Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Raju? Raju?

All he could think of was to repeat the name, over and over, until Raju broke in to say, in a quiet, unruffled voice: Hã Baba — yes, it’s me.

At that Neel buried his face in the boy’s small shoulder and began to sob. It was Raju who had to comfort him: It’s all right, Baba — it’s all right.

Then Neel’s fingers brushed against the book he had brought with him. He handed it to Raju: Here, look what I’ve got for you.

A frown appeared on Raju’s face as he read the words on the spine. Then he said in a quiet but firm voice: You know, Baba, don’t you, that I’m not a little boy any more?

That first shower was followed by many others over the next couple of days. But to the troops in the four fortresses the rain brought little relief: in the wake of the showers the stifling heat would quickly return, as if to warn that the real storm had yet to come.

For Kesri the showers became a new source of worry, to add to those caused by the disappearance of the young fifer. Whether the boy had deserted or been kidnapped he did not know — either was plausible — but he was determined to prevent anything like that from happening again. Now, every time a patrol was caught in a shower he sought shelter immediately; when on the march he would position himself at the rear of the column to make sure there were no stragglers.

The rain also brought new torments: it added the odour of mildew to the stench of the enclosure where the men were bivouacked; swarms of fleas appeared, to join forces with all the other insects that plagued them: their bite was so vicious that even on parade it was hard to keep the men from wriggling and scratching.

There was so much moisture in the air that inspections had to be conducted twice daily to make sure that the sepoys’ powder was dry. Yet Kesri knew full well that the state of their powder would be immaterial if they were attacked during a shower. It was this fear above all that now haunted him — of being caught in a situation where their Brown Besses would not fire. He could only hope that the troops would be withdrawn from the four fortresses before a major storm blew in.

But the progress of the negotiations was not encouraging: although the mandarins had fulfilled some of the conditions of the armistice — the withdrawal of troops from the city, for instance — they continued to procrastinate over the paying of the ransom money. To raise six million dollars was not easy, they had protested; they needed a few more days at the very least. And while they tried to find the funds the British force had to remain where it was, poised above the city and ready to strike: it was the knife at the mandarins’ throat.

But while they remained there they had to forage to sustain themselves — and with each passing day it became more difficult to extract supplies from the villagers. No longer were they terrified of the foreign soldiers: often they would spit and hurl stones; gangs of urchins would shout insults; people would block the roads to stop the foraging parties from entering their villages and hamlets. An even more ominous development was that groups of young men, armed with pikes and staves, had begun to confront the foraging parties; on occasion shots had to be fired to disperse them.

The soldiers too became increasingly aggressive as the days went by: although Kesri was able to restrain his own men, he saw plenty of evidence to suggest that discipline was fraying in many units. There were rumours of beatings, looting, vandalism and also of attacks on women. One day Captain Mee told Kesri that charges of rape had been brought against a havildar and some jawans of the 37th Madras: they had been accused of invading a house and molesting the women.

But when Kesri questioned the Madras sepoys he was told a wholly different story: the havildar said he had been passing through San Yuan Li, with a squad of sepoys, when he saw an angry crowd gathering around a walled compound. Thinking that a foraging party had been trapped inside he ordered the sepoys to fire into the air, to disperse the crowd, after which he had entered the compound to see what was afoot. The situation inside was not at all what he had imagined: instead of a foraging party he had come upon a rag-tag bunch of British swaddies. There was a smell of alcohol in the air and the sound of women’s voices could be clearly heard, echoing out of the house: there was no mistaking those terror-stricken screams.

The havildar had recognized one of the men there, an English corporal. But before he could ask any questions he had been shoved out of the compound, with warnings to mind his own business and keep his gob shut. On returning to his bivouack he had decided to report what he had seen to the company commander. This had turned out to be a bad mistake; when the corporal was summoned for questioning he had blamed everything on the sepoys. It was they who were now under investigation.

Kesri didn’t know what to believe but duly apprised Captain Mee of the Madras sepoys’ story.

After hearing him out Captain Mee shrugged: ‘Well I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, havildar,’ he said, ‘that in situations like these it’s always easier to blame sepoys.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘And in this instance it’s a Madras havildar’s word against an English corporal’s.’

There was no need to say any more.

*

The Ibis was still a long way from Hong Kong when a bank of dark cloud hove into view on the horizon. The sight came as no surprise to Zachary: in the week that he had spent at Whampoa, waiting for the convoy of merchant ships to leave, he had seen plenty of signs of bad weather ahead. And the barometer, which had fallen steadily as the Ibis was sailing down the estuary, had removed all doubt about what lay in store.

But Zachary guessed that it would be a while yet before the storm hit the coast — probably not till early the next day, which meant that with any luck there would be enough daylight left for him to call on Mrs Burnham, in the Anahita , when the Ibis reached Hong Kong.

But when the convoy drew abreast of the island the Anahita did not immediately come into view, even though the bay was unusually thin of vessels. Evidently many skippers had decided to move their ships elsewhere, in anticipation of a storm. This was for the best, of course, since it reduced the possibility of collisions — but that was small consolation for Zachary, who had been looking forward to seeing Mrs Burnham.

But it turned out that the Anahita had not left Hong Kong Bay after all, she was merely hidden behind the Druid . She was anchored at the eastern end of the bay, abreast of Mr Burnham’s recently built godown, at East Point.

Zachary took the Ibis in the same direction and hove to within two fathoms of the Anahita . As soon as the schooner was properly anchored he called for the longboat to be lowered.

Within fifteen minutes Zachary was within hailing distance of the Anahita . Scanning the decks he spotted a familiar daub of saffron bobbing about on the maindeck. ‘Is that you, Baboo?’ he shouted, through cupped hands.

‘Yes, Master Zikri. And how are you? Hale and hearty I hope?’

‘Yes, Baboo, never better. Is Mrs Burnham aboard?’

‘Correct, Master Zikri — Burra Memsah’b is here.’

‘I have a message for her, from Mr Burnham. Please tell her I’m coming aboard right now.’

‘Yes, Master Zikri; ekdum jaldee.’

By the time Zachary had climbed up the Anahita ’s side-ladder Baboo Nob Kissin was back on the maindeck, waiting to greet him.