Flood of Fire

Ten

Now that they knew where they were going, the balamteers talked of little else but China. And the more they spoke of it the faster the rumours flew: it was as if the very name — Maha-Chin — were enough to stir up elemental fears in them. They knew nothing about China of course, except that the people there were different in every way, not least in appearance — they looked like Gurkhas, some said, and this too was cause for disquiet. The sepoys were well aware of the Gurkhas’ fearsome reputation as fighters; many of them had relatives who had fought in the East India Company’s wars against the Gurkha empire some twenty-two years before. One of the naiks in B Company was the son of a sepoy who had died at the Battle of Nalapani, where the Gurkhas had inflicted a severe defeat on the British. Like all professional soldiers, the sepoys had long memories: they knew that a few decades earlier the Gurkhas, for all their martial prowess, had been thoroughly defeated and subjugated by the army of Maha-Chin ka Faghfoor — the Emperor of China.

All of this created misgivings and these were compounded by speculation and rumours: some sepoys put it about that the Chinese had supernatural powers and were masters of the occult; others said that they possessed secret weapons and were ingenious in spreading confusion among their enemies.

Kesri was not impervious to these rumours: he had personally experienced many strange things on the battlefield and did not doubt that unknown forces could intervene in times of war. Why else did soldiers offer prayers before fighting? Why else did they carry protective amulets and have their weapons blessed? To speak of ‘luck’ and ‘chance’, as the British officers did, was merely an evasion to Kesri: what were those things but names for the interventions of kismat? And if the Angrezes really believed that supernatural and divine forces played no part in war, then why did they go to their churches to pray on the eve of a battle? Why did they allow their sepoy orderlies to take their weapons to the temple to be blessed?

But of course these thoughts could not be voiced to anyone, least of all the naiks and lance-naiks: instead Kesri told them stories about his wartime experiences in Burma, where the people were also akin to the Chinese and the Gurkhas. It was true, he said, that they were fierce and skilful warriors, and that they used all kinds of arts and ruses to confuse their enemies. But in the end the Burmese, who had in the past vanquished the armies of the Emperor of China, had themselves been defeated: there was no reason to be awed by Chinese soldiers, said Kesri; like everyone else they could be beaten.

By this time Kesri’s personal authority over the men was strong enough for his words to have a steadying effect: through the wrestling pit he had built close personal connections with many of the sepoys, and they had come to trust him. Besides, it was reassuring to them to know that they were serving under a havildar who had campaigned overseas before. As the days went by their performance on the parade ground improved and Captain Mee even went so far as to congratulate Kesri: ‘Shahbash havildar! The men are shaping up well.’

In late February Captain Mee held a briefing for Kesri and the other NCOs. With the aid of a large map and two interpreters, he explained that their company had been assigned to the Hind, a civilian transport ship that would take them to Singapore, and from there to southern China. Depending on the weather, the first leg of the journey would take fifteen to twenty days; the next might take a little less, but sailing times could not be predicted with any certainty. They could expect to leave after the retreat of the northerly monsoon, and before the onset of the summer rains — probably in March or April, which meant that their departure was now only a few weeks away.

The length of the voyage came as a surprise even to Kesri. None of his previous sea-journeys had lasted more than a week — it was daunting to think of spending a month or more at sea. It was not that he was concerned about the discomforts of the voyage: what worried him was the question of how to keep up the men’s morale so that they would be in a condition to fight when they reached their destination. Very few of them had ever sailed before and they all harboured that dread of the kalapani — the black water — that was prevalent in their home regions.

Kesri knew that Captain Mee’s briefing would stir the men’s misgivings and he was not wrong. One day a medical orderly came to tell him that one of the company’s sepoys had suffered a serious bayonet wound. When Kesri went to the infirmary to inquire, the man claimed that he had hurt himself accidentally. But Kesri knew at a glance that he was lying — the wound was in the fleshiest part of the thigh, where it would do the least harm. He guessed that the man had done it to himself, in the hope of getting out of the army with an unblemished record of service, so that he could keep all his battas and perhaps get a pension as well.

Captain Mee agreed with Kesri that they would have to make an example of this man if they were to prevent an outbreak of self-inflicted wounds: a court martial was quickly convened and the man was given a seven-year sentence of transportation, to be served on Prince of Wales Island.

*

Baboo Nob Kissin’s gaze was usually wary and vigilant, like that of a ruminant watching out for hungry predators. But Zachary’s presence often had a transformative effect on him, and now, as he pushed open the door of his stateroom, the Baboo’s eyes grew dewy and moist in anticipation of beholding the object of his devotion.

A year and several months had passed since Baboo Nob Kissin had last laid eyes on Zachary. Through most of that time he had been in China, with Mr Burnham; he had returned to Calcutta with his employer, on the Anahita. Had circumstances permitted he would have come at once to visit Zachary — but Mr Burnham had decided otherwise. On the very day of their return he had dispatched Baboo Nob Kissin to Patna and Ghazipur, to make inquiries about that season’s poppy crop. Now, having completed his mission, Baboo Nob Kissin had come hurrying to the budgerow, in the spirit of an eager pilgrim: as the door of the stateroom swung slowly open, he saw to his shock that Zachary was lying sprawled across the bed, clothed in nothing but his drawers, with his fingers still fastened on the neck of an almost empty bottle of rum.

In other circumstances the odour of sweat and liquor would have aroused Baboo Nob Kissin’s utmost revulsion, but this being Zachary he took the signs of drunkenness to be intimations of something unknown and unexpected, some perplexing mystery that would lead him towards illumination. Tiptoeing inside, the Baboo slowed his steps so that he could take full advantage of this rare opportunity for an unguarded darshan: as he contemplated the snoring, sweating figure his heart swelled up with the almost uncon-tainable emotion that Zachary sometimes inspired in his breast, transporting him back to the moment of his epiphany, when he had stepped on the Ibis for the first time.

That day walking aft, towards the officers’ cabins, Baboo Nob Kissin had heard the piping of a flute, the instrument of the divine flautist of Vrindavan, god of love as well as war. The sound of the flute had aroused a sudden stirring in his vitals. After a moment of alarm he had realized that the rumbling was not intestinal — it had been caused by the awakening of his late Gurumayee, Ma Taramony, who had transmigrated into his own body after shedding her earthly form. He had felt her coming to life and beginning to grow, like an embryo inside an egg, and he had known that the process would end only when the occupation of his body was complete and his own outward form was ready to be discarded, like a broken shell. He had fallen to his knees at the door of Zachary’s cabin; and just then it had flown open to reveal the flute-player himself — a sturdily built young man dressed in shirt and breeches, with a dusting of freckles and a head of dark, curly hair.

It was a comely vision, not unworthy of a messenger of the beautiful Banka-bihari of Vrindavan: only in one respect was it disappointing and this was in the colour of his skin, which was of an ivory tint and utterly different from the blue-black hue of the Dark Lord. But the Butter-Thieving Imp was nothing if not playful and Baboo Nob Kissin had always known that when the Sign came its carrier would be wrapped in many disguises in order to test his powers of perception. The truth, he knew, would be hidden in some unexpected place — and sure enough, he had found it while examining the Ibis’s crew list: there, recorded against the name ‘Zachary Reid’, was the word ‘black’ under the column of ‘race’.

Baboo Nob Kissin had needed no other confirmation; it was exactly as he had known it would be: the outward appearance of the messenger was but a disguise for his inner being, an aspect of the flux and transformation of the material world, of Samsara. He had torn the page from the log-book and hugged the secret to himself: it had become his bond with Zachary, the relic that marked the beginning of his own transformation.

From that day on the barrier that separated Baboo Nob Kissin’s spiritual and material lives had begun to dissolve. Till then he had always been careful to separate the sphere of his inward striving from the domain of his profane existence as a cunning and ruthless practitioner of the worldly arts who prided himself on promoting the interests of his employer, Mr Benjamin Burnham. The transformation initiated by Zachary’s arrival had swept away the embankment that separated the two rivers of Baboo Nob Kissin’s being; like a tide surging over a bund, the love and compassion of his inner life had flooded into the channel of his gomusta-dom and the two streams had gradually merged into one vast, surging flow of love and compassion.

None of this would have happened, Baboo Nob Kissin knew, but for Zachary’s advent into his life: this was the emissary’s singular gift: that he possessed the power of animating mighty emotions in the hearts of all who came into his orbit — love and desire, rage and envy, compassion and generosity. Yet — and this too was a sign of who he was — the youthful emissary was utterly unaware of the effect he had on those around him.

The trance was not broken even when Zachary opened his eyes, and snapped irritably, ‘Hey Baboo, I didn’t hear you knock. What’re you gawpin at like that?’

‘Like what?’ said the gomusta.

‘Like a pig lookin at a turd.’

Baboo Nob Kissin was not unused to being sharply addressed by the vessel of his devotion; indeed he expected and even craved these outbursts, thinking of them as reminders of the obstacles that lay strewn upon the path he had embarked upon. But for the sake of appearances, he made a pretence of huffiness, puffing up his chest in indignation until it filled out his capacious alkhalla robe: ‘Arré? But who is staring? Just only looking and keep-quieting. Why I should stare? Mind also has eyes no? Earthly forms are not necessary for those who can perceive hidden meanings.’

As with many of the gomusta’s utterances, the meaning of this pronouncement was lost on Zachary. ‘Just wish I’d known you were coming, Baboo,’ he grumbled. ‘Shouldn’a jumped me like that — knocked me flat aback.’

‘How to inform? Too much busy no? After returning back from China with Burnham-sahib, I was issued orders to go to Ghazipur to inspect opium harvest. As soon as I could make my escapade I came to catch hold of you.’

‘So how was your voyage to China then?’

‘Nothing to grumble, all in all. And I also have a good news for you.’

Zachary sat up and pulled on his shirt. ‘What is it?’

‘I paid call on Miss Paulette.’

This brought Zachary quickly to his feet. ‘What? What was that you said?’

‘Miss Paulette,’ said the gomusta, beaming; ‘I met her on island called Hong Kong. She has obtained employment as assistant to an English botanist. They have made nurseries on the island, where they are putting all junglee trees and flowers.’

Zachary turned away from Baboo Nob Kissin and sank on to the bed again. It was a long time since he had thought of Paulette; he recalled now with a twinge of nostalgia his nightly quarrels with her and how she would step out of the shadows to come to him — but then he remembered also that this Paulette was merely a phantom, born of his own imaginings, and that the real Paulette had subjected him to a deception that he would not have discovered but for Mrs Burnham.

He rose to his feet, scowling, and turned to Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘Did Paulette ask about me?’

‘Most certainly. A copy of Calcutta Gazette had fallen on her hands and she had read the report about you. She was cognizant that all charges were cleared off your head and you were planning to proceed to China. She made copious inquiries about when you would come. She is getting heartburns all the time waiting, waiting. I told that most probably you will sign up on a ship and go. After all you are sailor, no?’

Zachary response was instantaneous. ‘No, Baboo. I’m sick of that shit — sailing, risking your life every day, never having any money in your pocket. I don’t want to be one of the deserving poor any more.’ He sighed: ‘I want to be rich, Baboo; I want to have silk sheets and soft pillows and fine food; I want to live in a place like that.’ He pointed in the direction of the Burnham mansion. ‘I want to own ships and not work on them. That’s what I want, Baboo; I want to live in Mr Burnham’s world.’

Zachary’s incantatory repetition of the word ‘want’ sent a shaft of illumination through Baboo Nob Kissin: he remembered that Ma Taramony had always said that the present era — Kaliyuga, the age of apocalypse — was but a yuga of wanting, an epoch of unbounded craving in which humankind would be ruled by the demons of greed and desire. It would end only when Lord Vishnu descended to the earth in his avatar as the destroyer Kalki to bring into being a new cycle of time, Satya Yuga, the age of truth. Ma Taramony had often said that in order to hasten the coming of the Kalki a great host of beings would appear on earth, to quicken the march of greed and desire.

And it struck Baboo Nob Kissin suddenly that perhaps Zachary was the incarnate realization of Ma Taramony’s prediction. With that everything fell into place and he understood that it was his duty to assist Zachary in his mission of unshackling the demon of greed that lurks in every human heart.

As to how it could be done Baboo Nob Kissin knew exactly the right means: a substance that had a magical power to turn human frailty into gold.

‘Opium is the solution,’ he said to Zachary. ‘That is how people can be made to want: opium can stroke all desires. That is what you must do: you must learn to buy and sell opium, like Mr Burnham. You are most apt for the part.’

‘I don’t know about that, Baboo,’ said Zachary. ‘I’ve never had a head for business — don’t know if I’d be any good at it.’

Baboo Nob Kissin clasped his hands together, in an attitude of prayer. ‘Do not worry, Master Zikri — if you channelize energies and indulge in due diligence, you will excel in this trade. You will even surpass Mr Burnham. For thirty years I have done gomusta-giri — all the know-hows are in my pocket. I will intimate everything to you. If you burn the candle and by-heart all my teachings then you will quickly achieve success. Must exert to win, no?’

‘But where do I begin, Baboo? How do I start?’

Baboo Nob Kissin stopped to think. ‘How much money you have got?’

‘Let’s see.’ Reaching under his mattress Zachary pulled out the pouch that contained the money that Mrs Burnham had given him over the last few months. Some of it had gone to the Harbourmaster’s office, for the settling of his debts, but a good deal still remained: when he untied the string and upended it over his bed, the coins tumbled out in a stream of silver.

‘By Jove!’ cried Baboo Nob Kissin, goggling at the glinting pile of metal. ‘Must be at least one thousand rupees. How you got so much?’

‘Oh, I’ve been doing a few odd jobs,’ said Zachary quickly. ‘And I’ve been careful to save too.’

‘Good. This is enough to start — and gains will come quickly.’ ‘So what do I do next?’

‘We will start tomorrow only. You must meet me at Strand, with money-purse, at 5 p.m. Kindly do not be late — I will be punctually expectorating.’

February 18, 1840

Honam

Yesterday was the day of the Lantern Festival. During the preceding fortnight, after the start of the festivities of the Chinese New Year, the city had become a vast fairground. Everybody stopped working and many people left to visit their villages. In the evenings the streets would erupt with merry-making; the sky would light up with fireworks and the waterways would fill with brightly lit boats.

The days went by in a whirl of revelry with the words Gong Hai Fatt Choy! ringing in ones ears wherever one went. Sometimes I celebrated with Compton and his family, sometimes with Asha-didi, Baburao and their children and grandchildren on the houseboat. Every day Mithu would bring me auspicious delicacies from the kitchen: long, long noodles, never to be snipped for fear of cutting short one’s life; golden tangerines with leaves attached; fried rolls, to invoke ingots of gold. By the end of it, I confess, I was quite worn out: it was a relief to set off as usual today, for a quiet day’s work.

But it proved to be anything but that. Around mid-morning, Compton and I received an urgent summons from Zhong Lou-si. We were both asked to present ourselves immediately at the Consoo House.

I guessed immediately that the summons had something to do with the ongoing saga of the Cambridge, which both Compton and I had been following with keen interest. The vessel has been becalmed for a while because of a paucity of crewmen — a very unexpected thing, since Guangdong is a province of sailors after all. There’s even a saying here: ‘seven sons to fishing and three to the plough’. Yet a long search produced fewer than a dozen men who were both willing and able to sail an English-style vessel.

It isn’t that Guangdong lacks for men with experience of working on Western ships. But most of them are reluctant to reveal that they have travelled abroad for it is considered a crime to do so without informing the authorities. This fear is particularly vivid in the community of boat-people, who have often been mistreated by the authorities in the past. This was a major hurdle, since most of the sailors in the province are from this community — very few came forward when the authorities went looking for volunteers. Things reached a point where it seemed that the Cambridge might never hoist sail.

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.

The lascars had been listening carefully and they needed only a few minutes to make up their minds.

Tell them, Jodu said to me, that we have conditions of our own. Tell them we are all Muslims so our provisions must be halal and they must be provided by tradesmen of the local Hui community, as is done in our prison, for Muslim prisoners. If we are near Guangzhou then on the last Friday of every month, we must be allowed to visit the Huaisheng mosque, in the city. Tell them that we know from experience that in China people are often suspicious of foreigners so we will expect them to provide adequate protection for us in order that we may have peace of mind and serve to the best of our ability.

Here Jodu paused for a moment.

And tell them, he resumed, that if they agree to all of this then they need not fear for our loyalty. We are men of our word and we would never be disloyal to the hand that provides our salt.

Once this had been translated, Zhong Lou-si and the other officials rose to their feet and withdrew to another room to deliberate in private. In the interim, much to my disappointment, the lascars were led back into the interior of the building: I had hoped that Jodu and I would have a little time to talk.

My rapport with Jodu had not escaped Compton. He asked if I knew him and I said we had once sailed on the same ship. I also said that I would like to speak with him if possible.

Compton did not think this unreasonable; he asked me to find out if Jodu and the lascars are honest and reliable men. He has promised to arrange for him to visit me, in my lodgings.

I came back to the houseboat with my head in a whirl: when Jodu’s eyes met mine, in the Consoo House, it was as if our lives had changed. A strange and powerful thing is recognition!

For several successive nights, Shireen woke with a jolt, in the small hours, her nerves fluttering, her heart racing. It seemed incredible that all the obstacles that had loomed so large in her mind had disappeared; that she was now free to go to China — she, Shireen, mother of Behroze and Shernaz, a grandmother who had lived in the same house all her life and had never travelled beyond Surat! She had never quite believed that the wall she was pushing against would ever give way, and now that it had, she felt that she was toppling over.

At this critical time, when her confidence was beginning to falter, it was Rosa who steadied her by shifting her attention to practical things — like bowlas and baggage. She asked Shireen how many trunks she had and whether they would suffice for all her things.

Shireen remembered that she had put some of Bahram’s old sea-trunks and bowlas in a storage loft. She had them brought down and found, to her dismay, that they were in a bad way: the trunks’ wooden frames had been shredded by termites and their leather coverings had been eaten by mildew. But there were two that were not past salvaging — and to Shireen that seemed good enough: she could not imagine that she would need more.

But Rosa laughed when she heard this: No, Bibiji, you’ll need at least three more trunks and a couple of bedding rolls as well. We should go to China Bazar and order them straight away.

So Shireen asked for a carriage and they went across town to visit the leather-workers’ shops in the China Bazar. After their orders had been placed Rosa sprang another surprise: since they had a buggy for the morning, she said, they might as well visit Mr da Gama, the tailor, at his premises near the Esplanade.

Shireen had planned to buy a few white shawls and saris for the journey, but it had never entered her mind to visit Mr da Gama, who specialized in making coats and pelisses, mainly for Europeans.

Why Mr da Gama? Shireen asked, at which Rosa proceeded to explain that winters were sometimes bitterly cold on the south China coast. Shireen would need not just shawls and scarves but also pelisses, surtouts, hats, dresses …

Dresses! Shireen clamped a hand over her mouth. After hearing of Bahram’s death she had adhered strictly to the rules of widowhood, which prescribed, among other things, that only white saris could be worn: to wear a dress would mean breaking with an ages-old custom.

Shaken by tremors of disquiet, Shireen said: You don’t think I’m going to wear dresses, do you, Rosa?

Why not, Bibiji? said Rosa, with her bright, mischievous smile. At sea dresses are easier to manage than saris.

But what will people think? What will the family say?

They won’t be there, Bibiji.

Shireen wondered how to explain that the thought of herself, costumed in a gown, seemed not just scandalous but also absurd. I can’t, Rosa! I’d think everyone was laughing at me. Rosa smiled and patted Shireen’s hand.

No one will laugh at you, Bibiji, she said. You’re tall and thin — a dress will suit you very well.

Really?

In trying to envision herself in a dress, Shireen realised that the journey ahead would entail much more than just a change of location: in order to arrive at her destination she would have to become a different person.

In the following weeks, as a procession of darzees, mochis, rafoo-gars and milliners filed through her apartment, Shireen began to catch glimpses of this new incarnation of herself.

The sight made her avert her eyes from the looking-glass. Apart from Rosa she allowed no one into the room where she was being measured and fitted; she hid her new wardrobe even from her daughters, locking her almirah whenever they or their children came to visit.

The deception was so successful that she succeeded in concealing her wardrobe until her departure was just a week away. But one morning Shernaz and Behroze came over with their children, to help with the packing, and one of their little girls somehow managed to get hold of the key to the almirah in which Shireen had hidden her new clothes.

A shriek rang through the apartment and suddenly it was as if Aladdin’s cave had appeared in Shireen’s bedroom: everyone ran to the almirah and stood staring in disbelief at the hats, shoes and pelisses that were stored within.

After that Shireen could not refuse to show her daughters and granddaughters how she looked in her new clothes. Yielding to their entreaties, she changed into a complete ensemble of memsahib clothing — dress, pelisse and hat — and paraded defiantly through her bedroom, challenging them to laugh.

But instead their eyes widened with a wonder that was not untinged with envy.

‘Oh Mama!’ cried Shernaz, who had never addressed Shireen in that way before.

‘What do you mean Mama?’ said Shireen. ‘Since when have you called me that?’

Shernaz looked startled: ‘Did I call you that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well then it’s because you don’t look like our Mumma any more.’

‘What do I look like then?’

‘I don’t know. You look different — younger.’

Then Shernaz burst into tears, taking everyone by surprise. After that no one else could stay dry-eyed either.

For the last two days before the Hind’s departure, Shernaz and Behroze moved into Shireen’s apartment with their children. This was meant to make things easier for Shireen, but of course it did nothing of the kind; still, she welcomed the extra work because it kept her occupied.

On the evening before Shireen’s embarkation, her brothers organized a special jashan at home to seek blessings for her voyage and to wish her godspeed. Shireen was a little nervous about the event, but it went off very well. Every prominent Parsi family in the city sent a representative, including the Readymonies and Dadiseths; even Mrs Jejeebhoy dropped by for a few minutes. Better still, the jashan was attended by several members of the Parsi Panchayat — this was a great relief to Shireen for she had not quite rid herself of the fear that the community’s highest body might declare her an outcast. This way it was almost as if they had given their imprimatur to her voyage.

Next morning Shireen arrived at the dock, with her daughters and their families, to find that a large crowd had already assembled there. Many of Rosa’s relatives had also come to see her off and Vico had hired a band, to play rousing tunes.

The captain of the Hind had been alerted to Shireen’s arrival and was waiting for her with a bouquet in his hands. A tall sunburned man with muttonchop whiskers, he led her personally to her stateroom, which was in the roundhouse, on the starboard side. It was actually a suite of cabins, a small one to sleep in, and another slightly larger one, with both a sitting and a dining area. Attached was a pantry with a bunk for Rosa.

‘I hope it’s to your satisfaction, madam?’

Shireen could not have hoped for anything better. ‘It’s wonderful!’ she said.

After the captain had left, Shireen’s daughters and grandchildren helped her settle in. In a very short while the cabins were arranged to the satisfaction of everyone except Shireen herself — she could not rid herself of the feeling that something was missing. She remembered just before it came time for all visitors to go ashore. Plunging into a trunk she brought out a toran — an embroidered fringe of the kind that hung around the doorways of all Parsi homes.

Shernaz, Behroze and their children helped her drape the toran around the entrance hatch. When it was properly affixed, they crowded into the gangway to look at it.

Ekdum gher javu che, said Shernaz with a sigh. It’s just like home now, isn’t it?

Yes, said Shireen. It is.

Zachary’s initiation into the opium trade began on Calcutta’s Strand Road, which adjoined the busiest section of the Hooghly River. Pointing to six sailing vessels that were anchored nearby, Baboo Nob Kissin explained that the opium fleet had just arrived from Bihar, with the year’s first consignment from the East India Company’s opium factories in Patna and Ghazipur. This year’s crop had exceeded all previous records; despite the troubles in China, production had continued to increase at a tremendous pace in the Company’s territories.

‘Opium is pouring into the market like monsoon flood,’ declared Baboo Nob Kissin.

They watched for a while as the drug was unloaded. Each of the cargo ships had a small flotilla of sampans, paunchways and lighters attached, like sucklings to a teat. Under the scrutiny of armed overseers and burkandazes, teams of coolies were transferring the chests of opium from the ships to the brick-red godowns that lined the riverbank.

Each chest held two maunds — roughly one hundred and sixty pounds — of opium, said Baboo Nob Kissin; the cost to the Company, for each chest, was between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and fifty rupees. Of this the farmer received perhaps a third if he was lucky: there were so many middlemen — sudder mahtoes, gayn mahtoes, pykars, gomustas — to be paid off that he often ended up earning less than he had spent on his poppy crop. The Company on the other hand would earn eight to ten times the cost-price of each chest when they were sold off at auction — somewhere between one thousand and fifteen hundred rupees, or five hundred to seven hundred Spanish dollars.

Then the chests would travel eastwards, to China and elsewhere, but even before they went under the auctioneer’s hammer, they would pass through another market, an informal one — and it was at this very unusual bazar that Zachary’s initiation into the trade was to begin.

Plunging into a side-street, Baboo Nob Kissin led Zachary to Tank Square, which was within hailing distance of the Strand. This was the heart of official Calcutta: at the centre of the square lay a rectangular ‘tank’ of fresh water; overlooking it was the East India Company’s headquarters, a great pile of a building, honeycombed with columns and arches and crowned with elaborate tiaras of wrought iron.

On the other side of the tank lay the Opium Exchange: a large but unremarkable building with the reassuring look of a reputable bank. This was where the East India Company’s opium auctions were conducted, said Baboo Nob Kissin: the next one would be held there tomorrow morning — but for now the building was empty, and its heavy wooden doors were locked and under guard.

The bazar that they were heading for was in a dank, dirty little gali behind the Opium Exchange. Mud and dung squelched under their feet as they walked towards it, pushing past ambling cows and loitering vendors. The marketplace consisted of a small cluster of lamplit stalls: turbaned men sat on the cloth-covered counters with ledgers lying open on their crossed legs.

To Zachary’s surprise there were no goods on display: he was at a loss to understand what exactly was being bought and sold — and it didn’t help much when Baboo Nob Kissin explained that this was not a bazar for opium as such; rather it was a place in which people traded in something unseen and unknown: the prices that opium would fetch in the future, near or distant. In this bazar there were only two commodities and both were pieces of paper — chitties or letters. One kind was called tazi-chitty or ‘fresh letter’; the other kind was mandi-chitty — ‘bazar letter’. Buyers who thought that the price of opium would go up at the next auction would buy tazi-chitties; those who thought it would go down would buy mandi-chitties. But similar chitties could be written to cover any period of time — a month, a year or five years. Every day, said Baboo Nob Kissin, lakhs, crores, millions of rupees passed through this bazar — there was more wealth here than in any market in Asia.

‘See! In every nook and corner there are beehive activities!’

The riches evoked by Baboo Nob Kissin’s words cast a new light on the bazar: Zachary’s pulse quickened at the thought that fortunes could be made and lost in this dirty little alley. Through the odour of dust and dung he recalled the perfumed scents of Mrs Burnham’s boudoir. So this was the mud in which such luxuries were rooted? The idea was strangely arousing.

‘You see the men who are sitting there?’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, pointing at the stalls. ‘They are shroffs — brokers. From all over India they have come. Many are from far-away places — Baroda, Jodhpur, Mathura, Jhunjhunu. All are lakhaires. Some are millionaires and some are even crore-patters. So much money they have, they can buy twenty ships like Ibis.’

Zachary looked at the shroffs with renewed interest: their clothing seemed to be of the simplest cotton and there was nothing of any expense on their persons, apart from a sprinkling of gold jewellery — mainly studs in the ears, and neck-chains. Elsewhere in the city these men would scarcely have attracted a second glance. But here, enthroned upon their counters, with their solemn, unsmiling faces, they exuded a gnomic aura of authority.

Soon it became clear that Baboo Nob Kissin was intimately familiar with the sellers and their procedures. Zachary watched carefully as he went up to one of the counters to greet the proprietor.

Now began a curious charade: without saying a word aloud, both men began to make rapid gestures with their hands and fingers. All of a sudden, the Baboo thrust his hands under the shawl that lay draped over the broker’s lap. The shawl began to bounce and writhe as their hidden fingers twined with each other, twisting and turning in a secret dance. Gradually these motions built to a climax and a shudder of understanding passed through both of them; then their hands fell inert under the shawl and they exchanged a quiet smile.

Hardly a word had been said all this while, but when Baboo Nob Kissin stepped away the broker bent quickly over his ledger and began to make rapid notations with a pencil.

It was through hand-language, Baboo Nob Kissin explained, that most transactions were done in this market; that way others did not know what was being purchased and at what price.

To Zachary’s surprise it turned out that Baboo Nob Kissin had placed his money in tazi-chitties: the cost of a chest of the best Benares opium had fallen to nine hundred rupees at the last auction and the general feeling in the marketplace was that it would fall still further because of the troubles in China. Baboo Nob Kissin, on the other hand, was sure that there would be a modest rebound in the price.

Zachary took alarm when he realized that his savings had been wagered on an outside chance. ‘But Baboo,’ he protested, ‘you just told me the market was flooded with opium. Doesn’t that mean the price will go down?’

Baboo Nob Kissin put a finger to his lips. ‘Never mind, dear — it is just an eyewash. No need for you to take up tensions. Just only trust me.’

That night Zachary experienced spasms of anticipation that were no less intense than those that had seized him before his assignations with Mrs Burnham. It was as if the money that she had given him had suddenly taken on a new life: her coins were out there in the world, forging their own destiny, making secret assignations, colliding with others of their kind — seducing, buying, spending, breeding, multiplying.

The next day Zachary and Baboo Nob Kissin arrived early at the Opium Exchange, but only to find bailiffs at the door, holding back a large and noisy group of men. Baboo Nob Kissin had nothing but contempt for this crowd — ‘Just only riff-raffs!’ — these men were but messengers and runners, he said, waiting to relay the outcome of the auction to speculators across the country. He led Zachary through the throng, to the entrance, where he was recognized by the stern-looking bailiffs who were standing guard. They waved him through to the building’s capacious lobby, with Zachary following at his heels.

The auction room was on the second floor, Baboo Nob Kissin explained, and only ticket-holders were allowed to enter. This was a highly privileged group: a ticket to Calcutta’s opium auctions was the most valuable asset that any trader could acquire, anywhere in the world, and businessmen from many countries competed fiercely for them.

Although Baboo Nob Kissin was not a ticket-holder himself he was permitted, as Mr Burnham’s gomusta, to observe the auction from a small gallery above the room: this was where he led Zachary.

The gallery was like a box in a theatre: it projected over the auction room and was fenced off by brass rails. Leaning over the rails, Zachary saw that the room was merely a large hall with several rows of chairs laid out in neat rows, facing in the direction of an auctioneer’s lectern. A ceremonial armchair stood beside the lectern: this was the seat of the director who presided over the proceedings. On the wall behind hung an enormous velvet curtain imprinted with the seal of the East India Company.

Mr Burnham’s commanding figure was prominently visible in the auction room: he was seated in the front row dressed in a suit of sombre colour, with his glossy beard flowing down his chest. In the rows behind were some of the city’s most prominent personalities, among them several scions of Bengal’s grandest families — Tagores, Mullicks and Dutts. There were also Parsis from Bombay, and Marwaris and Jains from the distant villages and market-towns of Rajputana and Gujarat. As for the rest, they were as variegated a gathering as the crew of a transoceanic ship: Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Persians, Jews, Pathans, Bohras, Khojas and Memons. Looking down from above it seemed to Zachary that he had never seen such a profusion of headgear: turbans and astrakhans, calpacs and a varied assortment of prayer caps — Muslim and Jewish, embroidered and lacy, colourful and plain.

A hush fell when the director and the auctioneer walked solemnly up the aisle and took their places at the head of the room. The proceedings began after a brief prayer for the health of Queen Victoria: the auctioneer held up a board with a number and immediately hands shot up, signalling in an unintelligible semaphore.

The opium would be sold in lots of five chests each, Baboo Nob Kissin explained; the bidders would purchase them sight unseen — a chest of the East India Company’s opium was as sound as any currency note, and no inspections were permitted or expected. Bidders were required to cover only ten per cent of their purchase; they were allowed a full thirty days to make good on the rest.

As the auction proceeded the bidders’ enthusiasm began to build. Even though Zachary couldn’t quite follow what was going on, he soon found himself caught up in the excitement. There was something wild about the way the men were bidding, jumping up and down, waving their hands and shouting: it reminded him of a mêlée in a tavern — even the smell was similar, a rancid brew of sweat, fear and ambition.

The fiercest of the bidders was none other than Mr Burnham himself: every few minutes he would jump up, shouting, waving, holding up fingers. The sight excited Zachary’s envy as well as his awe. He would have given anything to be down there himself, bidding like Mr Burnham, snatching away the lots he most desired from under the noses of his competitors.

This was one of the most thrilling spectacles Zachary had ever witnessed. That he was merely a spectator, watching from the gallery, made him seethe: he swore to himself that he too would be a ticket-holder one day; this was where he belonged; there was nothing he wanted more than to be a player, lavishing his unspent energies upon the pursuit of wealth.

By the time the last lot of opium was sold Zachary was drenched in sweat: when he looked at his watch, he could not believe that the auction had lasted only forty-five minutes. He felt drained; no less spent than he was after a bout of love-making. Only in bed with Mrs Burnham had he felt such a fierce onrush of passion. It was as if his hoarded essence had at last found the true object of its desire.

Down below many of the bidders had gathered around Mr Burnham and were thumping him on the back.

With a beaming smile Baboo Nob Kissin explained that Mr Burnham had ended up as the day’s biggest buyer, acquiring three thousand chests of opium at a price of thirty lakh rupees, equal to almost one and a half million Spanish dollars. He had single-handedly pushed up the price, against all expectations, to one thousand rupees per chest. This meant that Zachary had earned a great bonanza. The bets Baboo Nob Kissin had placed for him had paid off handsomely — his savings were now worth double what they were the day before.

Zachary gasped: ‘I’ll be dad-boggled! When can I have the money?’

This amused Baboo Nob Kissin: with an indulgent smile he explained to Zachary that his money was gone; it had been spent in buying the wherewithal with which to launch his new career — twenty chests of raw opium, of which he now owned ten per cent. He had thirty days to cover the rest.

‘But how, Baboo?’ cried Zachary, aghast. ‘Where am I going to find so much money in thirty days?’

‘Do not worry, dear,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, ‘I have already looked ahead — arrangements will be made. What you must do now is to go to Singapore and China, to sell your cargo.’

‘But Baboo,’ said Zachary. ‘You’ve spent all my money. How’m I going to buy a passage?’

‘For that too I have made bandobast,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin. ‘I have already oiled the boss — he will do the needful. You will travel without pocketing any expenses.’

He would not explain any further, but on the way out, as they were making their way through the crowded lobby a voice cried out: ‘Reid! Hold on there!’

It was Mr Burnham himself. Zachary saw that many heads had turned to look in his direction, no doubt wondering who this young newcomer was to be singled out for special attention by the victor of the day.

Despite himself, Zachary was flattered and a blush rose to his face. ‘I’m glad to see you, sir!’ he said, energetically pumping Mr Burnham’s hand.

‘I’m glad to see you too, Reid. Especially here. Is it true that you’ve decided to try your hand at trading?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Zachary.

‘Good man, good man!’ said Mr Burnham, patting him on the back. ‘We need more Free-Traders, especially young, energetic white men like yourself. I’ll visit the budgerow soon — I have a proposition that I think will interest you.’

‘I’ll look forward to hearing about it, sir.’

With a nod and a smile Mr Burnham walked away, leaving Zachary transfixed, almost unable to believe his luck.

*

It was not till late February that some of the expedition’s British soldiers began to arrive in Fort William: one battalion of the 26th, known as the Cameronian, and another battalion from Her Majesty’s 49th Regiment. Together with the two companies of Bengal Volunteers, the total strength of the force assembled in Calcutta now came to a little over a thousand men. To Kesri this seemed a paltry number with which to launch an invasion of a country like China. He was glad to be told by Captain Mee that the force was to be strengthened by a battalion from the 18th Royal Irish Regiment, which was now stationed in Ceylon, as well as a small detachment of Royal Marines. But the single largest contingent was to be contributed by the 37th Madras Native Infantry Regiment — more than a thousand sepoys and a sizeable number of sappers, miners and engineers. In total the force would consist of about four thousand men.

The Cameronians were the first to arrive, after a long march from Patna. They had campaigned all over the subcontinent, over a period of several years, and it soon became evident that their years in India had hardened them against Indians: they never missed an opportunity to hurl abuse at sepoys. Particularly offensive was a colour-sarjeant by the name of Orr, who would unloose torrents of galees for no good reason: ‘cowardly kaffirs’, ‘filthy niggers’, ‘black bastards’ and so on. Kesri had to confront him several times and on a couple of occasions they almost came to blows.

Fortunately the Cameronians were billeted at a fair distance from B Company so it wasn’t hard to stay out of their way; Kesri dreaded to think of what might have happened if they had moved into the empty building that adjoined the Bengal Volunteers’ barracks.

Luckily for the sepoys the neighbouring building was assigned to the 49th who were a rowdy but easy-going lot. To live next to them was an interesting novelty for the sepoys: even though they often campaigned with British units they were rarely billeted in adjoining quarters.

With their loud mouths and swaggering ways the men of the 49th quickly transformed what had previously been a quiet corner of the fort. Every evening they would be off drinking, privates and NCOs alike, each in their own canteens. They would remain in them until the firing of the night gun, which was the signal for the closing of all the canteens on the fort’s precincts. Nor was that the end of their revelries, for they, like many other British soldiers, were ingenious in finding ways to procure illicit liquor. The sweepers and bhisties who serviced their barracks made fortunes by smuggling liquor to them, in all kinds of containers — tubes of hollowed-out bamboo and bladders of goatskin that they would conceal under their dhotis. At all times of the night, cries would break out: ‘Where’s that fuckin beasty? I swear I’ll beat the beast out’a him if I don’t get my grog soon!’

The men of B Company watched these antics with bemused curiosity. Among sepoys it had long been said that alcohol was the white soldier’s secret weapon: it was what made him such a fearsome fighter. It was widely believed that this was the reason why British units were almost always chosen to lead charges in the battlefield — because the stiff doses of liquor that they were given beforehand made them almost suicidally reckless.

Amongst sepoys too it was common to take intoxicants before a battle: this was something that soldiers had always done in Hindustan. But the sepoy’s preferences were for hashish, ganja, bhang and a form of opium known as maajun: these drugs acted on the nerves to create a sense of calm and to make the body insensible to the exertion and fatigue of battle. Alcohol was different: it served as a fuel for the faculties of aggression and it was common knowledge that it was precisely in order to nurture this ‘fighting spirit’ that British commanders paid so much attention to providing liquor to their men.

A wise old subedar had once said to Kesri: It’s alcohol that gives the sahibs their strength; that’s why they drink it from morning to night — if ever they stop they will become weak and go into decline. And if a day comes when they start taking ganja like we do, then you can be sure that their empire is finished.

Kesri began to see the sense of it now. He was by no means averse to sharaab himself — he was especially partial to gin although he liked beer and rum well enough. But European-style liquor of any kind was difficult for sepoys to acquire because they were not allowed to enter the canteens that served white soldiers. Except on certain occasions when they were issued special ‘wet-battas’ of grog, the sepoys had to get their supplies from Native Liquor Shops, which often sold foul-tasting rotgut. A better, though more expensive, alternative was to buy liquor from British soldiers — they all received a daily ration of two drams, which they were sometimes willing to exchange for money. Another option was to pay them to procure liquor from their canteens, and with the arrival of the 49th Kesri found a friend who was more than willing to oblige. He was a burly, weather-beaten sarjeant called Jack Maggs: it turned out that he had once been a fairground pugilist and within a few days of arriving he insisted on leaping into the wrestling pit with Kesri. There followed a hard-fought bout and it was only because Sarjeant Maggs was unfamiliar with the rules of Indian wrestling that Kesri managed to prevail. But the sarjeant took his defeat in good part and he and Kesri soon began to share the odd glass of gin.

At a certain point it fell to Kesri to be of assistance to Sarjeant Maggs in a little matter of a girl in the Laal Bazar who was charging him a good deal more than the approved army rate. Kesri managed to resolve the situation by telling the girl that he would send a police-peon to take her to the Lock Hospital to be checked for venereal disease: the threat was enough to subdue her.

After that the sarjeant became quite forthcoming and it was from him that Kesri learnt that the expedition’s British soldiers were being trained in the use of a new weapon — a percussion-fired musket. Sarjeant Maggs could not stop singing the gun’s praises; he said that it was a huge improvement on their old flintlocks.

Kesri was very attached to his own flintlock, an ‘India-pattern’ Brown Bess, almost six feet long without its bayonet. With the new cylindrical bullets, the musket had a maximum range of about two hundred yards although it was accurate only up to half that distance. But at one hundred yards or less, fired in mass, with volleys of three shots every forty-three seconds, the Brown Bess was lethal. Its long thick barrel, when topped with a bayonet, also made it handy in skirmishes and close combat, which was one reason why Kesri was so attached to it.

Yet, despite all the care that he had lavished on his beloved bandook, Kesri would dearly have loved to get his hands on one of the new percussion-fired muskets, but Sarjeant Maggs told him that there was no immediate chance of that, for they were still being tried out.

Kesri assumed that it was only a matter of time before the sepoys too were trained in the handling of the new guns. But many weeks went by and when there was still no sign of any moves in that direction he decided to dispense with discretion: he confronted Captain Mee, asking if he knew about the new guns and whether they were to be issued to the sepoys or not.

Captain Mee was evasive at first, but after some prodding it became apparent that he too was indignant about the matter: he had been pressing to have the gun issued to the Bengal Volunteers, he said, but had been told that too few of them had been sent out from England. Besides, the new muskets had been introduced very recently and were still on trial, which was why the high command had decided that they would be issued only to British regiments.

‘It’s always the same story, isn’t it, havildar?’ said the captain, in a tone of embittered resignation. ‘They send us to fight with old equipment and then they complain that sepoys don’t match up to white troops.’

One day, with Sarjeant Maggs’s help, Kesri was able to observe a training session with practice ammunition, in the Instruction Shed. He noticed that when the new musket was fired there was no puff of smoke, like those that always preceded a shot from a flintlock like his own. Later, when he examined the gun more closely he found an even more important difference — the new guns did not have powder pans like the old Brown Besses. The significance of this was immediately evident to him: unlike the flintlocks, which were difficult to fire in wet or damp conditions, the new percussion guns were all-weather weapons.

That night he asked Captain Mee: ‘Sir, there is much rain in China, sir?’

Captain Mee knew exactly what he was getting at. ‘Let’s hope we get to fight when it’s dry, havildar — there’s not much else we can do about it.’

Kesri was careful not to mention the new musket to his own men, knowing that their morale would be further eroded if they learnt that they were to be sent overseas with inferior weapons. But it was impossible to conceal something like that indefinitely. The sepoys found out soon enough — and the effect on morale was just as Kesri had feared.