Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Stung into silence, Paulette could think of no retort.

‘Yes, Miss Lambert,’ Zachary continued, ‘the Ibis has left us with many secrets and I have been faithful in keeping them. I may not be as much of a betrayer and liar as you think.’

Listening to him Paulette was suddenly, blindingly aware of the import of his words: she understood that no matter how much she might want to be finished with Zachary, she would never be free of him — the bond of the Ibis was like a living thing, endowed with the power to reach out from the past to override the volition of those who were enmeshed in it. It was as if she were being mocked for harbouring the illusion that she was free to decide her own destiny.

Before she could think of anything more to say Zachary tipped his hat at her and bowed: ‘Good day, Miss Lambert. I do not know if we shall meet again but if we do you may be sure that it will not be by my design.’

*

A burst of applause rang out as the sepoys’ salute drew to a close. When it had faded Mrs Burnham, who had been sitting beside Shireen, on the quarter-deck, rose to her feet: ‘The sepoys have performed so splendidly that I feel I should thank the havildar myself.’

This proposal received an enthusiastic endorsement from her husband: ‘Of course you must, dear,’ he said. ‘And we must make sure that they are served some refreshments.’

Down on the maindeck, by dint of habit, Kesri was tracking the flow of people on the Anahita ’s decks as though they were troops on a battlefield. For the most part his attention was centred on Captain Mee and Mrs Burnham: they were like the standard-bearers, providing points of orientation in the midst of the dust and smoke of battle; he kept track of their whereabouts almost without being aware of it. He had noticed that after their initial meeting beside the side-ladder — when his own, speedy intervention had saved the captain from making a fool of himself — the two of them had stayed well away from each other. Now, seeing that Mrs Burnham was coming towards him, Kesri snapped to attention, fixing his eyes on a point in the middle distance. When she said — Salaam Kesri Singh! — he snapped off a salute, without looking directly at her.

Salaam, memsah’b.

You and your men performed very well, Kesri Singh.

Aap ki meherbani hai ; you are kind to say so, Cathymemsah’b.

Then passed a moment of silence and when she spoke again it was in a completely different tone, flat and urgent. Kesri Singh, she said, we have very little time and I do not want to waste any of it.

Ji, memsah’b.

I want to ask you something, Kesri Singh. It is about Mee-sahib.

Ji, Cathy memsah’b.

Is he married?

No, Cathy memsah’b, he is not.

Oh.

She paused and her voice fell: Then maybe he has a … a … kali-bibi , ‘a black wife’?

I cannot say, Cathy memsah’b. He is my kaptán-sah’b. We don’t speak about such things.

Even as he was saying this Kesri guessed she would not be taken in; as a military daughter she was sure to know that such matters were impossible to conceal within a battalion.

Nor was he mistaken; he could tell from her face that she had interpreted his response as a rebuff.

So you don’t want to talk to me, Kesri Singh, is that it?

There is nothing to tell, Cathy memsah’b. Mee-sah’b is not married and there is no woman in his keep.

Has he ever spoken of me?

Not to me, no, memsah’b.

Is that all then? You have nothing else to say to me?

The desperation in her voice stirred Kesri’s pity.

There is one thing I can tell you, Cathymemsah’b, said Kesri.

Yes?

Ek baar , said Kesri, one time, twelve years after that winter in Ranchi, Mee-sah’b was wounded in some fighting. I was beside him and I was the one who removed his koortee. In the pocket, near the breast — Kesri raised a hand to touch his heart — there were some papers.

She gasped: What papers?

I think it was your letter.

My letter?

Yes, Cathy memsah’b. I think it was the letter you gave me, to give to him, all those years ago, in Ranchi.

Kesri knew, because two shimmering dots had appeared at the lower edge of his vision, that her eyes were glistening. And at the same moment he saw that Captain Mee was coming down the companion-ladder, advancing towards them. In an attempt to warn Mrs Burnham, he allowed his eyes to flicker away. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that the captain was heading in their direction; she turned quickly away to busy herself with her reticule.

‘Ah Mrs Burnham,’ said Captain Mee, in a tone of forced banter. ‘I hope my havildar is not giving away all our battalion’s secrets? He seems to have a lot to say to you.’

‘Why Captain Mee,’ said Mrs Burnham, speaking as he had, in a bantering tone. ‘I trust you’re not jealous of your havildar?’

Then suddenly the air seemed to go out of her lungs.

‘Oh please, Neville,’ she said in a soft, shaky voice. ‘How long must we pretend?’

The directness of her tone caught Captain Mee off-guard, wrecking his composure. Like rings on a pond, the pain, yearning and disappointments of the last twenty years seemed to ripple across his face. When next he spoke, his tone was like that which Kesri had heard in his tent, a few days before: the voice of a hurt, bewildered nineteen-year-old.

‘Cathy, I don’t know what to say. I’ve been waiting so long — and now …’

From under the brim of her hat Mrs Burnham shot Kesri a glance that brimmed with gratitude. Then slowly they moved away.

*

‘There you are, Reid!’

Throwing an arm over Zachary’s shoulder, Mr Burnham led him aside. ‘Have you been able to have a word with Captain Mee yet?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘It may be difficult here, with so many people about, but I’ll try.’

‘Best to do it now,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘If we don’t get to him soon you may be sure that someone else will.’

With that Mr Burnham went off to talk to a guest while Zachary took a turn around the crowded quarter-deck, looking for Captain Mee. Seeing no sign of him, his eyes strayed to the maindeck and landed instead on Mrs Burnham: he saw, to his surprise, that she was deep in conversation with — of all people! — the sarjeant of the Bengal sepoys.

Zachary had watched Mrs Burnham from afar at many parties and levées: it seemed to him now that there was something odd about her bearing; her posture was not at all like that of her usual, social self. Her head was cocked in such a way as to suggest that she was hanging on the sepoy sarjeant’s every word.

But what could a havildar have to say that would be of such interest to her?

Even as he was mulling this over, Zachary noticed that a uniformed figure was heading towards the pair. A moment later he realized that this was none other than Captain Mee.

Zachary froze. Standing riveted to the deck, he watched as Mrs Burnham and Captain Mee spoke to each other. When they moved away from Kesri, he leant forward, his knuckles whitening on the deck-rails. At that point Mrs Burnham happened to turn her head so that the glow of a paper lantern fell directly on her face. Zachary had to stifle a gasp — for the countenance she had turned to Captain Mee was not her public visage but rather the one that Zachary had himself come to recognize in her boudoir. So far as he knew there was only one other man who had ever been privy to this other aspect of Mrs Burnham — and that man was a soldier, a lieutenant, she had said, her first and only love.

Zachary noticed now that Captain Mee’s red-coated shoulders were also inclined towards Mrs Burnham in a manner that suggested a more than casual acquaintance. Suddenly suspicion boiled up in him, to be followed by an onrush of jealousy so intense that he had to hold on to the rails to steady himself.