Bowman ran off.
At the corner of Fletcher Street, he checked that the copper was still there, went around the block, and entered the adjoining building. Back over the roofs and into his room. He took his truncheon from the wall, slid it into the knot of a floorboard, lifted it up and picked up the board with his other hand. He put his arm between two joists and took out a padlocked metal box. At the other end of the room, he went through the same steps, lifting up another plank and taking out the key that opened the little chest. Bowman kept forty shillings from what he had saved of his pay and his military pension, before putting the box back in its hiding place. He took his Company uniform from the line and went down to the ground floor to knock on the landlady’s door. Bowman paid his rent and gave her an extra two shillings to clean the uniform and another three to get him something to eat and some soap. He also asked the old lady to buy some bottles of wine. Not gin.
When the landlady brought him his purchases, he gave her another penny so that a local child would carry up a bucket of water for him. He opened a bottle of wine and drank the whole thing before eating. Two eggs, which he gulped down, some dried pork, some rye bread, an onion and a candied pear. Then he sat in front of the mirror, cleaned the sink with a bit of water, splashed some water on his face and began to trim his beard. As the razor blade scraped over his throat, he thought back to the black water of the Thames and the coppers who wanted to lock him up.
4
On the bed, Bowman had spread out the shirt, the faded red jacket, and the trousers which, despite being washed, had not regained their whiteness. On the shoulders of the jacket, the sergeant’s stripes no longer shone. The outfit was laid out in the shape of a body.
He chewed some bread, washing it down with mouthfuls of red wine, and awaited the courage to put on his old uniform. Sergeant Bowman imagined that suddenly all the soldiers of the East India Company had been vaporised, that from London to Hong Kong, all over the world, in barracks and on ships, there was nothing left but empty uniforms, spread out like his on the mattress. He did not want to believe it.
The Company had existed for centuries. It couldn’t just disappear.
Slumped on the table, their leather stiff and folded and covered in mould, his boots creaked when he began to clean them, rubbing them with his old Met shirt. He spread the wax over the dry leather, saturating it with grease, then rubbed until the boots regained a little of their old lustre. When he’d finished the wine, he buttoned up his shirt, chin on his chest, eyeing his fingers, then put on the trousers, adjusting the braces and sliding his arms into the sleeves of the jacket. He put the boots on without socks, buttoned the jacket and looked at himself in the little mirror. He had never put back on the weight he had lost in captivity. Opium and alcohol and his bad diet had made him lose even more. The uniform was loose, the shoulders looking as if they were hung on a coat hanger.
A spectre from an army of ghosts.
He stood in the middle of the room for a minute or so, breathing slowly, then went out and hoisted himself up through the fanlight. On Royal Mint Street, after checking that he was not being followed, he hailed a hackney cab.
“Leadenhall Street. East India House.”
The coach driver looked for a moment at the soldier in his worn, old uniform. Then there was the sound of a whip and the horse pulled the carriage at a trot over the cobbles.
“Gee up!”
Bowman lifted the curtain from the little window.
The pavements grew wider, the buildings’ façades increasingly white, the windows higher. Women in hats led children by the hand, gentlemen leaning on canes stood talking on street corners; in the parks, in the shade of green trees, couples walked arm in arm. London was clean and serene, resplendent in the summer sunlight. The women’s long fingers were sheathed in white gloves; from under their hats, the men gazed distantly. An officer’s gaze.
Like Wright’s.
Bowman saw the captain again, with the hole in his head, when he had closed the door of Feng’s cabin to let him die alone.
Abruptly he let go of the curtain. Mechanically touching his chest, he realised that he had not brought a flask. The wine had not been enough; he had stomach cramps and his nervousness only increased his need.
“East India House!”
The driver pulled on the reins. The horse slowed and came to a halt. The sergeant jumped out of the carriage, paid for his trip and turned to face the building. Lifting his eyes to the six Doric columns of the façade, dazzling in the daylight, he felt so dizzy that he almost fell to the ground. Bowman took a step back, turned on his heel and went down Leadenhall Street to a pub, where he entered and then stood still in the doorway.
The sunlight poured through windows and pooled on the tables and glasses, the coloured enamels reflecting in the ambers of whiskies and beers. Paintings, tapestries and hunting trophies decorated the walls. Bowman remained standing there for an instant, pulling at the hem of his jacket. At the tables, people began to look up at him: men in suits reading newspapers, officers in dark uniforms talking in low voices, waiters placing drinks on tables and walking away bowing. He wanted to leave, but was afraid of appearing even more ridiculous, so he lowered his head in a sort of general greeting and walked over to the bar.
“A gin.”
“What would you prefer, officer?”
“What would I prefer? Gordon’s . . .”
The barman poured him a glass, which he downed in a single gulp.
“Another.”
Bowman paid for the two drinks, the price of a whole night at Big Lars’ establishment. He went back up Leadenhall Street, this time passing under the columns without looking up, and found himself paralysed, in the vast lobby of East India House, in front of black lines several yards long stretching out at his feet. Inlaid in black marble in the pale flagstones, the three crosses connected at their bases, the three letters E.I.C. and the motto Deo ducente nil nocet (When God leads, no harm may come). Cold sweat ran down his back, smelling of whey. His shirt became soaked, and the scent of laundry soap was overpowered by that of mould. Men in suits and redingotes crossed the lobby, the hard heels of their shoes clicking on the marble, the echoes rising up to the impressive, sculpted ceiling. They walked over the three crosses and three letters without emotion and quickly vanished, with folders and briefcases under their arms.
Bowman closed his eyes while he caught his breath, then looked again.
On the walls were huge paintings: boats flying the Company’s colours sailing on calm seas. A double marble staircase rose to the next floor, and all about him were busy, rushing men, like an anthill near a forest fire.
Bowman was on Leadenhall Street – that cursed name, which he had heard so many men utter while spitting on the ground when the wages or the post did not arrive, when the rations were too small or there wasn’t enough ammunition to attack. Since his return five years ago, he had never once walked past this place. Bowman had imagined something else. The Company’s headquarters was an arrogant building, but not a palace or a castle. Officers, shareholders, managers and clerks.
Watching these zealous employees pass through the lobby, Bowman smiled maliciously. He was the only one here to wear the Company’s real uniform. Because, with the East India Company’s arms stretched all over the world, it had need of dirty fingers like Sergeant Bowman in order to amass its vast wealth. He looked down again at the three black marble crosses. He heard screaming in his head and he did not seek to quieten it. It was only just that Bowman should bring the screams here, even if no-one could hear them and Cavendish’s mission did not exist.
*
Behind a counter, a factotum lifted his head to observe the faded uniform.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
The first person Bowman met at East India House did not even know how to recognise the ranks of its army.
“Captain. Captain Wright.”
Bowman was surprised by the tone of his voice – the tone of
the drill sergeant he had once been. The man behind the counter stood up tall.
“Excuse me, Captain. How may I serve you?”
“I’m looking for an officer. A naval captain who served in Burma in ’52.”
“I beg your pardon, Captain?”
“The captain of the Sea Runner, in ’52.”
The Company employee blinked.
“You’re trying to find the name of an officer? Is that correct?”
“Yes. Naval captain. At Rangoon with Godwin.”
“I think you’ll have to ask at the Naval Affairs department, Captain.”
“Where’s that?”
“The west staircase, on the first floor, sir.”
Bowman turned away, walked up the wide staircase to the first floor, followed a long corridor and, before knocking on the door of the Naval Affairs office, wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The door opened on a wide corridor, a high-windowed antechamber with doors opening onto other rooms and, in the middle of this entrance hall, a man sitting behind a desk.
The secretary watched him advance and stood up ceremoniously.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
This one knew the ranks. Bowman felt himself hesitate. He had pins and needles in his hands, as he’d had in Andrews’ office before he suffered that fit.
“I’m looking for an officer. Commander of the Sea Runner in ’52, in Rangoon.”
The secretary gave a grimace of irritation.
“Who sent you here? If you don’t know the officer’s name, I don’t see why you are looking for him. Non-commissioned officers do not have access to that information, Sergeant.”
Sweat dripped down Bowman’s chest, along his legs and into his boots. The two large windows began to change shape, warping, growing rounder, and the light burned his eyes. He took a step forward, his legs gave way and he reached out an arm towards the desk. The secretary rushed over and guided him to a chair.
“My God! What’s happening to you? Don’t you feel well?”
“Something to drink.”
The secretary ran off and returned a minute later with a pitcher of water and a glass, which he filled and offered to the sergeant. Bowman drank the water. The man poured him another glass.
“I’m going to open a window. It must be this heat – you need some air.”
He trotted over to the windows and opened one.
“Excuse me, Sergeant. I wasn’t very welcoming. It’s just that everything is so dreadfully complicated at the moment, with that . . . My God! I’m complaining when you’ve probably just come back from there. Is that right, Sergeant? You’ve just returned from there?”
Bowman finished his glass and looked at the little man in his suit.
“There?”
“The revolt, Sergeant. That dreadful sepoy revolt.”
The sergeant sat up a little on his chair.
“Yes, I’ve just come from there.”
The secretary turned pale.
“My God. Yes, I can see that you’re exhausted. You must have seen some terrible things . . .”
Bowman nodded.
“I do beg your pardon, Sergeant. It’s just that we’re preparing our move to the Council of India, near the Secretary of State. The whole place is upside down at the moment. And you, coming back from there . . .”
Bowman contented himself with a shrug.
“You’re looking for a naval officer whom you don’t know? Is that correct?”
“A message for him.”
“A letter? From a soldier?”
The water had quenched his thirst. Bowman felt less weak now.
“Yes, that’s right. A letter from a soldier.”
The secretary joined his hands over his chest.
“That’s awful! You have to give this officer the last letter from a . . . a dead soldier?”
“Yes. Dead.”
The man put a hand to his forehead.
“A dead soldier. A friend of this officer . . . My God. And you were exhausted, and carrying this letter. What was the ship’s name again, Sergeant? Tell me – I’ll do all I can to help you.”
“Sea Runner. Rangoon, in ’52.”
“Rangoon? General Godwin’s fleet or Commodore Lambert’s?”
“Godwin’s.”
The secretary headed towards a door, then stopped and turned around.
“They were friends, is that right? And the dead soldier . . . he didn’t have any family?”
“That’s right. No family.”
The man returned ten minutes later, carrying an enormous register, which he put down on the desk and opened. He turned the pages, his index finger tracing the columns of names and dates, looking up from time to time at the sergeant to smile and apologise.
“We work hard here, of course. But you were over there. And you came back.”
“Yes. Just got back.”
The secretary tapped a page in the register.
“Ah! The Sea Runner. ’49, ’50, ’51 . . . ’52. Left Madras on January 12. Sergeant, I have your answer. The Sea Runner was commanded by Captain . . . Philip Reeves. Captain Reeves is retired. He left the Company in ’53, after the Burma campaign.”
Bowman stood up from his chair.
“How can I find him?”
“Yes, of course, of course, his address. I shouldn’t – we’re not allowed normally. But that letter . . . Wait here, I won’t be long.”
When he returned, he sat behind his desk, took a sheet of paper from a drawer and wrote an address on it, nervously dipping his pen in the inkwell, touching the blotter to the wet ink.
“There you are, Sergeant. You can do your duty now. You’re a brave man, to take care of this as soon as you got back.”
Bowman folded the paper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Before he reached the door, the secretary rushed over and opened it for him.
“Sergeant, may I shake your hand?”
Arthur Bowman gave him his clammy hand.
The secretary watched him walk away down the corridor and Bowman tried to stay calm, suppressing his urge to run off.
Bowman crossed the lobby and came out in the street. Then, his stomach cramping, he walked all the way to the Fox and Hounds. It took him an hour to reach Wapping Lane and when he entered the Fox, soaked with sweat in his uniform, all the conversations came to a sudden halt. The sergeant lowered his head, walked over to his usual table and stared at the wood in front of him.
Behind the bar, a newspaper open in front of him, Lars closed his mouth. The old customers looked at Bowman, wearing that uniform which almost all of them kept at the back of a wardrobe, unless they’d already exchanged it for a drink when times were hard. That red jacket had an unpleasant effect on them, particularly when it was being worn by that angry ghost, Sergeant Bowman, whom they had not seen for weeks and who might just as well have been dead.
Lars pulled a pint and set it on the bar.
“Mitch! You fucking halfwit! Take this beer over to the sergeant!”
Lars served himself a large glass of hooch, pouring a little bit on the floor and downing the rest in one. Then he leaned over his newspaper, glancing up one more time at the sergeant’s table, and started to read again.
“Ah! Apparently they’re going to move from Leadenhall Street! I bet the accountants are in a tizzy!”
The customers at the bar paid no attention to what Lars was saying. He himself was not fully focused on the words in the paper. Over their shoulders, everyone was watching the sergeant. In a voice that lacked conviction, while continuing to fill glasses, as Mitch walked to and from Bowman’s table, Lars read the article in the Morning Chronicle, which explained how and why, because of a gang of sepoys in India, the Company had been ripped off by the Crown. The Fox and Hounds seemed filled that evening with a group of orphans, in mourning for the Company and cursing it the first chance they got. Behind the smiles and the weak jokes, there was a guilty sadness that they were now veterans of something that no longer
existed. Their old enemy was dead and at the table in the corner, its ghost was drinking enough beer to make his belly explode.
Bowman downed pints for an hour and, at nightfall, went home. He collapsed on the landing when he jumped from the roof through the skylight, then crawled over to his bed. The beer was not strong enough to send him to sleep, not strong enough to end the screaming.
*
Reeves lived in London. In Westminster, near St George’s Fields, by the Thames.
From his chest under the floorboards, Bowman took a few shillings, then made his usual escape over the rooftops, walked to Royal Mint Street and hailed another hackney. This time, he did not watch the passers-by through the carriage window. The cab dropped him outside a recently built two-storey house with a white façade. One side of it faced the river, the other Grosvenor Road and the park. A wooden gate opened onto a small, well-kept garden. Bowman crossed this and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman opened it, wearing a headscarf and an apron.
“What’s it about?”
“Is Captain Reeves here?”
“He didn’t tell me he was expecting anyone. Who are you?”
“I don’t have an appointment. Tell him that I want to see him.”
“Son, I can smell the beer on you from here. I think you must have the wrong address. And what’s that moth-eaten uniform you’re wearing. Who did you nick that from, eh?”
Bowman climbed the steps to the front door. The maid stepped back into the house and tried to close the door. He put his hand on the doorframe.
“Go and tell your master that I want to see him. Sergeant Arthur Bowman. Go and tell him now.”
A voice rang out inside the house.
“Dorothy? What’s happening?”
Bowman leaned forward and spoke more quietly.
“Tell him that Sergeant Bowman wants to see him. Tell him I was on his boat when the village burned.”
“Let go of the door or I’ll scream.”
Retribution Road Page 12