Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

‘Those were accidents, madam,’ said Zachary, ‘and they do not give you the right to subject me to such an inquisition.’

‘I assure you, Mr Reid,’ said Mrs Burnham, the menace in her voice growing ever more pointed, ‘that what I have asked of you is by no means as intimate as the disclosures that will be required of you by Dr Allgood should he learn of your condition.’

The colour drained from Zachary’s face and his voice fell to a whisper. ‘But surely,’ he pleaded, ‘surely you would not tell him?’

‘Well that remains to be seen,’ said Mrs Burnham briskly. ‘But you should know, in any case, that if Dr Allgood were in my place you would be required to do much more than merely answer questions.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Zachary, shrinking fearfully into the armchair. ‘What else could he want?’

‘He would consider it necessary also to examine the … the site of your affliction.’

‘What?’ Zachary looked at her in appalled horror. ‘Surely you do not mean …?’

She nodded firmly. ‘Yes, Mr Reid. Dr Allgood believes that examinations are imperative in such cases. I will not flinch from disclosing to you that his journals contain many detailed measurements and drawings of a certain element of the male anatomy.’ She gave a little sniff and straightened her turban: ‘You too would probably be required to sit for a portrait, if you know what I mean.’

‘God damn my eyes!’ gasped Zachary. ‘Has the man no shame?’

‘Oh come, Mr Reid,’ she said. ‘Surely you would not expect a doctor to treat a disease without examining its lesions, would you? And if you are gubbrowed by the thought of being sketched and measured for posterity, then you should know that these are by no means the most intrusive of the doctor’s methods.’

A shiver went through Zachary: ‘What else then?’

‘When necessary the doctor also makes surgical incisions to prevent the recurrence of the seizures.’ ‘No!’

‘Yes indeed,’ she continued. ‘In particularly recalcitrant cases, he even inserts a pin into the prepuce. He says that a great many lunatics have been cured by these devices.’

‘Geekus crow!’ Squirming in his seat, Zachary crossed his legs into a protective knot. ‘Has the man no mercy?’

Mrs Burnham smiled grimly. ‘You see, Mr Reid, you have good reason to be grateful that it is I and not Dr Allgood who is conducting this interview. It should be amply evident to you that your best course is to provide frank and honest answers to my questions.’

The peremptoriness of her manner fanned the winds of mutiny that were stirring inside Zachary. He jumped to his feet. ‘No, madam!’ he cried. ‘This interrogation is utterly iniquitous and I will not submit to it. I bid you good night.’

He strode to the door and was about to open it when Mrs Burnham’s voice forced him to halt, in mid-stride. ‘You should know, Mr Reid,’ she said, in sharp, ringing tones, ‘that in the event of your refusing treatment I will be compelled to disclose to Dr Allgood all that I know of your condition. And I do not doubt that when he hears of the incident at the ball, he, in turn, will deem it necessary to inform the relevant authorities.’

Zachary spun around. ‘You mean you’ll go to the police?’

‘So I will if necessary.’

‘But that is utterly monstrous, madam!’

‘To the contrary,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘it is a great deal less monstrous than the manner in which my modesty was outraged, at the ball, and in my sewing room. Are you not forgetting, Mr Reid, that I am the victim in this? Would I not be failing in my duty towards my sex if I did not exert myself to make sure that no other woman suffers such outrages? Is it not a matter of public safety?’

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Zachary drew his sleeve across his face, which was now beaded with sweat.

Mrs Burnham was quick to seize on his hesitation. ‘It is wise of you to reconsider, Mr Reid,’ she continued. ‘If you give a moment’s thought to the courses that are open to you I think you will perceive that your best option is to answer my questions. And it is all for your own good after all.’

Zachary’s shoulders sagged, as though his chest had been suddenly emptied of air. Dragging his feet slowly across the rug, he returned to the armchair and poured himself some more brandy.

‘So what else do you want to know, Mrs Burnham?’

*

Kesri was not in the lead on the day when the Pacheesi finally completed its march back to Rangpur, where its Assam base was located. He and his company were assigned to rearguard duty that day, which meant that they did not get on the road until the tents were struck and the magazine was loaded on to carts and mules — and even then they had to march slowly in order to keep pace with the hackery carts that were carrying the sick and the wounded. The carts stopped frequently to allow the physick-coolies to tend to their patients; and at each halt Kesri and his company had to mount guard to protect them from looters and dacoits.

Marches were usually so timed that they ended before the full heat of the day. But only the forward parts of the column benefited from this — the rearguard often had to be on the road at the very hottest time of day. Baked by the afternoon sun, the iron frames of the sepoys’ armoured topees became so hot that it was as if they were carrying boiling cauldrons on their heads.

The march was even harder on Kesri than the others since he was the oldest among them — some of the younger men were less than half his age, and none of them had to carry so large a burden of old scars and wounds. Out of consideration for himself he ordered a long rest after the mid-day meal, so that they could wait out the heat. To get everyone moving again took longer than he had expected so that it was almost sunset before the hackery carts were back on the road. By the time the lights of the Rangpur camp came into view it was late at night and Kesri’s koortee was soaked in sweat; a thick layer of dust had settled on the wet cloth, clinging to it like plaster.

A mile from the base, Pagla-baba materialized suddenly out of the darkness. Kesri! he cried, tugging at his arm. You have to hurry — the subedar wants you, right now!

Why?

I don’t know, but you have to go to his tent ekdum jaldi. He’s got many other afsars with him — jamadars, havildars, naiks.

How many?

Nine or ten.

The number startled Kesri. It was very unusual for so many sepoy-afsars to assemble in one place, either in a cantonment or a camp: large meetings were expressly forbidden by the British officers, who believed such gatherings to be conducive to conspiracies and mutiny. A meeting could only be held with the approval of the adjutant; permission was very rarely granted, and then too, only for matters relating to family and caste. It was almost unheard of for such a meeting to be held so late at night.

Pagla-baba knew exactly what was going through Kesri’s head.

The subedar has taken permission from the adjutant-sah’b, he said. It must be some kind of family business; only the subedarsah’b’s closest relatives have been asked to attend. They are meeting with some visitors who have come all the way from their village, near Ghazipur.

Do you know who the visitors are?

I know only one of them, said Pagla-baba. He’s related to you — Hukam Singh’s brother.

Chandan Singh?

Yes. Isn’t he your sister Deeti’s brother-in-law?

That’s right. What’s he doing here?

I don’t know, Kesri — but you’d better hurry!

Mrs Burnham glanced at her notes: ‘You will remember, Mr Reid, that I had asked you if you could recall when the symptoms of the disease first appeared.’