Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

Compton had been hinting for a while that Zhong Lou-si has been contemplating some unusual measures. Today in the Consoo I discovered what they were.

The Consoo — or ‘Council House’ — is situated behind the foreign factories, on Thirteen Hong Street, cater-corner to the entrance of Old China Street. It is surrounded by a forbidding grey wall and looks much like a mandarin’s yamen. Inside there are several large halls and pavilions, all topped with graceful, upswept roofs.

We were led through the compound’s pathways to a pavilion deep in the interior of the complex. It was a chilly day and the windows were closed but we could see the outlines of a number of men through the moisture-frosted glass: they were seated as if for a meeting.

Stepping in through a side door we went to join a group of secretaries and attendants, who were standing huddled against a wall, chatting in low voices lo-lo-si-si . In the middle of the room, seated in stately armchairs, were a half-dozen officials, formally dressed, in panelled gowns, with their buttons and other insignia prominently displayed. As the seniormost member of the council, Zhong Lou-si was seated at the centre of the group.

The proceedings started with the banging of a gong. This in turn set off a relay of chimes that receded slowly into the hidden recesses of the building. A silence descended, through which many feet could be heard, shuffling along a corridor. Then a group of five manacled men appeared, escorted by a squad of tall, armour-c lad Manchu troopers.

The prisoners were dark-skinned and dishevelled; hushed whispers of haak-gwai! and gwai-lo! greeted their entry. Even I was startled by their wild and wasted appearance. They looked as if they had been dragged out of a dungeon: neither their hair nor their beards had been trimmed in a long time and their eyes were sunken, their cheeks hollow. Their clothing, which seemed to have been especially provided for the occasion, was akin to the usual costume of Cantonese boatmen — loose tunics and pyjamas — but I knew at a glance that they were lascars. They had tied rags and scraps of cloth around their heads and waists, like the cummerbunds and bandhnas that lascars like to wear.

The guards positioned the prisoners to face the officials, and Compton and I went to stand beside them. A couple of questions revealed that the prisoners’ preferred language was Hindustani, so it was decided that I would translate their words into English and Compton would then relay them to the officials, in formal Chinese.

Zhong Lou-si asked the first question: Can you ask these men why they were imprisoned?

When I put the question to the prisoners, it became clear that they had already appointed a spokesman to speak on their behalf: he was not particularly imposing in appearance, being slight in build and only of middling height. But there was an alertness in his eyes and a confidence in his bearing that set him apart from the others. His face was wreathed in a curly beard and his sharp eyes were sheltered by a brow that would have stretched across his forehead in a single, bushy line had it not been divided by a couple of deep scars.

He took a step forward, bringing himself closer to me. I saw then that he was even younger than I had thought: his copper-coloured face was completely unlined, and his beard was but the first growth of early youth, still uncoarsened by the edge of a razor.

With every eye on him, the youth made a gesture that took the whole assembly by surprise. He placed his right hand on his heart, closed his eyes, and said, on a note of almost theatrical defiance: Blsmlttah ar-Rahman ar-Rahiim …!

What is he doing? Compton whispered to me.

I answered: He is saying a Muslim prayer.

Only when the invocation had been completed did the youth begin to address the astonished audience. I translated as he spoke: ‘You asked how we came to be in prison. It happened right here in Guangzhou, a year ago. We were then in the employment of one Mr James Innes, a British merchant and shipowner. We had been working on one of his ships, as lascars, for some months before that time.’

The youth’s Hindustani was fluent, but I noticed that it bore the traces of a Bengali accent.

‘One day, while our ship was anchored at Whampoa, Innes-sahib ordered us to load some chests into two of the ships’ boats. He told us that we were to row these boats to his factory, in Canton, the next day. We were not told what was in those chests, but we guessed that it was opium. We said no, we would not go, but Mr Innes threatened us and forced us to follow his orders. The next day, we loaded the chests in two of the ships’ boats and rowed them to the foreign enclave. When we arrived at Mr Innes’s house there was a raid by customs officials: they opened the chests and found that they contained opium. We were immediately arrested and taken before a magistrate. Then we were sentenced to prison.’

He raised his voice: ‘We had committed no crime and broken no law — the whole thing was the doing of Mr Innes. Yet it is we who have been made to suffer. Nothing could be more unjust!’

After I had translated this for Compton, I turned towards the young lascar and saw that he was looking directly at me: he had narrowed his eyes as though he were trying to peer into a darkened room. Then suddenly the expression on his face changed and I had the disconcerting feeling that I had been recognized.

I looked away, startled, my mind racing. After a moment I glanced at the lascar again, and now recognition dawned on me too, all of a sudden: I realized that the youth was none other than my fellow fugitive, Jodu, from whom I had parted at Great Nicobar Island, following on our joint escape from the Ibis .

I could not have imagined that two pairs of eyes looking into each other could create such an extraordinary impact: it was as if a bolt of lightning had gone through me.

We both turned quickly away, fully aware that we were being watched by many people. Meanwhile, Compton had begun to translate the council’s response: I heard him out and turned to face Jodu.

Listen, this is what I’ve been aske d to tell you. The council is willing to make you an offer: the Province of Guangdong has recently acquired a ship, built in the European fashion. Experienced seamen, familiar with the functioning of such vessels are needed for the crew. If you agree to serve on this vessel, for one year, then your sentences will be commuted and you will be set free at the end of that period. Is that acceptable to all of you?

Jodu gave me a nod and stepped away to confer with the others. He returned a few minutes later.

Tell the mandarins, he said to me, that what they are offering us will involve much danger and hard work. We will agree to it only if we are paid proper wages, equivalent to what we would have earned if we were working on a ship at sea — the equivalent of ten sicca rupees a month, which is equal to two Spanish dollars.

It seemed to me that he was in no position to make demands so I said to him in an undertone: Are you sure you want me to say this?

Jodu answered with an emphatic nod, so I translated his words faithfully. I did not think anything would come of it: knowing the ways of Chinese officials I fully expected that Jodu and his friends would meet with a summary refusal.

For a while it seemed that my fears were well-founded — but then, after a heated discussion, Zhong Lou-si made an intervention that took the matter in a different direction.

He told me what to say and I explained it to Jodu: The Chinese officers are willing to give you what you asked for, but they have certain conditions. They will pay your salaries as a lump sum at the end of your period of service. In the interim you will be provided with rations and supplies and you will also be given a small allowance for expenses. At the end of your service, if your work has been satisfactory, you will be paid a bonus equivalent to a month’s wages. Moreover, if your vessel succeeds in sinking any enemy ships you will be rewarded with a prize equivalent to two months’ wages; and if you capture an enemy ship then you will be given a share of the spoils. But it must be clearly understood that you will all bear collective responsibility for your conduct: in the event of an attempt to desert, or of treachery of any kind, the agreement will be annulled; your wages will be forfeit and you will stand trial for treason, the penalty for which is death. If you accept all of this then agreements will be drawn up to that effect.