Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Never had he seen such a spectacle, such a marvel of planning and such a miracle of precision. It seemed to him a triumph of modern civilization; a perfect example of the ways in which discipline and reason could conquer continents of darkness, just as Mrs Burnham had said: it was proof of the omnipotence of the class of men of which he too was now a part. He thought of the unlikely mentors who had helped him through the door — Serang Ali, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander and Mrs Burnham — and was filled with gratitude that destiny had afforded him a place in this magnificent machine.

*

Kesri and the Bengal sepoys had been assigned to the landingparty that was to attack the island of North Wantung. This force included troops from the Royal Irish, the Cameronians and the 37th Madras: each detachment was allotted a cutter of its own. Two were taken in tow by the steamer Madagascar and the others by the Nemesis .

As the cutters were pulling up to North Wantung, they were met by volleys of arrows and matchlock-fire. Even before the landing-parties reached the shore, the defendants came rushing out of the battered remnants of the fortifications, brandishing swords, pikes and spears.

Kesri knew then that what had happened at Chuenpee would repeat itself here: having endured a devastating bombardment, knowing themselves to be hopelessly outgunned, the defendants had decided that their only hope lay in hand-to-hand combat. This had given them a desperate courage, prompting them to abandon the shelter of the battlements. But once on exposed ground they were fatally vulnerable: before they could close with their attackers they were mowed down by musket-fire and grapeshot. As at Chuenpee a great number of defendents were set afire by their powder-scattered clothing; many had to fling themselves into the water, to douse the flames, only to be picked off as they thrashed about.

By the time the landing-parties stepped on shore the ground was already carpeted with dead and dying defendants. Some of the British officers began to call out: ‘Surrender! Surrender!’; some had even learnt the Chinese word — Too-kiang! But their cries went unheeded; many of the defenders fought on, flinging themselves on their attackers’ bayonets.

The landing-parties had brought escalade ladders with them but only a few were used. The battlements had been so badly battered that at some points it was possible to climb through the breaches.

On entering the fortifications, the landing-parties split up as the remaining defendants retreated towards the island’s heights. Kesri found himself running through corridors that were empty except for dead and wounded Chinese soldiers. In many of the gun-emplacements the bodies of the gunners lay draped over the barrels, pierced all over by grapeshot. Kesri was amazed to see that instead of seeking shelter they had stayed at their posts until the end.

Near the island’s summit Kesri came upon a large group of disarmed defenders, squatting in a courtyard, under the guns of a detachment of British troops. His friend Sarjeant Maggs was in charge.

‘These gents had the good sense to surrender,’ said the sarjeant. ‘But take a dekko at that lot over there.’

He pointed to an embrasure that faced the channel. Looking down, Kesri saw that the rocks below were littered with corpses: evidently rather than surrender dozens of Chinese soldiers had chosen to throw themselves down from the heights.

Once again Kesri was reminded of earlier campaigns, in the Arakan and against the tribes of the hills. There too the defenders had fought in this way, killing themselves to thwart their attackers. For sepoys and other professional soldiers there was nothing more hateful than this — it seemed to imply that they were hired murderers.

Why? Why fight like this? Why not just accept defeat and live? He wished he could explain to them that he, for his part, would much rather have let them survive than see them die: he was just doing his job, that was all.

Averting his eyes, Kesri looked ahead, at the fort of Humen which lay directly across the water. British flags were flying on it now, wreathed in plumes of black smoke. Suddenly there was a flash and an ear-splitting noise; as the sound faded an enormous chunk of the fort’s battlements slid slowly into the channel. Kesri realized that British sappers were now systematically demolishing the fort and its walls.

So much death; so much destruction: what was it all for?

*

More than anything else it was the swiftness of the operation that dazzled Zachary: within four hours all the fortifications of the Tiger’s Mouth were in British hands. No sooner was Humen captured than the chain that had been slung across the river was torn from its moorings and allowed to sink to the bottom.

Then began a spectacle that was, in its way, just as awe-inspiring as the co-ordinated assault: the destruction of captured guns and the demolition of the forts.

This too proceeded simultaneously at three locations — the channel’s two banks and the island in the middle. One after another, enormous guns were pushed out of their emplacements and sent tumbling into the water. Some were blown to bits from within: sandbags were stuffed into their barrels with massive charges of powder packed inside. They exploded like ripe fruit.

But these explosions were nothing compared to the earth-shaking blasts with which the forts were taken down. Each detonation sent a tornado of smoke and rubble spiralling upwards; the debris seemed to vanish into the clouds before it came crashing down. Soon the slopes around the Tiger’s Mouth turned grey under a hailstorm of dust.

Zachary was so mesmerized by the spectacle that he barely heard Baboo Nob Kissin’s voice at his elbow: ‘Sir, message has been received requesting for delivery of munitions to Bengal Volunteers.’

‘You take care of it, Baboo,’ said Zachary curtly. ‘I’m too busy.’

No sooner had the Baboo departed than Zachary received a message asking him to prepare the Ibis to receive some wounded men: he was told to expect a total of three officers and some twenty soldiers; they would arrive in separate groups, each accompanied by doctors, surgeons and medical attendants.

The schooner’s tween-deck had already been partitioned so that sepoys and troopers could be accommodated in different spaces. But no special provision had yet been made for officers. Zachary guessed that they would not take kindly to being sent below deck.

The first mate’s cabin was empty, but it was too small for three men. Zachary decided to move there himself, yielding the captain’s stateroom to the wounded officers. The stateroom was by far the best appointed and most spacious cumra on the schooner; Zachary knew the officers would appreciate the gesture.

The empty cabin was only a few steps from the stateroom, across the cuddy where the mates usually dined. It took Zachary very little time to move his things over. By the time the first boatload of wounded arrived, the Ibis was scrubbed and ready.

The soldiers’ injuries were slight for the most part and many were able to walk to their respective berths — very few needed litters. While the first lot were settling in, another contingent arrived, of some half-dozen men from the Madras Engineers: it turned out that they had been injured by flying debris while demolishing the forts. There was an officer among them, a Yorkshireman. He told Zachary that the engineer companies had used captured stocks of Chinese powder to blow up the forts: the walls were so solidly built that it had taken ten thousand pounds of powder to bring them down.

The intent of the demolitions was not only to flatten the defences: it was hoped also that the fearsome explosions would have a salutary effect on the Chinese, inducing shock and terror and making them mindful of the futility of continued resistance.