by Amitav Ghosh
Turning to it, I discovered to my amazement that this rocket is actually a refinement of a weapon that was invented in India. Of course the Chinese have had rockets for centuries, but apparently they’ve only ever used them as fireworks, not for military purposes: rockets were first used as military weapons by Sultan Haider Ali of Mysore and his son Tipu, some forty years ago, during their wars with the East India Company. It was in south India, in the fortress of Bangalore, that rockets were adapted to carry explosives. Haider Ali used them to spread terror and confusion and caused the present Duke of Wellington some notable setbacks. Although the Mysore sultans were eventually defeated the British recognized the value of their innovation and sent a number of captured rockets to the Royal Arsenal in Woolwich, where one Mr William Congreve (a descendant of the playwright no doubt) then refined and improved the weapon. Since that time the British have used Congreve rockets in the Napoleonic wars and in the war of 1812. Now evidently they are planning to use them in China.
Compton and I lingered for hours in the library. We found several other ‘useful’ books – one on fortifications for example, and another on navigation – but to our disappointment there was nothing on steamships or boiler engines.
On our way out, I helped myself to a few books of my choice. It has been a long time since I last read a novel, romance or play: I scooped them off the shelves and stuffed them into my bag – Pamela, Love in Excess, Robinson Crusoe, The Vicar of Wakefield, Tristram Shandy, a translation of Voltaire’s Zadig, and a half-dozen more.
As we were about to leave my eyes fell on a book that stood out among the library’s sober tomes because of its brightly embossed spine: The Butterfly’s Ball and the Grasshopper’s Feast by William Roscoe.
It was the very edition that I’d bought for Raju in Calcutta when I started teaching him English, years ago; it cost a guinea as I recall, even though it was the cheaper, American edition. I could not resist it – I pulled it off the shelf and dropped it in the bag.
When I returned to my lodgings, the first book I took out of the bag was The Butterfly’s Ball and the Grasshopper’s Feast. I have read it to Raju so many times that I know it almost by heart. As I ran my eyes over the familiar illustrations, Raju’s voice filled my ears, lisping over the words:
Come take up your Hats, and away let us haste ‘To the Butterfly’s Ball …
I could feel my son’s weight on my lap and I could hear myself, correcting his pronunciation: ‘No, Raju – this is how you say it …’
The memories were so vivid that the book dropped from my hand and my eyes filled with tears.
To brood uselessly serves no purpose – that is why I do not dwell on the past; that is why I try not to think too much of Raju and Kamala. But The Butterfly’s Ball took me unawares and pierced my defences. It was as if an embankment had been swept away and I were floundering in a flood, trying not to drown in my own grief.
The eastern expedition’s fleet grew steadily larger as the days lengthened into weeks. The vessels from Madras trickled in slowly, bringing not only sepoys from the 37th Regiment but also two companies of sappers and miners and a substantial corps of engineers. But there were other ships still to come from Madras, notably the Golconda, which was carrying the regiment’s commanding officer, as well as the equipment, supplies and personnel for its headquarters establishment. The tardiness of these vessels kept the expedition at anchor in Singapore even as the men grew increasingly impatient to move on.
The month of May was almost over when Captain Mee summoned Kesri to his stateroom to tell him that the Golconda and another ship, Thetis, had been indefinitely delayed and would join the expedition later, off the China coast. There being no further reason for the fleet to tarry in Singapore, Commodore Bremer had ordered most of the fleet’s vessels to depart the next morning. They would proceed directly from Singapore to the mouth of the Pearl River.
‘How many days from here, sir?’
‘Ten to fifteen, I would say.’
The next morning, the departing ships were led out of the harbour by the Wellesley. The man-o’-war put on a splendid display, with crewmen standing erect on the cross-trees and stirrups, silhouetted against the billowing sails. The frigates followed in two rows, booming forward with their bows to the breeze, and then came the steamers, with the water frothing under their paddle-wheels. The troop-transports were the next to make sail, in groups of two and three.
On the Hind, the banjee-boys were up on the maindeck; they played a rousing tune as the ship’s sails filled with wind. Looking on from above, Zadig, Shireen and Freddie were charmed by the diminutive eleven- and twelve-year-olds, in their white uniforms. As for Raju, he did not know which way to turn – towards the band, or the Wellesley, or the steamers, or the azure waters ahead. The first thing he would tell his father, he decided, was that there was no grander sight on earth than that of a fleet setting sail.
Thirteen
The last leg of the Hind’s eastwards voyage was markedly different from the first. From Calcutta to Singapore, the expedition’s vessels had sailed largely on their own, occasionally sighting each other or drawing alongside, but each travelling at their preferred pace. After leaving Singapore they sailed together, cruising in convoy, with the lofty skysails of the Wellesley leading the way.
The Hind was in the thick of the fleet, far to the rear of the flagship. The waters around her were crowded with canvas, trikat and gavi, kilmi and sabar: it was as if the sea had become the sky, a blue firmament dotted with scattered clouds, all scudding in the same direction. Between the white shoals rose stacks of smoke, dark as thunderheads, spouting from the funnels of the expedition’s three steamers as they zigzagged through the convoy, delivering messages, rounding up stragglers and lending a hand where needed.
The superb seamanship and perfect trim of the Royal Navy’s warships put the merchantmen on their mettle: ‘all shipshape and Bristol fashion’ became the maxim of the day and skippers began to drive their crews like never before. Every now and then races would break out, with one ship or another attempting to overhaul the vessel ahead. Even the passengers got into the spirit of it, urging the sailors on and cheering loudly when their vessel took the shine out of another.
Until the second week of the voyage the weather was exceptionally fine but then there came a change. The wind picked up strength and soon the Hind was being battered by powerful gusts from the south-west. The skies remained clear however, so the crew kept to their routines and the passengers continued to take the air on deck, as usual.
Among the daily on-board rituals there was one that always attracted a large crowd of spectators: the slaughtering of poultry for the officers’ table.
The Hind’s chicken coop was at the foot of the mainmast. Every day, around noon, when the captain and first mate were ‘shooting the sun’, the cook who officiated as the ship’s butcher would come up to the maindeck, brandishing a shining, sharp-pointed knife. He was a big, burly man with a flair for showmanship: after beheading a bird or two he would stroll nonchalantly back to the galley with the frantically twitching carcasses clutched in one fist.
That day, despite the blustery conditions, the cook appeared as usual, just after the noon-time bell. Raju happened to be on deck at the time and he was among those who went to the coop to watch.
The knife flashed twice as two chickens lost their heads. Then the cook bestowed a toothy grin on the spectators and sauntered off as usual, holding the headless birds in his right hand and the knife in the left.
The stairwell that led to the galley was slick with spume. No sooner had the cook stepped into it than the Hind gave a mighty lurch, knocking him off his feet. He fell heavily, face forward. Then came a piercing cry, after which he somehow managed to struggle to his knees and turn around.
Raju was watching from the head of the stairwell: he saw now that the headless chickens were still clenched in the cook’s right fist, but his other hand was empty – the knife had disappeared. Then he saw w
here it had gone: the hilt was protruding from the man’s chest.
Slowly, disbelievingly, the cook lowered his gaze to his trunk. As if in a trance, he let go of the chickens. Fastening both hands on the hilt of the knife he wrenched out the blade in a single motion. With the dripping knife still in his hands he stared in astonishment at the blood that was now spouting, so improbably, from his body. Then his eyes rose to look directly at Raju, and he murmured, in a strangled, choking voice: Bachao mujhe! Save me!
The last syllable was still on his lips when he fell forward on his face.
For a long moment Raju could neither breathe nor move: he stood frozen to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from the macabre scene – the lifeless body, the bloody knife and the headless chickens that were now whirling around the stairwell. Then suddenly his knees buckled and the deck came flying up towards him.
At the last minute his fall was broken by a pair of hands. ‘It’s all right, kid-mutt; it’s all right.’
Zachary picked him up, threw him over his shoulder and carried him down to the cubicle.
After the shock had worn off, Raju gave Dicky a detailed account of what had happened. To his surprise, the fifer was unimpressed: with a matter-of-fact directness he said that he had seen many men die, and boys too, in even more horrible ways: ‘Why, men, in my first battle a bloody Pindaree shot the fifer next to me. Blew the bugger’s head right off, men; found his ear in my collar.’
*
Through the night the wind grew stronger and at daybreak the sky was dark with thunderheads. The fleet had scattered now, with no more than one or two sets of sail visible on the horizon. From time to time a steamer would appear, struggling to make headway, wallowing along in the trough of a swell or hoisted aloft by a wave.
The howling continued unabated through the early hours but at the end of the morning there was still no rain, so the sepoys were served their hazree on deck, as usual. The rain held off while they ate and they returned to their cumra without incident.
Zachary was on the quarter-deck with Mr Doughty when the camp-followers came straggling up for their meal. Noticing a flash of lightning, in the distance, he remarked to Mr Doughty that it looked as though the storm was about to break: it might be best to clear the deck and send the men below.
Unfortunately for Zachary, his well-intended words were overheard by Captain Mee. ‘Talk of singing psalms to the taffrail!’ he said in a tone of mocking disdain. ‘This is more cheek than I’ve heard in many a long year: a cheap-jack Yankee opium-pedlar teaching an English sea-captain his business! Who’s in charge of this ship, Mr Doughty, you or this little madge-cove?’
The subalterns burst into guffaws and Zachary went red in the face: muttering an excuse to Mr Doughty, he went down to the maindeck.
Scarcely had Zachary stepped away when the storm broke. The pelting rain set off a panicky rush among the camp-followers: dozens of men and boys began to jostle with each other in their hurry to get to the hatches. As they were milling about, whipped by wind and rain, a bolt of lightning came forking through the clouds. It struck the Hind’s mainmast about halfway up its length, snapping it in two. The top half broke off cleanly and was carried away by the gale, crow’s-nest, purwans, yardarms and all. But the purwans of the mainsail – the largest and heaviest of the crossbeams – remained attached to the stump, although only for a few more seconds. Then, with a thunderous creaking the two spars began to split away from the remains of the mast.
The camp-followers were still pushing and shoving when the purwans came crashing down, on either side of the mast. On the dawa side the purwan dropped heavily on the deck, killing a gun-lascar and severely injuring another before toppling over the bulwark and vanishing from view. The other half of the beam caused even more damage: fouled by a webbing of ropes it began to thrash about, its ten-yard length lashing the deck like a flail, battering the panicked camp-followers.
Zachary too was knocked down in the mêlée, but he regained his footing quickly and immediately spotted the problem. Crossing the deck with a couple of strides, he used the remnants of the rigging to haul himself atop the stump. It was a habit of his to carry a jack-knife in his pocket: flicking it open, he hacked at the tangled ropes until the runaway beam broke free and was blown clear of the ship.
On descending from the stump, Zachary’s first thought was for Raju. He found him prostrate in the starboard scuppers, with the breath knocked out of him but otherwise unhurt.
‘You all right, kid-mutt?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good lad.’
Around them was a scene of utter confusion, the dead and wounded lying sprawled about on deck, the wind howling, boys screaming, men trampling each other to get to the hatches.
On the quarter-deck Captain Mee and the subalterns were struggling to keep their footing, their uniforms drenched. At the sight of them Zachary’s temper boiled over. Cupping a hand around his mouth he shouted at Captain Mee: ‘Sir! You can’t say you weren’t warned.’
The captain’s eyes narrowed as they flickered briefly in his direction. But then he looked away, pretending he hadn’t heard.
*
The storm blew over in a few hours but the toll that it exacted from the Hind, in the few minutes after the lightning strike, was very steep: dozens wounded and five dead – the fatalities were two gun-lascars, an assistant apothecary, a ‘native dresser’ and an artificer. Their bodies were consigned to the sea at sunset that very day.
The banjee-boys were among the worst hit. Of the fifers, Dicky was one of the few to escape injury; many were badly hurt in the mêlée around the hatches. One boy fell from the companion-ladder and broke his hip; another was so badly trampled that his legs were broken in several places.
Even the company’s pundit was not spared: the runaway purwan hit him square in the ribcage, breaking several bones. There were so many casualties that the Hind’s infirmary could not hold them all; the litters of the injured spilt out into the gangways and cuddies of the quarter-deck.
The sepoys escaped unscathed, having been safely ensconced in their cumra when the storm broke; it was the camp-followers and lascars who bore the brunt of it – and steep though the toll was they all knew that it would have been worse still if not for Zachary’s quickness and presence of mind. Gratitude was lavished on him in such measure that it even spilt over to Raju. To be the cynosure of the banjee-boys’ attention was a new experience for him and it turned his head a little. Bragging on his master’s behalf he launched into a long tale about Zachary’s exploits on the Ibis.
The banjee-boys were suitably impressed. ‘Really, men?’ said Dicky. ‘Bugger was involved in a mutiny?’
‘What you think, men? There was even a court hearing about “the Ibis incident”. It was in the papers and all.’
June 23, 1840
Guangzhou
Today I learnt from Compton that a fleet of British warships has appeared at the mouth of the Pearl River. Their coming has been so long heralded that we’d almost begun to think that they would never arrive. And now that they have, what next?
Actually the ships arrived a few days ago. The reason I didn’t know was that I have been ill for the last ten days. At times I was so unwell I thought I might not recover. It is something to do with the heat, I suspect; the weather has been very oppressive these last few weeks.
It was Mithu who looked after me. Every day she brought me food – scalding hot soups and a rice gruel, not unlike our panta-bhaat. Knowing how much we Bengalis love butter and ghee, she even fetched me some from the Tibetan monastery! This was fortunate in more ways than one: because of her visit, Taranathji found out that I was sick and came to see me, bringing with him a lama who is adept in Tibetan medicine. He read my pulse and said that my condition was quite serious. He prescribed all kinds of foul-smelling tonics and teas – I have no idea what they were, but they worked wonders. Mithu brought them to me, at the prescribed times: I really don’t know what I would have done without
her.
A couple of days ago, when I began to recover, Mithu told me that ‘something big’ was happening in the foreign enclave: a ‘mandarin-tent’ had been set up in the Maidan, she said, and hundreds of men were flocking to it.
Today, on the way to Compton’s shop, I stopped by to look: the tent is a large pavilion-like edifice, bedecked with official banners and pennants. Inside, a half-dozen blue-button officials were presiding over what appeared to be a trial of strength – a large iron weight had to be hoisted aloft. The young men who had gathered in the Maidan were led in one by one, to try their luck. Those who succeeded were led to another part of the tent, to have their names entered in a register.
These youths were dressed as if for exercise; some were carrying staves, and some were wearing strips of cloth around their foreheads, painted with Chinese characters. Even though it was a hot day some were exercising as they waited, squaring off against one another, with bare hands or staves, bouncing lightly on their heels as they ducked, parried and feinted.
It was Compton who told me what was going on: Commissioner Lin has sent out an order for local militias to be raised across the province. The notices have brought thousands of young men flocking to recruiting centres like this one. Some belong to clubs and societies that practise the arts of traditional fighting; some are chau fei – young thugs looking to make a little money. They are known as ‘brave-young-men’.
And what was behind all this? I asked. That was when Compton told me about the arrival of the British fleet. Apparently dozens of ships are now anchored around the mouth of the Pearl River, in the stretch of coast between Hong Kong and Macau. They have transported thousands of soldiers, both English and Indian. The troops have been seen landing at some of the islands of the Pearl River estuary – Lintin, Capsingmoon, Hong Kong and so on. This has caused panic in that part of the province, but here in Canton the news is still not widely known – the authorities are none too keen to spread it about.