Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

‘Oh you don’t believe me then? Would it be more convincing perhaps if I were to show you the little trick she does with the capote?’

The captain leant closer. ‘Have you no shame, you filthy poodle-faker?’ The words were hissed between his teeth, so that a fog of spittle settled on Zachary’s face.

Zachary slid the tip of his tongue slowly over his lips, as he had seen Mrs Burnham do many times in the past.

‘Why Captain Mee,’ he said. ‘I do believe the taste of her still lingers in your mouth — I would recognize it anywhere. I am sure you would recognize it on me too, if you’d care to put your tongue where hers has been. “Chartering” she calls it, if I remember right; and never better than on the goolie-bag …’

‘Dab your mummer!’ Goaded beyond endurance the captain shook Zachary by the neck. ‘You know what happens to blackmailers, don’t you? They always die before their time.’

The captain’s thumb was pressed against Zachary’s windpipe now, blocking off the flow of air to his lungs. Zachary began to struggle, and as he was thrashing about his thumb brushed against the handle of his jack-knife. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled it out, but just as he was flicking it open Captain Mee caught sight of it and made a lunge. In one swift motion he enveloped Zachary’s fist with the fingers of one hand, knife and all. Then he flung himself over Zachary, pinning him down with his weight, pushing him into the bunk and immobilizing his limbs. In the midst of this, there was a slight slackening in the throat-hold; Zachary tried to catch a breath but his nose was crushed against the captain’s collar and he found himself breathing in the acrid, sweat-and-blood-sodden odour of his uniform. He gagged and turned his head to the side: physically, he was helpless now, yet the more completely he was overpowered, the more his body succumbed to the strength of the bigger man, the sharper and and clearer his mind seemed to become. Snatching another breath, he hissed into the captain’s ear: ‘Poor Mrs Burnham! Bedding you must be like fucking a howitzer.’

The captain grunted, tightening his grip on Zachary’s fist. ‘You shouldn’t have pulled this knife on me,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve only made it easier.’

With slow, relentless pressure he forced Zachary’s arm up until the blade was resting on his throat. As its edge began to dig into his skin, a memory flashed through Zachary’s head. He remembered that the knife was not his own: it had belonged to Mr Crowle, who had held it to his throat in this very cabin three years before.

The memory emboldened Zachary. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Do it; kill me. And you know what’ll happen? Let me tell you: Mrs Burnham’s letters will be found among my effects — I’ve kept them all, you know. Is that what you want? To bring ruin on her?’

Zachary knew that this had made an impression because there was a slackening in the pressure against his throat. With a sudden twist of his body he squirmed loose and jumped off the bunk. Dusting himself off, he held out his hand: ‘My knife please.’

The captain was now sitting on the bunk with a look of bewilderment on his face. He handed over the knife without a word.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Zachary. ‘And if I may say so, you would be well-advised to think carefully about my proposal.’

‘Fuck you,’ said the captain. ‘I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again.’

Zachary smiled and went to the door. ‘Oh I’m afraid you won’t be so easily rid of me, Captain,’ he said, holding the door open. ‘I am sure we shall meet again soon — but until then, I bid you good night.’

On the Cambridge the first hours of the morning passed in gut-churning uncertainty, without anyone being sure of what to expect. Then a runner arrived with urgent news: five British warships and two steamers, one of them the Nemesis , had left the Tiger’s Mouth and were proceeding upriver; they would soon be crossing the First Bar.

It was a relief to have the matter resolved, to know that the battle they had so long been preparing for would soon be joined. There were some who thought that the warships might be thwarted by the shifting shoals and sandbanks of the Pearl River. But as the reports came in it became clear that no such thing would happen: the British had evidently worked out a system to deal with the obstacles of the river. The shallow-draughted Nemesis was proceeding ahead of the rest of the squadron, taking soundings and charting a safe course.

As the warships drew closer the reports began to come in faster: now they were twenty-five li away, now twenty.

At the start of the Hour of the Horse, in the late morning, the gun-crews took their stations and went through their usual preparatory drills; each sirdar checked his cannon over and again, readying it for the first shot, making sure that the touch-hole was primed with powder, and that the first cartridge and ball were properly loaded and plugged in place, with waddings of oakum, made from old hemp ropes.

It was a warm day and as noon approached it became scorching hot on the fo’c’sle deck, which was exposed to the sun. Conical hats no longer sufficed to keep the gun-crews cool so they rigged up a canvas awning over the forward gun-ports. But as the sun mounted the sweat continued to pour off their bodies; many of the lascars stripped down to their banyans, draping chequered gamchhas around their necks.

At noon the breeze died away and the air became very still. Soon word arrived that the British ships were becalmed nine li short of the First Bar; only the Nemesis was still moving upriver.

This set off a hopeful murmur among the gun-crews: if the ‘devil-ship’ could be caught in a cross-fire, between the fort and the Cambridge , then there was a chance that she might be taken down.

Hopes rising, the gunners kept their eyes ahead, on the river. In a while, sure enough, puffs of black smoke appeared in the distance; then they heard the thudding of the steamer’s engine, growing steadily louder.

Across the river too, on the ramparts of the mud fort, there were many who were looking out for the steamer. The fort commanded a better view of the channel so its lookouts spotted the Nemesis first. A signal was flashed to alert the crew of the Cambridge and a minute later Jodu pointed ahead: There! Okhané! And through a stand of acacia and bamboo Neel caught sight of a towering smokestack.

The Nemesis cut her speed as she came around the bend. She was almost within range when the Cambridge ’s gunners got their first good look at her long black hull and her two giant paddle-wheels. Between the wheels was a broad, bridge-like platform: a row of Congreve rockets could be seen lined up on it, ready for launching.

The steamer’s appearance had changed since Neel had last seen her: on her bows there were two large, freshly painted eyes, drawn in the Asian fashion. Neel had never imagined that this familiar symbol could appear so sinister, so imbued with evil intent.

Jodu too was studying the steamer intently, his scarred eyebrows knitted into a straight line. He raised a finger to point to the base of the smokestack. That’s where the steam-chest is, he said. If we can hit her there, she’ll be crippled.

In the meantime, the steamer’s pivot guns had already begun to swivel; one turned towards the fort and the other to the Cambridge . Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the report of a gun; it wasn’t clear who had fired the first shot, but within seconds the steamer and the fort were hurling volleys at each other.