by Amitav Ghosh
The size of the plumes was such that only one conclusion was possible. The forts of the Tiger’s Mouth were on fire.
As reports came pouring in, it became evident that it was just a matter of time before the First Bar was attacked. The only question was when: would the English ships press on that very day or would they wait awhile?
With the passage of the hours the possibility of an immediate attack began to fade: the stretch of water between the Tiger’s Mouth and the First Bar was known to be treacherous and it was unlikely that the English warships would attempt to navigate it so late in the day.
At sunset, when the distant columns of smoke were turning red in the fading daylight, a silence descended on the Cambridge: after many hours of fevered speculation the quiet was almost eerie. When Jodu called the vessel’s Muslims to prayer, there was something serene and reassuring about the sound of the azaan, even for those who were not of the faith.
After the prayers were over, a huddle formed around Jodu who began to speak in a low, earnest voice. The intensity of his expression piqued Neel’s curiosity; he could not resist eavesdropping.
It turned out that Jodu was talking about Judgement Day and how to prepare for it.
Later Neel asked Jodu if he really thought it would come to that. Jodu answered with a shrug: Ké jané? Who knows? But if it does, I want to be ready.
*
A little after sunset a seacunny came to tell Zachary that yet another boat had pulled up beside the Ibis. Leaning over the bulwark Zachary saw that the boat was carrying a single litter: lying in it was a very young subaltern, an ensign. He was accompanied by a few dooley-bearers and an officer – none other than Captain Mee.
Zachary caught his breath: it seemed to him that this might be exactly the opportunity he had been waiting for. He went to stand beside the side-ladder and when Captain Mee stepped on deck, he held out his hand: ‘Good evening, Captain Mee.’
Captain Mee’s uniform was stained with sweat and streaks of blood: evidently he had been so preoccupied in looking after the wounded ensign that he had not had time to clean up or change. He seemed barely to recognize Zachary: ‘I take it you’re the skipper of this vessel?’
‘Yes I am.’
The captain peered at him. ‘Oh you’re the …’
Zachary steeled himself for an insult but it never came: instead the captain gave his hand a cursory shake. ‘Good day to you.’
In the meantime the wounded ensign had been winched up from the boat: when his litter landed on the deck of the Ibis he gave a cry of pain.
‘Hold on there, Upjohn,’ shouted Captain Mee. ‘We’ll have you snugged down in a minute.’
The captain’s voice was uncharacteristically mild, almost solicitous; evidently his concern for the young officer had softened the edge of his habitual abrasiveness. Zachary took this as a propitious sign.
‘Badly hurt, is he?’
‘Took a nasty tumble when we were scaling the walls at North Wantung,’ said the captain gruffly. ‘May have broken his back.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘If there’s anything I can do for him please do let me know.’
Captain Mee seemed to thaw a bit. He gave Zachary a polite nod. ‘That’s kind; thank you.’
Zachary hung back while the captain followed the wounded ensign’s litter into the stateroom. When he spotted him coming out again, Zachary stepped into the cuddy.
‘May I have a quick word, Captain Mee?’
The captain hesitated. ‘I don’t have much time.’
‘Oh it won’t take long.’ Zachary held open the door of the first mate’s cabin. ‘Would you mind stepping inside?’
The cabin was very small, illuminated by a single candle. After Zachary had shut the door they were barely an arm’s length apart.
‘What is it then?’
The back of Captain Mee’s head was pressed against the ceiling even though he was standing with his shoulders hunched. The only place to sit was the bunk, with its grimy and tangled sheets; Zachary decided that it would be best for them to remain on their feet.
‘It’s a very simple matter, Captain,’ said Zachary. ‘I wanted to suggest a business proposition.’
‘Business?’ The captain spat out the word as though it were a piece of grit. ‘I don’t twig your meaning.’
‘Captain, I happen to have at my disposal a large stock of provisions, of the kind favoured by sepoys – rice, lentils, spices and so on. My partners and I would be most grateful if you could bring this to the notice of your purchasing clerks.’ Zachary paused to cough into his fist. ‘And of course we would make sure that you were suitably compensated for your consideration.’
A look of bewilderment descended on the captain’s face. ‘What do you mean “suitably compensated”?’
To Zachary the question seemed like an expression of interest and it sent a thrill of excitement through him. The hook was in now and all that remained was to set it.
Picking his words carefully, Zachary said: ‘I am referring to a small token of our appreciation, Captain Mee. I am sure you know that we Free-Traders are very, very grateful to you and your fellow soldiers for the wonderful job that you are doing here in China. Since you’ve had to work hard and face many hazards it’s only fair, surely, that you too should receive a share of the benefits? It seems a shame that middle-ranking officers such as yourself should be rewarded with nothing more than a few paltry allowances’ – here again Zachary stopped to cough into his fist – ‘especially considering that many of your seniors have already received substantial considerations.’
The expression on Captain Mee’s face changed as comprehension slowly dawned on him. ‘Oh, so that’s the bustle, is it?’ he said. ‘You’re offering me a backhander – a bribe.’
‘You mustn’t jump to conclusions, Captain Mee.’ Only now did Zachary realize that he had taken the wrong approach – but no matter, he had other cards up his sleeve.
‘Don’t pitch me your gammon – d’you take me for a muttonhead? I know very well what your fakement is, you spigot-sucking shitheel.’
The captain’s big, heavy-jawed face was contorted with rage now; his fists were knotted and twitching. Zachary took a step back, flattening himself against the bulkhead. ‘Captain Mee, may I remind you that you are on my vessel? You need to get ahold of yourself.’
Captain Mee’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that – if I didn’t have a hold on myself you’d be decked already. But that’s too good for a kedger like you – what I have in store for you is going to hurt a lot more.’
‘And what, pray, is that?’
‘I’m going to blow the dicky on you,’ said the captain. ‘Now that I’ve smoked out your game I’m going to take this all the way to the top; I’m going to make sure you never try your flummery on anyone again. Bilkers like you have been responsible for too many deaths to count – why, between you, you’ve killed more of our men than the Chinese have! God damn my eyes if I don’t see you brought to book, you cunny-lapping cockbawd.’
The torrent of abuse fell on Zachary like a cold shower: far from intimidating him it made his mind quicker. He knew exactly what he had to do now, to bring the captain to heel.
‘Well, Captain Mee,’ he said, with a thin smile. ‘You must do as you wish of course. But perhaps you should ask yourself which is the greater crime in the eyes of the world: bribery or adultery?’
The captain’s eyes flickered, in shock: ‘What the devil do you mean?’
Zachary’s smile widened, in relish. ‘I mean, Captain Mee, that you have far more to lose than I do.’ He paused, so as to add emphasis to what he was going to say next.
‘And as for Mrs Burnham, she stands to lose the most, does she not?’
The captain froze for an instant. Then suddenly a fist came flying through the air and hit Zachary in the jaw. He staggered sidewise, until the rim of the bunk dug into the back of his leg causing his knees to buckle. The next h
e knew he was lying flat on the bunk and his mouth was full of the metallic taste of blood. Yet strangely the pain was not unwelcome; it seemed to clear his mind and quicken his calculations: he understood that by provoking the captain into losing control of himself he had seized the advantage. He had to make the best of it now.
Rubbing his jaw, he summoned another smile. ‘Mrs Burnham must have had the devil of a time,’ he said, ‘slipping a capote on an ox like you.’
Again he had the satisfaction of seeing the captain reel, as though it were he who had been hit in the jaw. On his big, heavy face there was a look of almost comical disbelief.
‘Oh yes,’ said Zachary, with slow relish. The throbbing in his jaw added immeasurably to the pleasure of knowing that it was the captain who was now helpless in his hands. Zachary smiled again: ‘Mrs Burnham sure has a way with capotes, doesn’t she? I’ll never forget the first time.’
Suddenly Captain Mee’s long limbs began to move, at great speed. Crossing the cabin with one stride he took hold of Zachary’s throat.
This only made Zachary laugh. ‘Why, Captain Mee!’ he said. ‘You seem surprised. All these years that you were wearing your hair-shirt – did you really think she was waiting for you? That you were the only one?’
‘Stubble your whids, you bastard: you’re lying!’
‘Oh you don’t believe me then? Would it be more convincing perhaps if I were to show you the little trick she does with the capote?’
The captain leant closer. ‘Have you no shame, you filthy poodle-faker?’ The words were hissed between his teeth, so that a fog of spittle settled on Zachary’s face.
Zachary slid the tip of his tongue slowly over his lips, as he had seen Mrs Burnham do many times in the past.
‘Why Captain Mee,’ he said. ‘I do believe the taste of her still lingers in your mouth – I would recognize it anywhere. I am sure you would recognize it on me too, if you’d care to put your tongue where hers has been. “Chartering” she calls it, if I remember right; and never better than on the goolie-bag …’
‘Dab your mummer!’ Goaded beyond endurance the captain shook Zachary by the neck. ‘You know what happens to blackmailers, don’t you? They always die before their time.’
The captain’s thumb was pressed against Zachary’s windpipe now, blocking off the flow of air to his lungs. Zachary began to struggle, and as he was thrashing about his thumb brushed against the handle of his jack-knife. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled it out, but just as he was flicking it open Captain Mee caught sight of it and made a lunge. In one swift motion he enveloped Zachary’s fist with the fingers of one hand, knife and all. Then he flung himself over Zachary, pinning him down with his weight, pushing him into the bunk and immobilizing his limbs. In the midst of this, there was a slight slackening in the throat-hold; Zachary tried to catch a breath but his nose was crushed against the captain’s collar and he found himself breathing in the acrid, sweat-and-blood-sodden odour of his uniform. He gagged and turned his head to the side: physically, he was helpless now, yet the more completely he was overpowered, the more his body succumbed to the strength of the bigger man, the sharper and and clearer his mind seemed to become. Snatching another breath, he hissed into the captain’s ear: ‘Poor Mrs Burnham! Bedding you must be like fucking a howitzer.’
The captain grunted, tightening his grip on Zachary’s fist. ‘You shouldn’t have pulled this knife on me,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve only made it easier.’
With slow, relentless pressure he forced Zachary’s arm up until the blade was resting on his throat. As its edge began to dig into his skin, a memory flashed through Zachary’s head. He remembered that the knife was not his own: it had belonged to Mr Crowle, who had held it to his throat in this very cabin three years before.
The memory emboldened Zachary. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Do it; kill me. And you know what’ll happen? Let me tell you: Mrs Burnham’s letters will be found among my effects – I’ve kept them all, you know. Is that what you want? To bring ruin on her?’
Zachary knew that this had made an impression because there was a slackening in the pressure against his throat. With a sudden twist of his body he squirmed loose and jumped off the bunk. Dusting himself off, he held out his hand: ‘My knife please.’
The captain was now sitting on the bunk with a look of bewilderment on his face. He handed over the knife without a word.
‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Zachary. ‘And if I may say so, you would be well-advised to think carefully about my proposal.’
‘Fuck you,’ said the captain. ‘I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again.’
Zachary smiled and went to the door. ‘Oh I’m afraid you won’t be so easily rid of me, Captain,’ he said, holding the door open. ‘I am sure we shall meet again soon – but until then, I bid you good night.’
Nineteen
On the Cambridge the first hours of the morning passed in gut-churning uncertainty, without anyone being sure of what to expect. Then a runner arrived with urgent news: five British warships and two steamers, one of them the Nemesis, had left the Tiger’s Mouth and were proceeding upriver; they would soon be crossing the First Bar.
It was a relief to have the matter resolved, to know that the battle they had so long been preparing for would soon be joined. There were some who thought that the warships might be thwarted by the shifting shoals and sandbanks of the Pearl River. But as the reports came in it became clear that no such thing would happen: the British had evidently worked out a system to deal with the obstacles of the river. The shallow-draughted Nemesis was proceeding ahead of the rest of the squadron, taking soundings and charting a safe course.
As the warships drew closer the reports began to come in faster: now they were twenty-five li away, now twenty.
At the start of the Hour of the Horse, in the late morning, the gun-crews took their stations and went through their usual preparatory drills; each sirdar checked his cannon over and again, readying it for the first shot, making sure that the touch-hole was primed with powder, and that the first cartridge and ball were properly loaded and plugged in place, with waddings of oakum, made from old hemp ropes.
It was a warm day and as noon approached it became scorching hot on the fo’c’sle deck, which was exposed to the sun. Conical hats no longer sufficed to keep the gun-crews cool so they rigged up a canvas awning over the forward gun-ports. But as the sun mounted the sweat continued to pour off their bodies; many of the lascars stripped down to their banyans, draping chequered gamchhas around their necks.
At noon the breeze died away and the air became very still. Soon word arrived that the British ships were becalmed nine li short of the First Bar; only the Nemesis was still moving upriver.
This set off a hopeful murmur among the gun-crews: if the ‘devil-ship’ could be caught in a cross-fire, between the fort and the Cambridge, then there was a chance that she might be taken down.
Hopes rising, the gunners kept their eyes ahead, on the river. In a while, sure enough, puffs of black smoke appeared in the distance; then they heard the thudding of the steamer’s engine, growing steadily louder.
Across the river too, on the ramparts of the mud fort, there were many who were looking out for the steamer. The fort commanded a better view of the channel so its lookouts spotted the Nemesis first. A signal was flashed to alert the crew of the Cambridge and a minute later Jodu pointed ahead: There! Okhané! And through a stand of acacia and bamboo Neel caught sight of a towering smokestack.
The Nemesis cut her speed as she came around the bend. She was almost within range when the Cambridge’s gunners got their first good look at her long black hull and her two giant paddle-wheels. Between the wheels was a broad, bridge-like platform: a row of Congreve rockets could be seen lined up on it, ready for launching.
The steamer’s appearance had changed since Neel had last seen her: on her bows there were two large, freshly painted eyes, drawn in the Asian fashion. Neel had never imagined that this familiar
symbol could appear so sinister, so imbued with evil intent.
Jodu too was studying the steamer intently, his scarred eyebrows knitted into a straight line. He raised a finger to point to the base of the smokestack. That’s where the steam-chest is, he said. If we can hit her there, she’ll be crippled.
In the meantime, the steamer’s pivot guns had already begun to swivel; one turned towards the fort and the other to the Cambridge. Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the report of a gun; it wasn’t clear who had fired the first shot, but within seconds the steamer and the fort were hurling volleys at each other.
On the Cambridge a few more minutes passed before the steamer was properly within range. When the order to fire rang out, Neel and the rest of the gun-crew threw themselves at the tackles of their gun-carriage. Heaving in unison, they pushed the carriage against the bulwark, thrusting the muzzle out of the gun-port. Now, as Jodu squinted along the barrel, taking aim, the rest of the team armed themselves with levers and crowbars so that they could adjust the barrel as directed.
When the gun was angled exactly as he wanted, Jodu punched a quoin under the trunnion, to hold it steady. Waving the others back, he lowered a smouldering fusil to the touch-hole.
Only in the instant before the blast did Neel realize that the Nemesis had also opened fire and that the whistling noise in his ears was the sound of grapeshot. Then the recoil of their own eight-pound shot brought the gun-carriage hurtling backwards, till it was stopped by the breech-ropes that were knotted around the base of its cascabel.
After that there was no time to think of anything but of reloading: dipping his rammer into a bucket of seawater, Neel plunged the head into the smoking barrel, to extinguish any lingering sparks and embers. Then their powder-monkey – Chhotu Mian the lascar – placed a fresh packet of powder in the muzzle, followed by a handful of wadding. Another thrust of the rammer drove the cartridge to the end of the bore and into its chamber; then the ammunition-loader pushed a ball into the muzzle, to be rammed in again, with yet more wadding.