Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Mr Burnham being prostrate with grief, the arrangements for the funeral were made by Zachary and Mr Doughty. It was decided that she would be buried at the Protestant cemetery in Macau. A coffin was quickly bought and the body was transported the next day. The interment was in the late afternoon and a large number of people attended.

Through the ceremony Zachary kept careful watch for Paulette. But it was only at the end that he caught sight of her: she was at the back of the graveyard, sitting on a mossy tomb, with her face buried in a handkerchief. He stole up on her quietly, so that she would not have time to make an escape.

‘Miss Paulette?’

Removing the handkerchief from her face she looked up at him.

‘Yes?’

‘May I sit down, Miss Paulette?’ he said.

She shrugged indifferently and he saw that she was past caring. She buried her face in her handkerchief again, and after waiting a while he cleared his throat: ‘Miss Paulette, it was Mrs Burnham’s wish — she told me this herself — that you and I should be reconciled.’

‘What did you say?’ Whipping away the handkerchief, she shot him a puzzled glance.

‘Yes, Miss Paulette,’ Zachary persisted. ‘She specifically said to me that I should take care of you.’

‘Really, Mr Reid,’ she retorted. ‘But to me she said something else.’

‘What?’

‘She said I was your only hope and that I should look after you .’

They were quiet for a bit and then Zachary said: ‘May I at least come to take a look at your garden?’

‘If that is what you wish,’ she said. ‘I will not prevent it.’

‘Thank you, Miss Paulette,’ said Zachary. ‘I am sure Mrs Burnham would be pleased.’

*

Kesri did not see Captain Mee again until the Bengal Volunteers were sent back to Hong Kong.

By that time Kesri had spent a week in the island’s newly built military encampment. He was dozing one evening, with a candle flickering by his bed, when the door flew open. At first Kesri thought that it was Maddow who had stepped out to fetch something. But then he saw that the silhouette in the doorway was Captain Mee’s: he was bare-headed, swaying slightly on his feet; in his hands was a leather satchel.

It was a hot day and Kesri had thrown off his sheet. Now, wanting to spare the captain the sight of his exposed stump, he began to grope around, trying to cover himself. The sheet eluded his grasp and in the end it was Captain Mee who found it and draped it over him.

‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, havildar.’

His words were a little slurred and Kesri could smell liquor on his breath.

‘It’s all right, Kaptán-sah’b,’ said Kesri. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

Captain Mee nodded and sank into a chair beside the bed. The candle was close to him now, and when its light fell on his face Kesri saw that the captain was haggard, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. Pushing himself a little higher, on his pillows, Kesri said: ‘How are you, Kaptán-sah’b?’

To Kesri’s surprise there was no answer; instead Captain Mee fell forward in his chair and buried his face in his hands, planting his elbows on his knees. After a minute or two Kesri realized that he was sobbing. He sat still and let him continue.

Presently, when the captain’s shoulders had ceased to heave, Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b, what is it? What has happened?’

At that Captain Mee looked up, his eyes even redder than before. ‘Havildar, I don’t suppose you’ve heard — about Cathy … Mrs Burnham …’

‘What about her, sir?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘No?’ cried Kesri, recoiling in shock. ‘But how did it happen?’

‘During the storm — she was on a ship that went down. That’s all I know.’

Fumbling for words, Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b — I don’t … I don’t—’

Captain Mee cut him short with a brusque gesture. ‘It’s all right — there’s no need to say anything.’

Turning abruptly to his side, Captain Mee picked up the satchel he had brought with him. ‘I have something for you, havildar.’ ‘For me?’

‘Yes.’ He thrust the satchel into Kesri’s hands. ‘Open it.’

The satchel was very heavy for its size and as he was undoing the buckle, Kesri heard the scraping of metal on metal. Captain Mee held up the candle as Kesri looked in.

At first glance Kesri thought his eyes had deceived him and he looked away, in disbelief. Then he looked again and his gaze was again met by the glitter of gold ornaments and the sparkle of silver coins.

‘What is this, Kaptán-sah’b?’

‘Some if it is booty — my share of it. And yesterday we were given our arrears of pay and battas — that’s there too. As for the rest, don’t ask.’

‘But Kaptán-sah’b — I cannot take this.’

‘Yes you can. I owe it to you.’

‘No, Kaptán-sah’b — it is much more than you owe me. More than I have ever earned. I cannot take it.’

The captain rose to his feet. ‘It’s yours,’ he said roughly. ‘I want you to have it.’

‘But—’

Captain Mee cut Kesri short by clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Goodbye, havildar.’

‘Why “goodbye”…?’ said Kesri, but the door had already closed.

Captain Mee’s abrupt departure left Kesri distraught; the captain’s words kept circling through his head and the more he thought about them the more he worried.

Lying helpless in bed, Kesri tried to think of some means of preventing what he thought was going to happen. He considered approaching another officer, but he doubted that anyone would believe him unless he divulged everything he knew about Captain Mee and Mrs Burnham — and this he could not bring himself to do. They would probably think he was lying anyway: why would a havildar know about such things?

When Maddow returned, Kesri said: Did you know that Burnham-memsah’b had died?

Yes, said Maddow. I heard.

Why didn’t you tell me?

I thought I’d tell you later, Kesriji. How did you find out?

The kaptán-sah’b was here …

If not for the intensity of the pain in his leg, Kesri would have skipped his medicaments that night; his foreboding was so acute that he would have preferred to stay awake. But when the time came he could not refuse: he took his draught of morphine and soon fell into a deep, stupefied sleep. Hours later he woke to find Maddow shaking his shoulder.

Kesriji! Kesriji!

Kaa horahelba? What is it?

Listen, Kesriji — it’s about Mee-sah’b.

Kesri sat up and rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, trying to clear his mind: What is it?

Kesriji — there’s been an accident. The kaptán-sah’b was cleaning his gun. It went off.

What happened? Is he badly wounded?

No, Kesriji — he’s dead.

Kesri took hold of Maddow’s arm and tried to swing his body around: Help me get up; I want to go there; I want to see him.

Kesri had not yet learnt to use a crutch. He hooked an arm around Maddow’s neck and hopped along by his side, towards the officers’ lines, where guards and orderlies could be seen rushing about.

Halfway there they were stopped by a sarjeant of the Royal Irish: ‘Halt!’

‘Please let me pass,’ said Kesri. ‘Mee-sahib was my company commander.’

‘Sorry — orders. No one’s allowed any further.’

Kesri could see that the sarjeant would not relent. He turned away with a sigh: Abh to woh unke hain , he said, more to himself than to Maddow — he’s theirs now; we have no claim on him.

With Maddow’s help he hobbled back to his room and fell again into his bed.

But now, despite the lingering effects of his medication, Kesri could not go back to sleep: he thought of all the years he had known Captain Mee and the battles they had fought together: it was sickening that he had died in this way; he had deserved a soldier’s death. It was a waste, such a waste, of Captain Mee’s life — and his own too. And for what? A pension? A citation?