Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

‘Yes, Cathy — I think we shall.’

‘Well then, I hope you will come to the Anahita next week — Mr Burnham and I are holding a sunset levée, on the first day of the New Year. We would both so much like to have you with us.’

‘Oh that’s very kind of you, but …’

Suddenly Shireen was bereft of words: how could she possibly explain that for her the Anahita was no ordinary ship? Every time Bahram set sail from Bombay she had been present at the dock, praying that the Anahita would keep him safe — in vain, as it turned out, since it was from that very ship that he had fallen to his death.

Mrs Burnham gave her hand a squeeze: ‘Oh please, do say you will come.’

‘I would like to come, Cathy,’ said Shireen. ‘It’s just that it’s bound to be a little trying for me since I suppose I shall be reminded of my husband’s accident …’ She paused. ‘But it might be a little easier if I could bring some friends of my husband’s — Mr Karabedian and his godson.’

Before she could finish, Mrs Burnham broke in: ‘Yes, of course. Do please bring your friends. It’ll be a pleasure to have them with us.’

*

At the end of the day, when Kesri and the officers were back at the camp on Saw Chow Island, a runner came to deliver an order for Kesri to report to Captain Mee’s tent.

Although it was quite late, Captain Mee was still in his uniform. ‘Havildar, there’s a message from Commodore Bremer. He says we have to be prepared for a resumption of hostilities. A few days ago Captain Elliot sent the mandarins an ultimatum, to respond to our demands or face attack. The ultimatum has expired so we may have to move any day now.’

‘When will we know, Kaptán-sah’b?’

‘It’ll probably be a while yet,’ said the captain, yawning. ‘I’m sure they’ll carry on buck-bucking as long as they possibly can. But I thought you should know.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

For the last several hours, Kesri had been hoping for an opportunity to speak to Captain Mee in private. Sensing that he was about to be dismissed, he said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b, there is one more thing.’

‘What is it, havildar? Jaldee please.’

‘Kaptán-sah’b — today, when I was waiting for you at the house of the Parsi merchant, in Macau …’

‘Yes?’

‘… a memsah’b recognized me.’

‘So?’ The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘What of it?’

‘It was Miss Cathy, Kaptán-sah’b.’

The captain’s head snapped back and the colour drained slowly out of his swarthy face.

‘You mean …?’

‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b: it was Jarnail Bradshaw’s larki.’

Picking up a paperweight the captain began to spin it on his desk, like a top. Without looking at Kesri, he said: ‘Was she the lady in the veil?’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘You’re sure it was Cathy?’

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. She saw me and we talked. She asked about you.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I said you were here, with the expedition — she did not know till then.’

A look of incomprehension appeared on the captain’s face now as he raised his eyes from the desk. ‘What is Cathy doing in China, havildar?’

‘She is here with her husband, Kaptán-sah’b. His name is Mr Bunn-am. Something like that.’

‘Burnham?’

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. She said her name is Mrs Burnham.’

‘Oh my God!’

Rising from his chair, the captain began to pace the tent. ‘I should have known … I just didn’t think of it …’

‘Think of what, Kaptán-sah’b?’

Captain Mee shot him a sidelong glance.

‘I met her husband the other day, on the Wellesley . It just didn’t occur to me that he was … that he might be … anyway he’s invited the officers of this company to his ship on New Year’s Day. He wants to make a proper tumasher out of it — presenting arms, saluting the flag and all that. I told him I’d bring along a squad of sepoys, and some fifers and drummers too.’

The captain stopped to look out at the estuary. ‘I suppose Cathy will be there, won’t she?’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b. Clearing his throat, Kesri coughed hesitantly into his fist. ‘Maybe, Kaptán-sah’b …’

‘Yes, havildar?’

‘Maybe you should not go.’

To Kesri’s surprise the captain did not snap at him as he had half-expected. Instead he sighed, in a manner that seemed to suggest a kind of resignation in the face of a kismet that he was powerless to change. ‘It’s the devil’s benison, havildar,’ he said. ‘But I can’t not see her — I have to go—’

Breaking off, he turned to face Kesri. ‘But I’d be glad if you were there too, havildar. I’d like you to take charge of the squad that’ll be going with me.’

‘That is an order, sir?’

‘No,’ said the captain. ‘It’s not — but I’d like you to do it anyway.’

The captain’s air of authority had completely evaporated now; in his eyes there was a look of almost childlike confusion and vulnerability. It was as though the accumulated bitterness of the last many years had drained away and he had become once again the impetuous and open-hearted boy that he had been when Kesri was his orderly, all those years ago — except that even in those days he had never pleaded with Kesri in this way; nor had he ever revealed his emotions to this extent. It was as if the cavity in which he hoarded his anguish had grown deeper and deeper over time, even as his outward self was growing harder and more coarse: now that the pain had broken through he seemed to be helpless, completely at the mercy of his emotions.

Kesri made no further attempt to dissuade the captain from going; it was clear to him now that it was beyond his power to protect his erstwhile butcha.

‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b. I will come with the squad.’

The Cambridge was a good distance away, riding at anchor at Whampoa, when Jodu pointed her out to Neel. She was like no vessel that Neel had set eyes on, a curious amalgam of West and East. In outline she was like any full-rigged English merchantman but the adornments with which she was bedecked gave her the appearance of a war-junk in disguise: pennants with yin-yang symbols and flags with the Chinese character for ‘courage’ fluttered atop her masts; paper-lanterns were strung up over her decks; and long banners, with Chinese lettering, were suspended from her gunwales, hanging down almost to the water, like gigantic scrolls. As with any junk, her bows sported two huge eyes. This touch made her appear at once familiar and faintly comical: in Bengal too locally made boats of all kinds, large and small, commonly had eyes painted on their bows — yet there was no denying that the design looked out of place on a Liverpool-built three-master.

On stepping aboard Neel encountered many other surprises: while the geography of the vessel’s interior remained European the pattern of use was quite different. The ship’s Chinese officers had chosen to occupy the fo’c’sle, which on Western vessels was always assigned to crewmen; it was the lascars who were berthed in the roundhouse, which, on an English ship, would have been the exclusive preserve of the ships’ officers.

The functioning of the Cambridge too was unlike that of a Western ship. There was no ‘captain’ as such, but rather an officer whose position was like that of the lao-dah of a junk — more a co-ordinator than a commander in the Western fashion. This suited the crew very well since most operational matters were left to them: decisions were generally arrived at by consensus which meant that the atmosphere on board was more relaxed than on most ships.