by Amitav Ghosh
The pause gave Bobbery-Bob an opportunity to berate the boys, many of whom were tittering and giggling. ‘You buggers think this is a joke, eh? I’ll teach you to laugh at the general-sahib! You just wait and see, men; you’ll soon be laughing out of the wrong hole.’
Raju was not among those who had found the incident amusing; nor, unlike the other boys, had he enjoyed the walk across the rice-fields. While Dicky and the others were sliding and slithering along the paths, Raju’s mind was elsewhere: thoughts and images that had never visited him before now kept passing through his head. How did it feel to be speared in the neck, or the chest? What was it like to be bayoneted in the groin? What happened when a bullet hit you? If it struck a bone were there splinters?
When the column began to move again Raju was slowly overtaken by nausea. On reaching the hillock, when the boys were given permission to relieve themselves, he went aside and vomited up a slew of potatoes and bile.
Dicky fetched some water, from a bhisti, and whispered urgently in Raju’s ear: ‘What’s the matter with you, bugger? Have you been thinking about what happened last night? I told you to forget it, no?’
‘It’s just the heat,’ said Raju quickly. ‘I’ll be all right now.’
*
On the other side of the hillock Kesri was surveying the ground with Captain Mee. The four hilltop fortresses were shimmering in the haze, straight ahead. The slopes below them were dotted with detachments of Chinese troops; to the rear of the fortresses lay the walls of the city, stretching away for miles, pierced at regular intervals by soaring, many-roofed gates.
The fortresses’ guns had been shooting intermittently since daybreak but now the rhythm of the firing picked up, gradually intensifying into a full-scale barrage. The distance was too great for the guns to do much damage, yet the cannonade was more spirited, and better directed, than any they had faced before.
In the meantime the general had settled on a plan of attack. First the fortresses were to be softened up by the British field-artillery, which consisted of a rocket battery, two five-and-a-half-inch mortars, two twelve-pound howitzers and two nine-pounder guns. Then, under cover of the bombardment, the four brigades would advance up the slopes that led to the forts. The 4th Brigade was to attack the largest of the four fortresses – the rectangular citadel that faced the Sea-Calming Tower. The final attack would be mounted in echelon and the fortresses would be carried by escalade: the quartermaster would be issuing ladders to every company.
Escalade ladders were both heavy and unwieldy: it took only a moment’s thought for Kesri to realize that Maddow was the only man in B Company who would be able to shoulder the weight. Looking around, he saw that Maddow had almost reached the hillock, with two enormous wheels on his shoulders.
‘Sir, we will need that gun-lascar, for our ladder,’ Kesri said to Captain Mee. ‘He will have to be taken off the gun-crew.’
Captain Mee nodded: ‘All right; I’ll tell his crew to release him.’
*
The first element of the general’s plan – the initial bombardment – quickly ran into difficulties: transporting the artillery pieces through the flooded paddies presented unforeseen challenges. The crumbling bunds would not bear the weight of the massive barrels so the gun-crews were forced to flounder through knee-deep mud. Had the fortresses been closer to a waterway the guns of the Nemesis and the other steamers might have been brought into play – but they were too far inland and out of range.
Kesri realized that there would be a long wait before the field-artillery arrived so he led his men to a patch of shade and told them to get some rest. He himself had slept so little the night before that he fell asleep at once and did not stir until the bombardment was well under way.
It was only mid-morning now but the air was stifling. Heated by the sun, the rice-fields were giving off so much moisture that the slopes ahead seemed to be shimmering behind a veil of steam.
It had been decided that the Cameronians would lead the advance of the 4th Brigade; when the bugle blew they were the first to move. The fields immediately ahead of the hillock were almost dry; they leapt right in, pushing through the knee-high rice.
The Bengal Volunteers went next. As they came around the hillock the sound of cannon-fire, British and Chinese, suddenly grew deafeningly loud. A shell crashed into a field a hundred yards to the right, sending up a plume of mud and green stalks.
Maatha neeche! Kesri shouted over his shoulder: Heads down! And at the same time the fifers and drummers changed tempo, switching to double-quick time.
With his head lowered Kesri lengthened his pace, trying to shut out the whistling of incoming shells. His high, stiff collar was soaked and its grip tightened like a vice on his neck as he ran; on his back, his knapsack had taken on a life of its own and was flinging itself from side to side, trying to throw him off balance; between his legs the sweat-caked seam of his trowsers had turned into a length of fraying rope, sawing against his groin.
Then the rice-fields ended and they were racing up a scrub-covered slope, with shells throwing up dust all around them. Kesri saw an officer go down and then a cannonball landed right on the Cameronians, felling three troopers.
In the distance Manchu bannermen were banging their shields and brandishing spears, almost as if to taunt the attackers. Then a volley of projectiles took flight from the ramparts of the nearest fortress and came arcing down the hill, towards the sepoys. Kesri caught a glimpse of them as they slammed into the scrub, amidst clouds of smoke. He realized, to his disbelief, that the Chinese were launching rockets.
All of this was new: the improved gunnery, the rockets – how had the chootiyas learnt so much so fast?
Up ahead the Cameronians had halted to catch their breath, under the shelter of an overhang. Captain Mee brought B Company to a stop too and then went to join the Cameronians.
Shrugging off his knapsack, Kesri dropped gratefully on to the rocky soil. They were within musket range of the Chinese troops now and volleys of grapeshot were whistling through the air. Keeping his head low, Kesri reached for his flask; it was almost empty so he was careful to take only a sip. It would be a while yet before the followers caught up and they too were probably running low on water now; the company had been so thirsty at the last stop that the bhistis’ mussucks had shrunk to less than half size.
When at last the bhistis arrived, Kesri signalled to them to stay low and serve the sepoys first. From here on it would be a straight run up to the rectangular citadel: only the sepoys would advance now; the fifers, drummers, runners and bhistis would remain here. Of the followers Maddow alone would accompany the fighting men, with the ladder.
Glancing back, Kesri saw that Maddow had kept up with the front line despite his unwieldy burden. Beckoning him forward, Kesri said: You’ll stay beside me from now on: understood? Samjhelu?
Ji, havildar-sah’b.
*
Further down the slope the fifers were still scrambling after the sepoys. Now, as grapeshot began to hum and whistle around them Bobbery-Bob shouted, ‘Get down, you fucking barnshoots! Do you want to get your balls shot off?’ They flattened themselves on the ground.
Raju’s mouth was as dry as sawdust: he was thirstier than he had ever been. Snatching at his flask he pulled at the cap with trembling fingers – but only to discover that the cork had come loose and all the water had leaked out.
A disbelieving wail burst from his throat: ‘It’s gone – all my water.’
Dicky, lying beside him, had already drained his own bottle. On impulse he grabbed Raju’s flask and jumped to his feet: ‘Wait, men – I’ll get some more from a bhisti.’
Dicky started off at a run but came to a sudden stop after a few steps. For a moment his body stayed upright, as if frozen in motion, and then he spun sidewise and fell to the ground.
‘Dicky?’ screamed Raju. Leaping to his friend’s side, he took hold of his shoulder and gave him a shake. ‘Dicky, what’s the matter with you, bugger?’
> Raju could not understand why Dicky would not look at him, even though his amber eyes were wide open.
‘What’s happened, Dicky?’ Raju shook him again. ‘Get up, bugger, get up! This is no time to play the fool, men.’
There was still no answer so Raju flung himself on the unmoving figure and wrapped his arms around him.
‘Please, Dicky, get up. Please listen to me, men. Get up!’
*
The British barrage had risen to a crescendo when Captain Mee came scrambling back to tell Kesri that he was going ahead with the Cameronians.
That the captain was impatient to be in the thick of the fighting was amply evident to Kesri; during the advance he had exposed himself to fire with a recklessness that was unusual even for him: it was almost as if he were courting a bullet.
‘Be careful, Kaptán-sah’b,’ said Kesri.
The captain gave him a nod and ran off, ducking and dodging as grapeshot whistled through the air.
As he lay on the gravelly slope Kesri was aware of a quickening in the rhythm of his breath; when he tried to tighten his grip on his Brown Bess the barrel slipped through his palms which were oozing sweat. In his stomach too there was a peculiar gnawing tightness, a sensation that puzzled him until he recognized that his guts were churning in fear. He shut his eyes and pressed his cheek into the ground, so that the pebbles pushed against his teeth.
His old wounds had begun to throb now; it was as if his body had become a storehouse of memory, a map of pain. Yet what he recalled most vividly was not the fiery burning that had accompanied each injury but rather the dull, crushing pain of recovery – the weeks of lying in bed, of not being able to turn over, of having to soil himself. He did not want to go through that again; he did not want to die, not now, not for nothing, which was what this was.
Somewhere nearby there was a sound of convulsive swallowing.
Opening his eyes, Kesri saw that it was coming from the sepoy who was lying next to him – a man not much younger than himself. He was from the hills, Kesri remembered, and was the father of a large brood of children. Was he thinking of them now? Was he remembering the shadows of the mountains as they stretched across his valley on frosty evenings? It was plain to Kesri that the sepoy too had been seized by fear: his lips were white, his hands were shaking and his eyes were showing their whites. In a minute or two he would curl up; his whole body would be paralyzed by fear. When it came time to move he would not be able to rise to his feet. It would fall to Kesri to report him to Captain Mee; there would be a court martial and the man would probably be shot for cowardice – and he, Havildar Kesri Singh, would be as much to blame as the man himself, for it was his job, his duty, his karma, to protect his men as best he could, even from themselves.
Sticking out an elbow, Kesri jabbed the sepoy in his ribs: Chal! It’s almost time now.
The words stuck in his throat and he had drag them out as though he were making himself retch.
Then, abruptly, the noise of the gunfire diminished and the British barrage drew to an end.
‘Fix bayonets!’
A bullet threw dust into Kesri’s face as he pulled himself over the escarpment; his feet slipped on the loose gravel but he managed to stay upright and began to stride uphill, head lowered, moving with a stooped, lumbering gait, which was the only way you could run up a slope with a fifty-pound knapsack on your back and a musket in your hand. Between steps he sucked in a mouthful of air and shouted – Har har Mahadev! – and the battle-cry came roaring back at him, propelling him forward.
After another two hundred yards Kesri saw that the Cameronians had stopped their advance. They had come under heavy fire from a detachment of Manchu bannermen, positioned at the crest of the hill.
Looking rightward, Kesri spotted a grove of trees and held up his hand to signal to the sepoys to follow him there.
Just as Kesri had thought, the spot offered a clear line of fire to the bannermen. It took him only a few minutes to site the sepoys to his satisfaction. Then they unloosed one volley after another until the bannermen withdrew.
As soon as the firing had ceased Kesri sprinted over to the Cameronians: ‘They’re gone!’ he shouted. ‘They’re gone!’
The Cameronians seemed to be unaware of the little sideshow to their rear.
One by one their faces turned blankly towards him. Then he heard Colour-Serjeant Orr’s voice shouting into his ear. ‘Where the fuck have you black bastards been? Were you hiding below so you wouldn’t have to fight? Bloody bunch of cowards.’
Suddenly Kesri’s musket began to twitch in his hands. The urge to thrust his bayonet into Colour-Sarjeant Orr’s belly was almost irresistible: to skewer this maadarchod seemed far more urgent than fighting some unknown Chinese soldier.
But before he could make a move Captain Mee’s voice cut in – ‘Havildar?’ – and habit took over. Kesri snapped off a salute: Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.
‘Has our ladder been brought forward?’
Glancing down the slope Kesri saw that Maddow was squatting beside the sepoys of B Company. ‘Ladder is here, sir.’
‘Good. Let’s get the job done then. The Cameronians will charge to the right – we’ll take the left.’
At a signal from Captain Mee the ranks began to peel off, in staggered order, to advance slantwise, in echelon. The fire from the fortress died away as they charged. On reaching the ramparts B Company formed a protective cordon around Maddow as he assembled and erected the ladder.
The first man to scale the walls took a look around and announced that the fortress had been abandoned; its garrison had withdrawn towards the city. Kesri went up next and found himself on a parapet that led to an embrasured turret.
Kesri went into the turret and climbed up to the highest of the embrasures. Sprawled below lay the vast expanse of the city of Guangzhou. The streets and avenues, towers and pagodas, houses and shanties stretched away as far as the eye could see, to the east and to the south. Some of the gates of the walled city were open and long lines of people could be seen trickling out: they appeared to be fleeing in every direction.
Before Kesri could take it all in the guns on the city walls opened up with a tremendous roar. A shell crashed into the ramparts, just below the turret. Kesri ducked his head and went racing down, to take cover inside the fortress.
*
The rectangular fortress was a simple structure, with a large covered enclosure in the centre, surrounded by a few rooms and antechambers. The enclosure filled up quickly as the rest of the 4th Brigade poured in, through the rear gate.
In the meantime the other three forts had also been overrun by British troops. The barrage from the city walls continued without interruption all the while but failed to impede the operation. At noon word was sent back to General Gough that all four fortresses had been occupied. One was being prepared to serve as his headquarters; he could occupy it when he pleased.
On his way up the general had a narrow escape: a bullet flew right past his ear to hit the officer behind him.
Soon after his arrival the general called a meeting at his headquarters. Captain Mee was among those who attended. On his return Kesri learnt that the morning’s fighting had taken an unexpectedly heavy toll. The British forces had suffered more battlefield casualties than on any other day. The Bengal Volunteers had been lucky not to lose any men.
Feelings were running high among the officers, said the captain. The hotheads were talking of teaching the Celestials a sanguinary lesson by sacking the city’s temples, pagodas and markets: these were known to be vast storehouses of silver and gold – the booty would be beyond calculation.
It had been decided, in any event, that the walled city would be stormed the next day. The northern gates had been studied by the engineers and they had come to the conclusion that it would not be difficult to force an entry. Plans had been drawn up for the attack: it would start early, with all four brigades converging on the northern walls.
Through the afternoon followers k
ept straggling in, but none belonged to B Company. Their absence was both an inconvenience and a worry for Kesri; a couple of hours before nightfall, he dispatched a squad to look for them. They returned at dusk and only then did Kesri learn of the casualties: a runner, a cook and a bhisti injured; one fifer killed. That was why they had been so slow to arrive; because it had taken a long time to arrange for the injured men and the dead boy to be evacuated to the rear.
The news of Dicky’s death had a powerful effect on Kesri: he remembered that he had himself chosen the boy, thinking that he might become the company’s mascot. And so indeed he had: his ready smile, quick tongue and jaunty step had won the sepoys’ hearts: it was cruel that B Company could not be present at his interment, to bury him with the honour he deserved.
Kesri recalled also that a close friendship had blossomed between Dicky and Raju: his eyes sought out the young lad, who was sitting crouched and red-eyed in one of the muddy, mosquito-infested recesses of the fortress. Kesri felt a pang of sympathy for the boy; he would have gone over to say something had he been able to be sure of keeping his own emotions in check. But instead, seeing Maddow nearby, he said: Keep an eye on that little fellow, will you? It must be hard for him, losing his friend.
*
On hearing that a storm was expected Dinyar decided to move the Mor from Hong Kong Bay to the inner harbour at Macau, which was said to be safer in bad weather. He offered to take the other seths with him but none accepted. Many of them had taken rooms in Hong Kong: a resolution to the conflict seemed so close now that they were loath to absent themselves from the island for so much as a day. It was common knowledge that a land auction would be held soon and they did not want to run the slightest risk of missing it.