by Amitav Ghosh
*
It wasn’t long before Raju realized that Maddow was slowing down. The change of pace did not surprise him for Maddow’s burden seemed enormously heavy.
Thak gaye ho? Raju whispered. Are you tired?
Maddow shook his head without answering – and this too did not surprise Raju for he knew that Maddow was not a man of many words. The night before, when a couple of the older boys had set upon Raju, threatening to take him down a peg or two, Maddow had appeared out of nowhere and somehow his very presence had scared them away – yet the gun-lascar had uttered hardly a word to Raju, even though he had stayed beside him all through the night. If not for that, Raju would have had a difficult time of it, he knew: in the hours after Dicky’s death he had discovered very quickly that Dicky had been not just a friend but also a protector. With him gone it was as if Raju had become fair game for the louts and bullies. Even today they had picked on him whenever Maddow was out of sight – which was why he was grateful to be walking beside him now.
Raju thought nothing of it as he and Maddow slowly dropped back to the rear of the party.
It was still raining hard when Maddow bent down to talk into his ear: Listen, boy, there is someone here for you. Look behind.
Glancing through the rain, Raju glimpsed the outline of a figure in a conical hat. Who is he? he whispered fearfully.
Don’t be afraid, said Maddow. He is a friend. He will take you to your father.
My father?
Even though he had dreamt of receiving a message from his father, Raju had never imagined that it would happen like this.
You must go with him, Maddow whispered. You’ll be safe. Don’t worry.
But who is it? said Raju. What’s his name?
Serang Ali.
At this Raju’s heart leapt for he knew well that name, from Baboo Nob Kissin’s stories.
What do I have to do? he said to Maddow.
You only have to stop walking, that’s all.
Without another word Maddow whisked the chagal out of Raju’s hands and stepped away.
It was still raining and in a few minutes Maddow and the foraging party had disappeared from view. It was the man in the conical hat who was standing beside Raju now, a fierce-looking man with a wispy, drooping moustache – a man whose face would have frightened Raju if his appearance had not so exactly fitted Baboo Nob Kissin’s descriptions.
The next thing he knew, a rain-cloak made of straw had been thrown over him, covering his uniform, and his topee had been replaced by a conical hat. Then Serang Ali took hold of Raju’s hand and led him into an alley.
Stay beside me, said the serang, and don’t say a word. If anyone speaks to you pretend you are mute.
*
The hours of waiting, on a sampan moored a few miles from San Yuan Li, were the worst that Neel had ever endured. Had he been allowed to accompany Serang Ali and his party he would at least have had the satisfaction of doing something – but the serang had been inflexible on this score: on no account, he had said, was Neel to leave the sampan. Emotions were at such a pitch in the countryside that if the villagers suspected that a haak-gwai was in their midst he would certainly be killed.
Nor could the serang’s instructions be flouted for he had left Jodu behind, on the sampan, to enforce his orders. And Jodu was diligent in doing his job, making sure that Neel did not so much as stick his head out of the covered part of the boat.
Luckily, just before leaving the Ocean Banner Monastery, Neel had snatched up a book – the one that he and Raju had so often read together, The Butterfly’s Ball. He had thought that it would be comforting for Raju to have something familiar at hand. But it was Neel himself who now began to find comfort in the book’s familiarity; he leafed through it many times as the rain poured down on the boat.
He was flipping through the book one more time when Jodu whispered: Look – they’re coming back.
Peering at the riverbank, Neel spotted a group of shadowy figures taking shape in the gloaming. His heart almost stopped – for the shadows were all of grown men. It seemed certain to him then that something had gone terribly wrong. He would have let out a cry but Jodu was ready for that too: he clapped a hand over Neel’s mouth before any sound could escape his lips.
And then, as the figures came closer, another shadow, one that had been hidden by the others, detached itself from the group: it was of about the height of a boy – but Neel’s mind was now so disordered with worry that he could not be sure of what he was seeing. He began to struggle against Jodu’s grip.
Only when the boy had stepped into the sampan did Jodu let him go – just in time for Neel to fling wide his arms.
Raju? Raju?
All he could think of was to repeat the name, over and over, until Raju broke in to say, in a quiet, unruffled voice: Hã Baba – yes, it’s me.
At that Neel buried his face in the boy’s small shoulder and began to sob. It was Raju who had to comfort him: It’s all right, Baba – it’s all right.
Then Neel’s fingers brushed against the book he had brought with him. He handed it to Raju: Here, look what I’ve got for you.
A frown appeared on Raju’s face as he read the words on the spine. Then he said in a quiet but firm voice: You know, Baba, don’t you, that I’m not a little boy any more?
Twenty-one
That first shower was followed by many others over the next couple of days. But to the troops in the four fortresses the rain brought little relief: in the wake of the showers the stifling heat would quickly return, as if to warn that the real storm had yet to come.
For Kesri the showers became a new source of worry, to add to those caused by the disappearance of the young fifer. Whether the boy had deserted or been kidnapped he did not know – either was plausible – but he was determined to prevent anything like that from happening again. Now, every time a patrol was caught in a shower he sought shelter immediately; when on the march he would position himself at the rear of the column to make sure there were no stragglers.
The rain also brought new torments: it added the odour of mildew to the stench of the enclosure where the men were bivouacked; swarms of fleas appeared, to join forces with all the other insects that plagued them: their bite was so vicious that even on parade it was hard to keep the men from wriggling and scratching.
There was so much moisture in the air that inspections had to be conducted twice daily to make sure that the sepoys’ powder was dry. Yet Kesri knew full well that the state of their powder would be immaterial if they were attacked during a shower. It was this fear above all that now haunted him – of being caught in a situation where their Brown Besses would not fire. He could only hope that the troops would be withdrawn from the four fortresses before a major storm blew in.
But the progress of the negotiations was not encouraging: although the mandarins had fulfilled some of the conditions of the armistice – the withdrawal of troops from the city, for instance – they continued to procrastinate over the paying of the ransom money. To raise six million dollars was not easy, they had protested; they needed a few more days at the very least. And while they tried to find the funds the British force had to remain where it was, poised above the city and ready to strike: it was the knife at the mandarins’ throat.
But while they remained there they had to forage to sustain themselves – and with each passing day it became more difficult to extract supplies from the villagers. No longer were they terrified of the foreign soldiers: often they would spit and hurl stones; gangs of urchins would shout insults; people would block the roads to stop the foraging parties from entering their villages and hamlets. An even more ominous development was that groups of young men, armed with pikes and staves, had begun to confront the foraging parties; on occasion shots had to be fired to disperse them.
The soldiers too became increasingly aggressive as the days went by: although Kesri was able to restrain his own men, he saw plenty of evidence to suggest that discipline was fraying in many u
nits. There were rumours of beatings, looting, vandalism and also of attacks on women. One day Captain Mee told Kesri that charges of rape had been brought against a havildar and some jawans of the 37th Madras: they had been accused of invading a house and molesting the women.
But when Kesri questioned the Madras sepoys he was told a wholly different story: the havildar said he had been passing through San Yuan Li, with a squad of sepoys, when he saw an angry crowd gathering around a walled compound. Thinking that a foraging party had been trapped inside he ordered the sepoys to fire into the air, to disperse the crowd, after which he had entered the compound to see what was afoot. The situation inside was not at all what he had imagined: instead of a foraging party he had come upon a rag-tag bunch of British swaddies. There was a smell of alcohol in the air and the sound of women’s voices could be clearly heard, echoing out of the house: there was no mistaking those terror-stricken screams.
The havildar had recognized one of the men there, an English corporal. But before he could ask any questions he had been shoved out of the compound, with warnings to mind his own business and keep his gob shut. On returning to his bivouack he had decided to report what he had seen to the company commander. This had turned out to be a bad mistake; when the corporal was summoned for questioning he had blamed everything on the sepoys. It was they who were now under investigation.
Kesri didn’t know what to believe but duly apprised Captain Mee of the Madras sepoys’ story.
After hearing him out Captain Mee shrugged: ‘Well I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, havildar,’ he said, ‘that in situations like these it’s always easier to blame sepoys.’
Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.
‘And in this instance it’s a Madras havildar’s word against an English corporal’s.’
There was no need to say any more.
*
The Ibis was still a long way from Hong Kong when a bank of dark cloud hove into view on the horizon. The sight came as no surprise to Zachary: in the week that he had spent at Whampoa, waiting for the convoy of merchant ships to leave, he had seen plenty of signs of bad weather ahead. And the barometer, which had fallen steadily as the Ibis was sailing down the estuary, had removed all doubt about what lay in store.
But Zachary guessed that it would be a while yet before the storm hit the coast – probably not till early the next day, which meant that with any luck there would be enough daylight left for him to call on Mrs Burnham, in the Anahita, when the Ibis reached Hong Kong.
But when the convoy drew abreast of the island the Anahita did not immediately come into view, even though the bay was unusually thin of vessels. Evidently many skippers had decided to move their ships elsewhere, in anticipation of a storm. This was for the best, of course, since it reduced the possibility of collisions – but that was small consolation for Zachary, who had been looking forward to seeing Mrs Burnham.
But it turned out that the Anahita had not left Hong Kong Bay after all, she was merely hidden behind the Druid. She was anchored at the eastern end of the bay, abreast of Mr Burnham’s recently built godown, at East Point.
Zachary took the Ibis in the same direction and hove to within two fathoms of the Anahita. As soon as the schooner was properly anchored he called for the longboat to be lowered.
Within fifteen minutes Zachary was within hailing distance of the Anahita. Scanning the decks he spotted a familiar daub of saffron bobbing about on the maindeck. ‘Is that you, Baboo?’ he shouted, through cupped hands.
‘Yes, Master Zikri. And how are you? Hale and hearty I hope?’
‘Yes, Baboo, never better. Is Mrs Burnham aboard?’
‘Correct, Master Zikri – Burra Memsah’b is here.’
‘I have a message for her, from Mr Burnham. Please tell her I’m coming aboard right now.’
‘Yes, Master Zikri; ekdum jaldee.’
By the time Zachary had climbed up the Anahita’s side-ladder Baboo Nob Kissin was back on the maindeck, waiting to greet him.
‘Baboo, you know there’s a storm coming, don’t you?’ said Zachary.
‘Yes, Master Zikri – I will go ashore this evening, for safekeeping. Burra Memsah’b will also go. We will sit in Mr Burnham’s godown – a room has been specially prepared for Burra Memsah’b. Only sailors will remain on Anahita.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Zachary. ‘And where is Mrs Burnham now? Did you give her my message?’
‘Yes, Master Zikri – Burra Memsah’b is waiting you on the quarter-deck.’
‘Thank you, Baboo.’
Zachary stepped up the companion-ladder to find Mrs Burnham standing alone by the bulwark, watching the sunset: her white carriage-dress had taken on the rosy sheen of the sky and her hair was glowing in the fading light.
Zachary came to a sudden stop: her allure had never been greater and something began to ache inside him – it was like the soreness of an old wound, a reminder not just of the injury itself but also of its cause. When Mrs Burnham greeted him by saying, ‘I am very happy to see you, Mr Reid,’ it was as if a scab had come off. He told himself that if she was pleased to see him it was only because she was impatient for news of Captain Mee – and in the wake of this the jealousy that was seething inside him bubbled up and brimmed over, spilling salt upon old wounds.
‘I am glad to see you too, Mrs Burnham,’ he said stiffly, struggling to keep his composure. ‘I came because your husband had asked me to convey a message to you.’
‘What is it?’
‘He has been detained in Canton. He will be back as soon as things are more settled there, perhaps in a fortnight or so.’
Mrs Burnham’s smile died away and a look of concern descended on her face. ‘I believe there has been much trouble in Canton of late,’ she said. ‘I was very worried – about Mr Burnham, and you … and all our other friends.’
Zachary could not restrain the sardonic laugh that now burst from his throat. ‘Oh come, Mrs Burnham! There is no need to be coy, with me least of all; if you were worried I am sure it was not on behalf of either your husband or myself.’
‘But you are wrong, Mr Reid!’ she protested. ‘You are never far from my thoughts, I assure you.’
‘But nor am I so close, I’ll wager’ – his bitterness was so powerful now that he could no longer disguise it – ‘as Captain Mee. Come, admit it, Mrs Burnham, it was for him that you were worried, weren’t you?’
‘Amongst others, yes, certainly, I will not deny it.’
‘Then I am sure you will be happy to know,’ said Zachary, ‘that the last time I spoke to him he was in the best of health.’
‘Oh?’
He had wanted to catch her unawares and was pleased to see that he had succeeded.
‘I did not know,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘that you were acquainted with Captain Mee.’
‘I certainly am, Mrs Burnham. I made his acquaintance at your husband’s suggestion.’
This too took her by surprise, exactly as Zachary had intended. ‘But what,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘did my husband want with Captain Mee?’
‘Surely, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary, ‘that question needs no answer? I think you know as well as I do why your husband likes to keep a few soldiers in his pocket – you’ve told me so yourself. It is a lucrative business and your husband has been showing me the ropes. That was why he suggested that I make overtures to Captain Mee.’
Mrs Burnham’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying you tried to offer him a dustoorie?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Oh he spurned me in no uncertain terms,’ said Zachary. ‘He even threatened to report me to his superiors.’
She had evidently been holding her breath for she let it out now in a long sigh.
‘I would have expected no less of him,’ she said with quiet pride. ‘He cares nothing for money or worldly advancement.’
Zachary allowed her to feast on this thought for a few seconds. Then he flashed her a smile: ‘Well, Mrs Bu
rnham, I trust you will not be too disappointed then to learn that I was able to bring Captain Mee around.’
She turned to him in shock, her knuckles whitening on the gunwale. ‘What do you mean “bring him around”?’
‘Only that I succeeded in changing his mind.’
‘But how?’
‘I told him,’ said Zachary, ‘that if he carried tales about me, he would run the risk of being exposed as an adulterer.’
Mrs Burnham gasped and clapped a hand on her mouth. ‘No! You did not dare!’
‘You’re wrong there, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘Not only did I dare, I informed him also that he was not the only one to enjoy your favours.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I do not believe it!’
‘Well you should,’ said Zachary, ‘because it is true.’
‘And what was his answer?’
Zachary laughed. ‘He is, as you know, an impetuous man, so you will not be surprised to hear that he was beside himself with rage – I think he might even have killed me. But once again I was able to get the better of him.’
‘How on earth?’
‘I told him that I had kept all your letters and in the event of my death they would be found among my effects – in other words, that you would be ruined. This had a rather touching effect – you could even say that it was a tribute to his attachment to you.’
Mrs Burnham brushed a hand across her eyes. ‘Why? What happened?’
‘Oh, the bluster leaked out of him like air from a puffed-up bladder. He was evidently quite stricken at the thought that you might suffer harm. I saw then that it would be easy to take him in hand. I told him that it was in order to protect you that he should accept my offer; that he should think of it as a small sacrifice on the altar of love.’
‘And then?’ The sunlight had faded now and her face had turned an ashen grey.
‘I gave him a few weeks to think the matter over – since his brain is scarcely his swiftest organ I thought he would need the time. I will not conceal from you that I rather doubted that he would come to a sensible decision. But I must confess that he surprised me; the last time I saw him he was perfectly amenable, quite docile in fact. His words, as I remember them, were “What do you require of me?”‘