Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Before arriving at Chusan the officers had told the troops that they would be welcomed by the islanders; the Manchus were so widely hated, they had said, that the soldiers of the expeditionary force were sure to be greeted as liberators.

In Chusan it had become clear that these were delusions.

It was in listening to stories like these that Kesri realized how very fortunate B Company had been in being stationed in the south. Although life on Saw Chow Island was none too pleasant, their provisions were certainly adequate, with plenty of supplies being brought in by the bumboat fleet. Although they too had suffered from sickness and disease, their field-hospital had not been strained beyond capacity. All in all, there could be no denying that they had been relatively lucky in their lot.

In late October, the remaining battalions of the 37th Madras Regiment began to trickle in from India. They too were quartered on Saw Chow Island and they told harrowing tales of their voyage. In order to save money the military establishment of Madras Presidency had hired leaky old tubs as transport vessels. The ships were barely seaworthy, not fit to weather even a mild storm — and as luck would have it, they had run into a monstrous typhoon in the South China Sea; all four vessels in the convoy had been badly damaged and blown afield. One had spent several days under siege by pirates; if a British steamer had not come to their rescue there was no telling what might have happened. Another ship had vanished after the typhoon. The name of this vessel was Golconda : she was the ‘headquarters ship’ of the 37th Madras and was carrying the regimental daftar, three hundred sepoys, and most of the officers too, including the CO. The worst was feared.

A few days later Captain Mee confirmed to Kesri that the Golconda had capsized and all on board had perished. He confirmed also that the ship was not seaworthy and should never have been hired as a transport vessel. It was common knowledge that many palms had been greased and that some officers had been paid off — possibly even one of those who had gone down with the vessel. There would very likely be an official inquiry.

‘It’s those money-grubbing civilians who’re to blame,’ said Captain Mee, through clenched teeth. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s these merchants who make money on soldiers’ lives. The bastards are worse than grave-robbers!’

That night, lying in his cot, Kesri thought of the two boys who had tried to desert in Calcutta and how they had revealed, under questioning, that they were afraid that their provisions would be rotten and their ships unseaworthy — all of which he had dismissed as lies and rumours. He remembered also how he had commanded the firing squad that executed them and how they had died, falling forward on their blindfolded faces.

Now the dead boys began to appear in his dreams, calling him a fool for parroting the words of the Angrez officers, taunting him as a nakli gora — a white-faker.

Through this time Kesri continued to visit the Misericordía at regular fortnightly intervals, to deliver sattu and other provisions to the sick sepoys. Often he would make the journey to Macau with Captain Mee; while the captain went off to call on friends and acquaintances, Kesri would lead a line of porters through the now familiar lanes of Macau.

These visits did much to sustain the sick sepoys, many of whom were starved of news, desperate to know when they might go home. Kesri would tell them what he had heard: that the Plenipotentiaries were still up north, trying to get the mandarins to recognize their claims.

What he did not say was that the end was nowhere in sight.

With every visit there was a steady increase in the number of sick sepoys until the Misericordía could take no more patients: those who arrived afterwards were sent on to Manila.

And still they kept coming: in early November Kesri heard that of the two and a half thousand soldiers who had seized Chusan two months before, only eight hundred were still on their feet.

It was not till the middle of the month that there was finally a bit of good news to bring to the Misericordía.

Most of the expeditionary force’s troops were returning to the south! The British had pledged to return Chusan to the Chinese in return for some other island, to be used a base. In the meantime only a small garrison would remain on Chusan.

The rest of the troops were already on their way back to the south; they would enter the Pearl River estuary in a few days.

*

On arriving at Hong Kong Bay Zachary discovered that Mr and Mrs Burnham had gone to Macau on the Anahita . He wasted no time in boarding a Macau ferry-boat.

By the time Zachary stepped on the Anahita it was late in the afternoon: he was surprised to find the maindeck empty except for a couple of lascars, dozing in the shade of a staysail. It occurred to him to wonder whether Mrs Burnham was on board; it was not unlikely, he knew, and his heartbeat quickened.

Looking astern he saw that a canvas awning had been rigged over the Anahita ’s quarter-deck, to shield it from the sun. He guessed that this amenity was intended mainly to accommodate Mrs Burnham’s dread of direct sunlight, and the thought that she might be up there now flashed guiltily through his mind. He tried to disregard it: nothing good could come, he admonished himself, of letting his mind stray in that direction. Yet, when his feet began to move towards the quarter-deck, he made no effort to stop them either. What could be more natural, he asked himself, than that he, a skipper himself, should go up to the quarter-deck? It was what any ship’s officer would do.

He climbed the companion-ladder slowly, and when his head drew level with the deck, he looked carefully from side to side. Seeing no sign of Mrs Burnham or anyone else, he breathed a deep sigh — whether of relief or disappointment, he himself did not know. Stepping up to the deck he saw that there was a carved, circular bench at the foot of the mizzenmast. That was where he would wait, he decided.

But as he was crossing the deck a door flew suddenly open. Turning on his heel, Zachary beheld a veiled figure, encased in an armature of clothing.

‘Mr Reid!’

‘Mrs Burnham?’

Even though it was a chilly day Mrs Burnham had spared no effort to protect herself from the sun: from neck to toe she was enveloped in white calico, trimmed with lace; her arms were covered with elbow-length cotton gloves and her head and face were sheltered by a circular hat, from the brim of which hung a visor-like veil of white netting. In one of her hands was a parasol, made of fine white linen, with a trimming of lace.

Now, as Zachary stood transfixed on the deck, her hat, with its visor of netting, began to swivel, turning from one direction to the other. Then, with a flick of her wrist, Mrs Burnham flipped her veil back upon the brim of her hat.

‘It seems that we are alone for the moment, Mr Reid. My husband has gone to the Wellesley to call on Captain Elliot.’

Zachary could not think of what to say, how to respond. What was the most natural way for a man in his position to greet his employer’s wife? Unable to think of an answer he moved towards the starboard bulwark, where he steadied himself by taking hold of the gunwale. Even when he heard the rustling of cloth behind him he did not look around but kept his gaze fixed ahead, on the Wellesley , a quarter-mile away. His senses were now at such a pitch that he could follow Mrs Burnham’s movements without looking: he knew that she had stationed herself beside him, but at a distance that seemed to be precisely calibrated to suggest to an onlooker that they were but two casual acquaintances, standing at the bulwark to take in the view.