Shireen. When she listened to relatives talking about the trespasses of others – for example a distant cousin who had been found in compromising circumstances with her sister’s husband – she was often more puzzled than shocked. How did such situations come about? What were the words with which these liaisons were proposed? How were they concealed from the khidmatgars and maids and all the other naukar-log?

  She was at a loss to understand why anybody would choose to involve themselves in such complicated manoeuvres. Wasn’t it easier to go about things in a normal way? And more pleasant besides?

  It astounded her now to think that her own husband had been leading another existence for some thirty years, a life of which she had not had the faintest suspicion. To think of a man who could successfully juggle these two utterly different realities was to conjure up a complete stranger. The most disturbing part of it was the way in which Bahram had reached out from his grave to pull her into this spirit-world, this strange dimension of existence where everything was deceit and trickery. What made it worse still was that she had been drawn into it of her own volition, by arranging to meet Zadig Bey again, alone – and not just to apologize, but mainly because she wanted to learn more about Bahram’s son. What good would come of it she didn’t know – but now that this window had opened she was powerless to turn away from it. To expunge her husband’s child from her mind was no more possible than it would have been to forget her own daughters.

  As the trip to Bassein approached she obsessed about all the little things that might go wrong. She knew that the coachmen who drove her to the docks that morning would be under orders to escort her aboard, to make sure that she was comfortably settled in. She knew that when they returned they would be questioned. What would they report to her brothers and their wives? What if they caught sight of Zadig Bey and concluded that the meeting had been pre-arranged?

  On the way to the docks her apprehensions grew so acute that she broke a fingernail by nibbling on it too hard. But on arriving she realized that she need not have worried: Vico was nothing if not discreet; he knew exactly what to do and had anticipated every eventuality.

  The boat was a fine, two-masted batelo, with a crew of six and a curtained cabin in the middle – an eminently respectable vessel. Zadig Bey was nowhere in sight and there was a chaperone present, notably genteel-looking. Her name was Rosa and her clothing, like her deportment, was reminiscent of a nun: she was wearing a severely cut black dress, with long sleeves and a high neck. Her only adornment was a gold cross.

  Vico explained that Rosa was a cousin of his, the daughter of an aunt who had married a Goan; Rosa’s husband had died the year before, leaving her a widow at the age of thirty.

  Widowhood created an instantaneous bond between the two women. They linked arms with each other as Rosa talked about her childhood in Goa, and how she had married a master-cannoneer and moved with him to Macau, where he had died. Alone and childless, she had returned to India to return some of his effects to his family.

  Zadig Bey did not make an appearance until the batelo had hoisted sail and pulled out into the bay. Nor was there anything awkward about the manner of his entry. Vico gave Shireen ample warning and she had plenty of time to cover her face with her sari.

  Then the four of them sat together, drinking tea and nibbling on khakras. Zadig began to talk about watch-making and the atmosphere was so comfortable that Shireen began to feel silly for being in purdah – especially since Rosa, who was so much younger, was sitting beside her without a veil. She allowed he
r sari to slip off her face and thought no more of it.

  Only when Shireen was completely at her ease did Vico and Rosa slip away, on a pretext, leaving her alone with Zadig. To Shireen’s great relief Zadig carried on talking about timepieces so there were no difficult moments of silence. His tact and delicacy went straight to her heart and gave her the courage to say the words that she had prepared.

  ‘Zadig Bey – I owe you an apology.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what I said that day, at the church. I am very, very sorry that I did not believe you.’

  ‘Please, Bibiji, think nothing of it. To tell you the truth, I was moved by your loyalty to your husband.’

  ‘Even though he did not deserve it?’

  ‘Bibiji, this I can tell you – he loved you and his daughters very much. Everything he did was for you.’

  Shireen could feel her eyes welling up now, and she didn’t want to waste any time on tears. ‘Tell me about the boy, Zadig Bey. What is he like?’

  ‘Freddie? What can I tell you? Things have never been easy for Freddie. Bahram did what he could for him – but he could not give him the thing he most wanted.’

  ‘What was that?’

  Zadig smiled. ‘You, Bibiji. Freddie wanted to meet you; he wanted to know you; he wanted to be accepted by you, to be taken into the family. You must understand that Freddie grew up in Canton’s floating city, among the “boat-people”, who are like outcastes in the eyes of many Chinese – and he wasn’t even fully one of them. Yet he knew that his father was rich and had married into a prominent family. He desperately wanted to claim some part of this birthright. He begged Bahram-bhai to take him away from Canton and bring him to Bombay – but Bahram-bhai knew that Freddie would not be accepted, by your family, or by the Parsi community. He knew that it would only make things worse for him.’