Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

The building was unharmed but there was so much wreckage all around that it took a while to approach it: Zachary had to hammer on the door for several minutes before he was let in.

The godown’s cavernous interior was lit by a few dimly flickering lamps: some of the Anahita ’s crewmen were kneeling in rows, saying namaaz; some were sitting huddled in the corners, shivering as they hugged their knees.

‘Master Zikri!’

Turning to his right Zachary saw that Baboo Nob Kissin was hurrying towards him.

There was now only one thought in Zachary’s mind. ‘Where’s Mrs Burnham?’ he said. ‘Is she in that room you’d prepared for her?’

Baboo Nob Kissin took a few more steps and then his enormous head shook slowly from side to side. ‘Master Zikri — I am sorry.’

‘What do you mean you’re sorry?’ Zachary snapped. ‘Where is she? Just answer the question.’

Again Baboo Nob Kissin shook his head: ‘I am sorry …’

Zachary laid his hands on the gomusta’s shoulders and shook him hard. ‘Baboo, this is no time for your flumadiddles: just tell me where she is.’

‘Yes, Master Zikri — that is what I am trying …’

Mrs Burnham had changed her mind at the last minute, said Baboo Nob Kissin. She had decided that instead of going ashore, to take shelter in the godown, she would ride out the storm on the Anahita : she had complete confidence in the crew, she had declared, and she wasn’t going to allow a bit of a blow to throw her into a funk. Baboo Nob Kissin had tried to persuade her to leave but she had silenced him in her usual imperious way. It was impossible to argue with the Burra Memsah’b beyond a point; at her orders Baboo Nob Kissin and a few others had left the ship as planned, to take refuge in the godown.

The rest of it Baboo Nob Kissin had heard from the crew, when they came ashore after the sinking of the Anahita .

Early that morning, before the storm hit the coast, Mrs Burnham had rung for a steward and asked for a tray of tea. The steward had returned to find her sitting in the Owner’s Suite, beside a window. It was already blowing hard then: she had said that she would be safe there and that she wanted to watch the storm coming in.

Once the storm broke the crew had no time to check on Mrs Burnham. It wasn’t till the ship began to take in water that a serang ran down to the Owner’s Suite. He had found the suite’s door jammed, perhaps by a piece of furniture: he had pounded on it and on receiving no answer he had gone to fetch an axe. But by the time he returned the ship’s stern was already below water, the gangway flooded — he would have drowned if he had stepped in. There was nothing more to be done.

‘But Master Zikri …’

Although Baboo Nob Kissin was leaning close to Zachary now, his voice seemed to reach his ear from very far away.

‘Last night, Master Zikri, before I departed from Anahita , Burra Memsah’b gave one letter. For you. She said to ensure that you received.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Here — I have safely kept.’

Withdrawing into a corner, Zachary broke the seal and began to read.

*

The platoon set off with Captain Mee in the lead and Kesri bringing up the rear. As they veered leftwards Kesri handed his now useless musket to Maddow and took his sword in his hand.

The surrounding fields had already turned into a continuous expanse of water; the bunds had disappeared and the only points of orientation were a few clusters of dwellings, dimly visible through the rain. Although nightfall was still a while away the sky was so dark that it was as if the sun had already set.

Hearing a sound behind him, Kesri looked over his shoulder; peering into the failing light he spotted the misted outlines of moving figures. It occurred to him that these might be the Cameronians and for an instant he was light-headed with relief. But then a rock came hurtling through the rain, to hit him in the shoulder, and he knew that they were being followed by the mob.

‘Halt! Halt!’ Kesri shouted and in a matter of seconds Captain Mee appeared beside him, sword in hand.

‘They’re behind us, sir,’ said Kesri — and as soon as the words were out of his mouth Kesri realized that he’d spoken prematurely. The armed men weren’t just behind the platoon; they were all around, their outlines enshrouded by rain. Suddenly the pointed head of a pike shot out of the curtain of falling water; it would have pierced Kesri’s ribcage if Captain Mee hadn’t struck it down with his sword.

Now, as rocks and stones began to fly out of the deluge, Kesri felt something tugging at his ankles and looked down. It was a large hook, attached to a staff. He slashed at it with his sword, breaking it in two. But somewhere to the rear one such staff had succeeded in hooking a sepoy; he had fallen and was being dragged through the mud.

Two sepoys caught hold of the fallen man’s arms and pulled him back. When he was on his feet again, Captain Mee shouted: ‘A square! Form a square!’

Sluggishly, fending off brickbats with their arms, the men fell into a square. Standing shoulder to shoulder they thrust their bayonets at every moving shape.

After a few minutes Captain Mee’s voice was again in Kesri’s ear: ‘We’re too exposed here; we have to move. I saw some houses to the left. If we can reach them we’ll have a wall at our back.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘I’ll lead,’ said the captain, wiping his streaming face with his sleeve. ‘You bring up the rear.’

The radius of visibility was no more than a few feet now; only when flashes of lightning streaked through the clouds was Kesri able to see beyond that. When the platoon began to move he kept his eyes fixed on the darkness, moving backwards, sword at the ready.

Projectiles kept raining down on the platoon as it waded through the mud. When at last there was a slight quickening in the pace, Kesri sensed that they were out of the paddies, on level ground. Then he glanced back and saw that a gap had opened up between him and the rest of the platoon: they were already out of his circle of visibility. He would have to hurry to catch up.

Just as Kesri was about to quicken his pace, the pointed end of a spear came hurtling towards him, from the right. He brought his sword down upon the shaft and had the satisfaction of seeing the tip fly off. And then, inexplicably, without his being aware of an injury, his left leg crumpled under him, bringing him down heavily, on his back. A flash of lightning split the sky, to reveal a circle of faces, closing in, with pikes and spears pointed at him.

Kesri’s sword was still in his hand and he tightened his grip on it: he knew that his time had probably come but he felt no panic; only a kind of sadness that it should happen here, at the hands of men with whom he had no quarrel; men who were not even soldiers, who were trying only to protect their villages, as he himself would have done back home.

He saw a shadow moving towards him and slashed at it with his sword. Even as his blade dug into flesh and bone he felt an impact in his own flank. He was trying to turn when a pike crashed into his wrist and the sword dropped from his hand. And then, as he lay helpless on the ground, he heard a deep-throated voice calling his name — Kesri Singhji? — and he shouted: Hã! Yahã! Here, I’m here!

A bayonet swung out in an arc above him, scattering the faces that had been closing in.

Havildar-sah’b?

The voice was Maddow’s.

Kesri answered with a grunt and Maddow squatted beside him, with his bayonet levelled at the darkness.

Hold on to my neck, havildar-sah’b, said Maddow, and I’ll pull you on to my back.

Kesri wrapped his arms around Maddow’s neck and felt himself being lifted up; then Maddow began to back away, with the Brown Bess circling watchfully in front of him, the bayonet slicing through the darkness.