Amitav Ghosh - Flood of Fire

The Hind was in the thick of the fleet, far to the rear of the flagship. The waters around her were crowded with canvas, trikat and gavi, kilmi and sabar: it was as if the sea had become the sky, a blue firmament dotted with scattered clouds, all scudding in the same direction. Between the white shoals rose stacks of smoke, dark as thunderheads, spouting from the funnels of the expedition’s three steamers as they zigzagged through the convoy, delivering messages, rounding up stragglers and lending a hand where needed.

The superb seamanship and perfect trim of the Royal Navy’s warships put the merchantmen on their mettle: ‘all shipshape and Bristol fashion’ became the maxim of the day and skippers began to drive their crews like never before. Every now and then races would break out, with one ship or another attempting to overhaul the vessel ahead. Even the passengers got into the spirit of it, urging the sailors on and cheering loudly when their vessel took the shine out of another.

Until the second week of the voyage the weather was exceptionally fine but then there came a change. The wind picked up strength and soon the Hind was being battered by powerful gusts from the south-west. The skies remained clear however, so the crew kept to their routines and the passengers continued to take the air on deck, as usual.

Among the daily on-board rituals there was one that always attracted a large crowd of spectators: the slaughtering of poultry for the officers’ table.

The Hind ’s chicken coop was at the foot of the mainmast. Every day, around noon, when the captain and first mate were ‘shooting the sun’, the cook who officiated as the ship’s butcher would come up to the maindeck, brandishing a shining, sharp-pointed knife. He was a big, burly man with a flair for showmanship: after beheading a bird or two he would stroll nonchalantly back to the galley with the frantically twitching carcasses clutched in one fist.

That day, despite the blustery conditions, the cook appeared as usual, just after the noon-time bell. Raju happened to be on deck at the time and he was among those who went to the coop to watch.

The knife flashed twice as two chickens lost their heads. Then the cook bestowed a toothy grin on the spectators and sauntered off as usual, holding the headless birds in his right hand and the knife in the left.

The stairwell that led to the galley was slick with spume. No sooner had the cook stepped into it than the Hind gave a mighty lurch, knocking him off his feet. He fell heavily, face forward. Then came a piercing cry, after which he somehow managed to struggle to his knees and turn around.

Raju was watching from the head of the stairwell: he saw now that the headless chickens were still clenched in the cook’s right fist, but his other hand was empty — the knife had disappeared. Then he saw where it had gone: the hilt was protruding from the man’s chest.

Slowly, disbelievingly, the cook lowered his gaze to his trunk. As if in a trance, he let go of the chickens. Fastening both hands on the hilt of the knife he wrenched out the blade in a single motion. With the dripping knife still in his hands he stared in astonishment at the blood that was now spouting, so improbably, from his body. Then his eyes rose to look directly at Raju, and he murmured, in a strangled, choking voice: Bachao mujhe! Save me!

The last syllable was still on his lips when he fell forward on his face.

For a long moment Raju could neither breathe nor move: he stood frozen to the spot, unable to tear his eyes from the macabre scene — the lifeless body, the bloody knife and the headless chickens that were now whirling around the stairwell. Then suddenly his knees buckled and the deck came flying up towards him.

At the last minute his fall was broken by a pair of hands. ‘It’s all right, kid-mutt; it’s all right.’

Zachary picked him up, threw him over his shoulder and carried him down to the cubicle.

After the shock had worn off, Raju gave Dicky a detailed account of what had happened. To his surprise, the fifer was unimpressed: with a matter-of-fact directness he said that he had seen many men die, and boys too, in even more horrible ways: ‘Why, men, in my first battle a bloody Pindaree shot the fifer next to me. Blew the bugger’s head right off, men; found his ear in my collar.’

*

Through the night the wind grew stronger and at daybreak the sky was dark with thunderheads. The fleet had scattered now, with no more than one or two sets of sail visible on the horizon. From time to time a steamer would appear, struggling to make headway, wallowing along in the trough of a swell or hoisted aloft by a wave.

The howling continued unabated through the early hours but at the end of the morning there was still no rain, so the sepoys were served their hazree on deck, as usual. The rain held off while they ate and they returned to their cumra without incident.

Zachary was on the quarter-deck with Mr Doughty when the camp-followers came straggling up for their meal. Noticing a flash of lightning, in the distance, he remarked to Mr Doughty that it looked as though the storm was about to break: it might be best to clear the deck and send the men below.

Unfortunately for Zachary, his well-intended words were overheard by Captain Mee. ‘Talk of singing psalms to the taffrail!’ he said in a tone of mocking disdain. ‘This is more cheek than I’ve heard in many a long year: a cheap-jack Yankee opium-pedlar teaching an English sea-captain his business! Who’s in charge of this ship, Mr Doughty, you or this little madge-cove?’

The subalterns burst into guffaws and Zachary went red in the face: muttering an excuse to Mr Doughty, he went down to the maindeck.

Scarcely had Zachary stepped away when the storm broke. The pelting rain set off a panicky rush among the camp-followers: dozens of men and boys began to jostle with each other in their hurry to get to the hatches. As they were milling about, whipped by wind and rain, a bolt of lightning came forking through the clouds. It struck the Hind ’s mainmast about halfway up its length, snapping it in two. The top half broke off cleanly and was carried away by the gale, crow’s-nest, purwans, yardarms and all. But the purwans of the mainsail — the largest and heaviest of the crossbeams — remained attached to the stump, although only for a few more seconds. Then, with a thunderous creaking the two spars began to split away from the remains of the mast.

The camp-followers were still pushing and shoving when the purwans came crashing down, on either side of the mast. On the dawa side the purwan dropped heavily on the deck, killing a gun-lascar and severely injuring another before toppling over the bulwark and vanishing from view. The other half of the beam caused even more damage: fouled by a webbing of ropes it began to thrash about, its ten-yard length lashing the deck like a flail, battering the panicked camp-followers.

Zachary too was knocked down in the mêlée, but he regained his footing quickly and immediately spotted the problem. Crossing the deck with a couple of strides, he used the remnants of the rigging to haul himself atop the stump. It was a habit of his to carry a jack-knife in his pocket: flicking it open, he hacked at the tangled ropes until the runaway beam broke free and was blown clear of the ship.

On descending from the stump, Zachary’s first thought was for Raju. He found him prostrate in the starboard scuppers, with the breath knocked out of him but otherwise unhurt.

‘You all right, kid-mutt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good lad.’

Around them was a scene of utter confusion, the dead and wounded lying sprawled about on deck, the wind howling, boys screaming, men trampling each other to get to the hatches.