by Amitav Ghosh
‘When will we know, Kaptán-sah’b?’
‘It’ll probably be a while yet,’ said the captain, yawning. ‘I’m sure they’ll carry on buck-bucking as long as they possibly can. But I thought you should know.’
Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.
For the last several hours, Kesri had been hoping for an opportunity to speak to Captain Mee in private. Sensing that he was about to be dismissed, he said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b, there is one more thing.’
‘What is it, havildar? Jaldee please.’
‘Kaptán-sah’b – today, when I was waiting for you at the house of the Parsi merchant, in Macau …’
‘Yes?’
‘… a memsah’b recognized me.’
‘So?’ The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘What of it?’
‘It was Miss Cathy, Kaptán-sah’b.’
The captain’s head snapped back and the colour drained slowly out of his swarthy face.
‘You mean …?’
‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b: it was Jarnail Bradshaw’s larki.’
Picking up a paperweight the captain began to spin it on his desk, like a top. Without looking at Kesri, he said: ‘Was she the lady in the veil?’
Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.
‘You’re sure it was Cathy?’
‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. She saw me and we talked. She asked about you.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I said you were here, with the expedition – she did not know till then.’
A look of incomprehension appeared on the captain’s face now as he raised his eyes from the desk. ‘What is Cathy doing in China, havildar?’
‘She is here with her husband, Kaptán-sah’b. His name is Mr Bunn-am. Something like that.’
‘Burnham?’
‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. She said her name is Mrs Burnham.’
‘Oh my God!’
Rising from his chair, the captain began to pace the tent. ‘I should have known … I just didn’t think of it …’
‘Think of what, Kaptán-sah’b?’
Captain Mee shot him a sidelong glance.
‘I met her husband the other day, on the Wellesley. It just didn’t occur to me that he was … that he might be … anyway he’s invited the officers of this company to his ship on New Year’s Day. He wants to make a proper tumasher out of it – presenting arms, saluting the flag and all that. I told him I’d bring along a squad of sepoys, and some fifers and drummers too.’
The captain stopped to look out at the estuary. ‘I suppose Cathy will be there, won’t she?’
Ji, Kaptán-sah’b. Clearing his throat, Kesri coughed hesitantly into his fist. ‘Maybe, Kaptán-sah’b …’
‘Yes, havildar?’
‘Maybe you should not go.’
To Kesri’s surprise the captain did not snap at him as he had half-expected. Instead he sighed, in a manner that seemed to suggest a kind of resignation in the face of a kismet that he was powerless to change. ‘It’s the devil’s benison, havildar,’ he said. ‘But I can’t not see her – I have to go—’
Breaking off, he turned to face Kesri. ‘But I’d be glad if you were there too, havildar. I’d like you to take charge of the squad that’ll be going with me.’
‘That is an order, sir?’
‘No,’ said the captain. ‘It’s not – but I’d like you to do it anyway.’
The captain’s air of authority had completely evaporated now; in his eyes there was a look of almost childlike confusion and vulnerability. It was as though the accumulated bitterness of the last many years had drained away and he had become once again the impetuous and open-hearted boy that he had been when Kesri was his orderly, all those years ago – except that even in those days he had never pleaded with Kesri in this way; nor had he ever revealed his emotions to this extent. It was as if the cavity in which he hoarded his anguish had grown deeper and deeper over time, even as his outward self was growing harder and more coarse: now that the pain had broken through he seemed to be helpless, completely at the mercy of his emotions.
Kesri made no further attempt to dissuade the captain from going; it was clear to him now that it was beyond his power to protect his erstwhile butcha.
‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b. I will come with the squad.’
Sixteen
The Cambridge was a good distance away, riding at anchor at Whampoa, when Jodu pointed her out to Neel. She was like no vessel that Neel had set eyes on, a curious amalgam of West and East. In outline she was like any full-rigged English merchantman but the adornments with which she was bedecked gave her the appearance of a war-junk in disguise: pennants with yin-yang symbols and flags with the Chinese character for ‘courage’ fluttered atop her masts; paper-lanterns were strung up over her decks; and long banners, with Chinese lettering, were suspended from her gunwales, hanging down almost to the water, like gigantic scrolls. As with any junk, her bows sported two huge eyes. This touch made her appear at once familiar and faintly comical: in Bengal too locally made boats of all kinds, large and small, commonly had eyes painted on their bows – yet there was no denying that the design looked out of place on a Liverpool-built three-master.
On stepping aboard Neel encountered many other surprises: while the geography of the vessel’s interior remained European the pattern of use was quite different. The ship’s Chinese officers had chosen to occupy the fo’c’sle, which on Western vessels was always assigned to crewmen; it was the lascars who were berthed in the roundhouse, which, on an English ship, would have been the exclusive preserve of the ships’ officers.
The functioning of the Cambridge too was unlike that of a Western ship. There was no ‘captain’ as such, but rather an officer whose position was like that of the lao-dah of a junk – more a co-ordinator than a commander in the Western fashion. This suited the crew very well since most operational matters were left to them: decisions were generally arrived at by consensus which meant that the atmosphere on board was more relaxed than on most ships.
The crewmen were a varied lot – apart from Indian lascars there were contingents of sailors from Java, Sumatra, the Moluccas, the Philippines and of course Guangdong – but they generally got on well together and there was a great deal of camaraderie on board.
But for all that, there was also something a little unreal about the atmosphere of the Cambridge. The vessel was always surrounded by guard-boats and the crewmen were never allowed ashore except with an armed escort: whether this was for their own protection or to prevent them from deserting was not clear. But Jodu was certainly not the only member of the crew who joked about the Cambridge being a floating jail.
For Neel the most discomfiting thing about being on the Cambridge was the lack of news: she could have been at sea for all that her crew knew of what was happening around them.
Fortunately Compton had become, by default, the go-between who conveyed the orders of the Guangzhou authorities to the crew of the Cambridge. He was always a fount of information so his visits were eagerly awaited, and by none more so than Neel.
After a year of working closely with Compton, Neel had become very finely attuned to his friend’s moods. As the weeks went by he noticed a marked change in Compton’s usually bouyant spirits: at every visit he seemed more and more despondent. Other than ferrying messages he had little work to do, he said. The new Governor-General, Qishan, had brought along a translator of his own, a man by the name of Peng Bao. The trouble was that this man was not really a translator but rather a linkister, whose knowledge of English was limited to Yangjinbang or pidgin English: for many years he had worked for a notorious British opium smuggler, Lancelot Dent. This Peng Bao was a hou gau, a low fellow, the kind of man who ‘lies even while praying’. Yet, he had somehow succeeded in gaining the Governor-General’s ear even as Commissioner Lin’s advisors and translators were being shoved aside. The old translation bureau had been more or less disbanded and Zhong Lou-si was no longer consulted on matters of any importance.
At the start of November
Compton confided something that came as an even greater surprise to Neel: he said he was in the process of moving his family away from Guangzhou. He had decided to send them back to his village, which was on the coast, not far from Chuenpee.
Neel was startled to hear this because he knew that Compton had a great love of Guangzhou, as did his family.
Why? Has something happened?
Compton’s face darkened. Things were changing very fast in Guangzhou, he said. Words like ‘traitor’ and ‘spy’ were being thrown around so freely that everyone who had ever had any contact with foreigners had reason to be afraid; the place was becoming a ‘crocodile pool’. If things got worse there was no telling what might happen: it was for their own safety that he had decided to move his family.
Even on the Cambridge the crewmen were aware that tensions were rising around them. But this did not deter the ship’s Muslim lascars from continuing to make their monthly visits to the Huaisheng mosque in Guangzhou. For reasons of prudence, they no longer took the public ferries that connected Whampoa and Guangzhou but travelled instead on hired boats with armed escorts. Their usual practice was to go up on a Thursday afternoon; they would stay the night at the mosque and return to the Cambridge the next day, after the noon prayers.
Opportunities to escape the confinement of the Cambridge were rare enough that Neel took to accompanying the lascars on their monthly outings. After they had gone off to the Huaisheng mosque, he would go over to the other side of the river, to make his way to the Ocean Banner Monastery where he could always be sure of a warm welcome from Taranathji. Often Compton too would come over to meet him there.
On one such visit, in the depth of winter, the three of them – Neel, Taranathji and Compton – had a long talk. Compton said that he had it on good authority that the new Governor-General, Qishan, did not want to provoke another armed confrontation with the British; if the decision were his own to make then he would have acceded to the British demands. But the Emperor had expressly forbidden him to make any concessions. The orders from Beijing remained unchanged: the ‘rebel aliens’ had to be expelled from China at all costs.
Here Taranathji interjected that the best chance of achieving this end would have been to follow the advice of the Gurkhas: to attack the British in the rear by launching a joint expedition against the East India Company’s territories in Bengal. Had the British been compelled to defend themselves in India they would have had no option but to withdraw from China.
This brought a rueful smile to Compton’s face: he revealed that he had heard from Zhong Lou-si that the present Gurkha king, Rajendra Bikram Shah, had recently renewed his offer of military intervention; he had urged Beijing to support him in an attack on British forces in Bengal.
On hearing this Neel sat upright, his hopes soaring. And what had come of the Gurkha offer? he asked. Was there any chance that the Chinese would join the Gurkhas in an overland attack on British India?
Compton shook his head: No, he said, it was against Beijing’s policy to make alliances with other kingdoms. And in any case the Qing did not entirely trust the Gurkhas.
Something snapped in Neel’s head when he heard this.
Oh you are fools, you Han-ren! he cried out. Despite all your cleverness you are fools! Don’t you see, this is the only stratagem that might have worked? The Gurkhas were right all along!
Compton made a gesture of resignation. What does it matter now, Ah Neel? It’s already too late.
That night Neel lay awake thinking how different things might have been, in Hindustan and China, if the Qing had acted on the advice they’d received from their Nepali tributaries. The Gurkhas might even have succeeded in creating a realm that straddled much of the Gangetic plain; a state strong enough to hold off the European powers.
But for the short-sightedness of a few men in Beijing the map of the world might have been quite different …
Just as Neel was drifting into sleep there was a sudden outburst of noise, across the river, in the Foreign enclave. Running outside he saw that a fireworks display was under way at the threshold of the American Factory, where a number of foreign merchants were still in residence.
Evidently they were celebrating the arrival of the Western New Year: 1841 had just begun.
Shireen had initially planned to wear her best evening dress to the Burnhams’ New Year’s Day levée. But as the days went by the thought of stepping on the Anahita in European clothes became oddly disturbing to her: she could not rid herself of the idea that Bahram – for whom the ship had been built – would not approve. When the day came she decided to wear a sari instead – one that Bahram had given her, a mauve silk gara that had been embroidered in Canton.
In keeping with Shireen’s choice of clothing Freddie and Zadig also decided to dispense with their usual jackets and trowsers. On the afternoon of the levée, Zadig arrived at the villa looking like a grandee of the Sublime Porte, in a burumcuk caftan and a tall, black calpac. Freddie was a step behind him, dressed in a simple but elegant Chinese robe, with a finely ornamented collar. On his freshly shaved face there was an expression that Shireen had never seen before, a look of taut, expectant alertness: it was evident that the prospect of re-visiting the Anahita had stirred up a ferment of emotions in him.
It had been arranged that they would meet the Anahita’s longboat at a quay on the other side of the Macau promontory, on the shore that faced the Outer Harbour. Shireen was transported there in a sedan chair and much to her surprise she was recognized as soon as she stepped up to the boat. The serang came hurrying forward to greet her, with a hand cupped to his forehead: Salaam, Bibiji. Khem chho?
Shireen was startled to be greeted in Gujarati, and that too in a fashion that suggested that the man knew who she was. But then, looking at him more closely, she realized that he was a member of the Anahita’s original crew. As with many others in that contingent he had been with her family even before the ship was built, having been recruited from Kutch, as a boy, to work on her father’s own batelo yacht.
Ghagguji? said Shireen. Is it you?
Ji, Bibiji.
He was pleased to be recognized and a wide grin spread slowly across his bearded, weather-beaten face.
Are you still working on the Anahita then?
The serang nodded in affirmation: Mr Burnham had retained the Anahita’s crew in its entirety, he said. Every man on the ship had once worked for Seth Bahram; she was ‘Bibiji’ to all of them and the news that she was coming aboard that day had caused much excitement on the vessel.
Bibiji, said the serang, the timbers of the Anahita may have changed hands, but her spirit will always belong to you and your family. Ships are like horses, Bibiji; they remember the people who rear them.
The affinities of mutual recognition seemed to deepen as the pinnace moved ahead. Shireen had no difficulty in picking out the Anahita amidst all the other vessels that were at anchor in the channel: neither a merchantman nor a warship, she had the sleek elegance of a pleasure yacht.
The Anahita too seemed to stir in recognition as the pinnace drew up: many of her crewmen flocked to the bulwarks, craning their heads over the deck-rails to catch a glimpse of the returning Bibiji. Their enthusiasm embarrassed Shireen – it was almost as though she were coming back to claim an inheritance that had been seized by usurpers. She could not help wondering whether her hosts would be affronted by her reception.
But if Mrs Burnham was put out she gave no sign of it; she greeted all three of them with great cordiality but was especially warm to Shireen. Linking arms with her, she said: ‘You must know this ship very well, don’t you, Shireen dear?’
‘Yes, so I do.’ Shireen was glad to see that Mrs Burnham was completely recovered from her attack of ill-health: she was wearing a very becoming evening gown, of a primrose colour with a high, roxaline bodice and ballooning mameluke sleeves.
‘Would you and your friends like to take a dekko at the after-quarters, for old times’ sake?’
‘That w
ould be very nice. Yes, thank you.’
‘Well come on then,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘I’ll show you around before everyone else arrives.’
Shireen had expected to find the interior of the Anahita much changed, and so indeed it was. The companion-way that led to Bahram’s suite of cabins had once been decorated with paintings and carved panels, featuring Zoroastrian and Assyrian motifs. The pictures and woodwork were gone now; there were no images anywhere to be seen.
A still greater surprise awaited at the far end of the gangway where lay the ‘Owners’ Suite’. This was the most lavishly appointed part of the vessel and had been especially designed to serve as Bahram’s personal living quarters. It was here that he had always slept, in a large, richly decorated cumra with windows that overlooked the Anahita’s stern.
Shireen had assumed that the Burnhams, as the new owners, would take that suite for themselves – but when the door swung open she saw to her surprise that it was being used, instead, as a baggage hold. A great jumble of furniture was piled up inside – chairs, tables, disassembled bedsteads, settees, chaises-longues, even an upright pianoforte. One of the two windows was wide open.
‘I’m afraid this suite has had its troubles,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘We were hit by a squall as we were approaching the China coast and the windows in this cumra flew open. The whole suite was flooded and will have to be completely refurbished, at a shipyard – until then we’ve decided to use it as an attic.’
She raised a hand to point aft. ‘Look at that window over there. I told a kussab to shut it just a few minutes ago but I suppose the budmash forgot.’
Freddie took a step towards the window. ‘You want me to close it, lah?’
‘Would you please?’
After shutting the window Freddie stepped back to look towards the reddening horizon, through the glass.