Flood of Fire

Eleven

Zachary’s brief encounter with Mr Burnham, at the opium auction, made him impatient to be done with all his commitments in Calcutta. His debts to the Harbourmaster’s office he had already paid off and his mate’s licence had been duly restored to him. The work on the budgerow was also close to completion: he had finished with the deck-planks and other parts that needed replacing; the vessel’s head-works and upper stem had been retouched and repointed; the cabins had been cleaned and repolished; all that remained now was the carving of the stem-cheeks and some final finishing touches.

A few days of hard work brought the refurbishment to a close. Once it was done Zachary wasted no time in sending a chit to the Burra Sahib, to tell him that his vessel was ready to be inspected.

Mr Burnham came over the next morning and spent a good hour looking over the budgerow. At the end of it he thumped Zachary on the back — ‘Good job, Reid! Well done!’ — bringing a flush of pride to his face.

Zachary was eager now to hear about the proposition that Mr Burnham had mentioned at the auction, but he had to contain his impatience for a while yet: the Burra Sahib seemed to be in no hurry to get to it. Seating himself in a large armchair, Mr Burnham ran a hand over his lustrous beard.

‘It gladdened my heart, Reid,’ said Mr Burnham pensively, ‘to hear that the spirit of enterprise has stirred in you. A new age is dawning, you know — the age of Free Trade — and it’s men like you and I, self-made Free-Traders, who will be its heroes. If ever there’s been an exciting time for a venturesome white youth to seek his destiny in the East, then this is it. You are aware, I hope, that a military expedition is soon to be sent to China?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. In my view it is but a matter of months before the largest market in the world is forced open by the troops that are now being assembled in this city. When that happens China’s Manchu tyrants, who are the last obstacles to the universal rule of freedom, will also be swept aside. After their fall we will see the birth of an epoch when God’s design will be manifest for all to see. Those who have been predestined to flourish will come into their own and to them will be awarded custody of the world’s riches. You are singularly fortunate to have been presented with what might well be the greatest commercial opportunity of this century: now if ever is the time to discover whether you too are among the elect.’

‘Indeed, sir?’ said Zachary in some puzzlement. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘I am speaking, Reid, of the China expedition …’

This venture, Mr Burnham proceeded to explain, was itself an opportunity of unmatched dimensions. Not only would vast profits be created when the markets of China were opened to the world, but the expedition would also establish a new pattern of war-making, in which men of business would be involved in the entirety of the enterprise, from the drafting of strategy to dealing with Parliament, informing the public, and providing logistical support. This conflict would be nothing like the wasteful and destructive campaigns of the past; here all the hard-earned lessons of commerce would be applied to the full and the emphasis throughout would be on minimizing losses for Great Britain, of money as well as life.

To a degree unheard of before, said Mr Burnham, the expedition would rely on private enterprise for support, and this itself would open up innumerable avenues for profit, in matters ranging from the chartering of vessels to the procurement of supplies for the troops. Moreover, as the expedition advanced northwards along China’s eastern coast it would provide access to many hitherto unexploited markets. Under the protection of the Royal Navy’s warships, British merchant vessels would be able to sell their goods offshore, near heavily populated areas where the demand for opium was sure to be huge, because of the recent disruptions in the supply of the drug. Every chest would fetch a fortune.

‘Make no mistake, Reid: although this expedition is trifling in size, it will create a revolution. Mark my words: it will change the map of this continent!’

So great would be this change, Mr Burnham predicted, that the very locus of commerce would shift eastwards. One of the expedition’s chief aims was to force the Chinese to cede an island off the China coast: a new port, embodying all the ideals of Free Trade, would be created there. His old friend and colleague, Mr Hugh Hamilton Lindsay, the former president of the Canton Chamber of Commerce, had been advocating such a course for many years, especially in relation to one perfectly placed island, Hong Kong. Thanks to the influence of Mr Jardine, it appeared that the government had at last decided to heed Mr Hamilton’s sage advice. Come what may, a new port would be created in China, one that would be safe from the oppressions of that empire’s Manchu despots. No longer would tyrants be able to stamp the label of ‘smuggler’ upon honest opium traders like Mr Burnham: from this new bastion of freedom, the products of Man and the word of God would alike be directed, with redoubled energy, towards the largest, most populous nation on earth.

There could be little doubt, Mr Burnham continued, that the new port would soon waylay much of the trade that now went to Canton. This was why several tycoons, including Mr Lancelot Dent and Mr James Matheson were already manoeuvring to be the first out of the gate when the island was seized. This indeed was why he himself had decided to move his own operations eastwards, to the China coast.

‘Blessed indeed are those, Reid, whom God chooses to be present at such moments in history! Think of Columbus, Cortez and Clive! Is there any greater or more satisfying endeavour for a young man than to expand his own fortunes while extending God’s dominion?’

‘No, sir!’

But not to everyone did it fall, said Mr Burnham, to recognize these emerging avenues of opportunity. Many timid and cautious men were sure to be scared off by the uncertainties of war — these creatures of habit were predestined to fall by the wayside while the bold and the chosen claimed the prize.

As for himself, said Mr Burnham, he did not doubt for a moment that a new empire of commerce was opening up, for all who had the foresight and courage to seize the day. Such was his conviction that he intended to send the Ibis to China immediately, with a large cargo of opium; the schooner would be skippered by Captain Chillingworth and Baboo Nob Kissin would be the supercargo. He would himself proceed to China later in the year, after all his affairs had been settled in India; his ship, the Anahita, would also be carrying opium, in addition to a large consignment of other goods.

But that was not all; Mr Burnham explained that he had lent a vessel to the expeditionary force — the Hind. She was now at Bombay collecting a load of Malwa opium and a few passengers. On returning to Calcutta, she would take on a contingent of troops and equipment; then she would sail with the rest of the expedition’s fleet, under the command of Mr Doughty.

Only now did Mr Burnham come to his proposition.

‘What I need,’ said Mr Burnham, ‘is a good, sound man to sail on the Hind as her supercargo. To him will fall the task of safeguarding my consignment of Malwa opium. Should he be offered attractive prices at ports along the way, he will be free to use his own judgement to make sales. He will be comfortably accommodated, and he will have the right, as do all supercargoes, to carry a certain quantity of goods to trade on his own account. In addition to whatever profits he may make — and they may be considerable — he will also be paid a salary. And last, but not least, if he acquits himself well on this venture, he will be assured of my support in the advancement of his career.’

Mr Burnham paused now to stroke his glossy beard before focusing the full intensity of his gaze on Zachary. ‘Well, Reid,’ he said, ‘it is no secret that you have long enjoyed my good opinion. In you I can see certain aspects of myself as I was when I first came out East. The other day when I saw you at the opium auction it seemed to me that you may now be on the brink of discovering your true vocation. Baboo Nob Kissin, as you know, holds you in the highest regard. He believes that you are the perfect man for the job I have described; he is, no doubt, a dreadful old heathen, but he is also a shrewd judge of men. He tells me that you need to cover the purchase price on twenty chests of opium.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, Reid, I am willing to loan you the money, as an advance on your salary.’ He paused again, as if to give Zachary a moment to collect himself. ‘It only remains now for you to tell me, Reid: are you ready?’

Zachary had been listening to Mr Burnham’s words just as closely as he had once hung upon the utterances of his wife: the effect they had on him too was, in a strange way, not dissimilar. A shiver of anticipation passed through him now as he straightened his back and placed his hand over his heart.

‘I am indeed ready, Mr Burnham,’ he said. ‘God willing, you will not find me wanting.’

*

With the day of departure rapidly approaching, the balamteers’ performance continued to improve: a joint exercise with the Cameronians exceeded everyone’s expectations and a series of inspections, including one by a staff officer, went off with only a few minor hitches. Nor, fortunately, were there any desertions, as Kesri had feared.

All of this seemed to augur well, but Kesri knew that the real test was fast approaching — the day of Holi.

This festival was by tradition celebrated with great gusto in the Bengal Native Infantry. Kesri knew that the men of B Company would want to go to the Sepoy Lines on that day, to make merry. Bhang would flow liberally, everybody would be doused in colour, guns would be fired into the air, dancing boys would put on frenzied performances and the bazar-girls would be under siege. It would be a wild mêlée of a mela, and Kesri guessed that if anybody had it on their minds to desert this was when they would do it. He voiced his concerns to Captain Mee and they decided between them that to prevent the men from participating would only create trouble; it would be best to let them go in small groups, each accompanied by an NCO. Moreover, they would be under orders to report back by sunset and there would be a head-count in front of the barracks. As a further precaution, Captain Mee decided also to notify the fort’s intelligence officers.

In the past Kesri himself had always celebrated Holi enthusiastically but this year revelry was the last thing on his mind. When the day came he went to the Sepoy Lines with the men and did his best to keep an eye on them, quaffing hardly a tumbler of bhang. But to keep track of everyone was impossible: the festivities were too exuberant and there were too many people milling about. In the evening, when the ghanti was rung for roll-call, the head-count was found to be short by six men. Further inquiries revealed that four of the missing sepoys were merely incapacitated by bhang and ganja; this meant that only two men were missing. Captain Mee sent a report to the intelligence bureau and within minutes runners were dispatched to the city’s roadheads and crossing points.

Kesri doubted that the two deserters would have the wiles to effect a getaway; they were both young, not quite twenty yet. Sure enough they were apprehended while trying to board a ferry.

Kesri spoke with Captain Mee and they agreed that the deserters would be court-martialled and that the maximum penalty — death — would be sought, as a deterrent to others. But they agreed also that it was important to find out why they had deserted, and whether they had been aided by others in the battalion. To that end Captain Mee arranged for Kesri to interrogate the boys himself.

Kesri questioned the prisoners separately and received more or less the same answers from both. Their complaints were not unfamiliar: the most important of them concerned their pay. It was now common knowledge that the expedition’s Indian troops would be paid less than their British counterparts and this had become a matter of great resentment for many sepoys — Kesri himself was none too pleased about it.

It had long been a grievance with sepoys that they were paid less than white soldiers. Few were persuaded by the military establishment’s argument that British troopers needed better pay because they were serving in a foreign country. Now the disingenuousness of this line of reasoning stood exposed: China was foreign to sepoy and swaddy alike; why then should the expedition’s white soldiers earn more than them? But other than grumble there was nothing the sepoys could do: to make a bigger issue of it was to invite a court martial.

Another item that figured large in the deserters’ list of grievances was the matter of inferior weaponry: they had taken the army’s refusal to upgrade their guns as a slight on their izzat as fighting men. This in turn had bred other suspicions: they had heard that their transport vessels, like their weapons, would be of inferior quality, more likely to go down in bad weather. They had also heard that in the event of a shortage of rations their provisions would be commandeered for white soldiers — they would be made to eat potatoes and other loathsome things; or else they would be left to die of starvation and disease.

This set of grievances was not new to Kesri. But the deserters also mentioned certain rumours that took him completely by surprise: they told him that dire omens and auguries were circulating in the battalion; an astrologer was said to have predicted disaster for the expedition; a purohit had declared that the Bengal Volunteers were cursed.

It worried Kesri that nobody had told him about these rumours: this was itself a sign that they had had a powerful impact on the men.

Had someone like Pagla-baba been attached to B Company Kesri would have been kept informed of everything that was being said amongst the sepoys. Moreover, Pagla-baba would have known exactly how to counter the omens; he would have found some alternative interpretation to reassure the men. That was why regular sepoy battalions were always accompanied by a mendicant — they were indispensable in situations like these.

But of course, the Bengal Volunteers were not a regular sepoy battalion: they were a motley group, assembled for a single expedition. As a unit they would not be together long enough for a pir or sadhu to find a place in their midst.

On the other matter — of instigators, abettors and conspirators — Kesri could get nothing out of the boys. They would not tell him whether they had been encouraged to desert by other members of the company; nor would they reveal the names of other men who had talked about deserting. Even severe beatings wrung no answers from them — and their very silence suggested that this kind of talk was rife in the battalion.

One of the deserters was from a village not far from Nayanpur: he was actually distantly related to Kesri by marriage. At the end of his interrogation, after a long, hard beating, the boy evoked that relationship, falling on the floor and clutching Kesri’s feet with his bloodied hands, begging for mercy.

It occurred to Kesri that had he been in the boy’s place he too might well have chosen to desert. But he knew also that he would not have set about it in such a stupid, thoughtless way — and this gave his anger a perverse edge as he kicked the boy’s hands aside.

Darpok aur murakh ke ka raham? he said. What mercy do cowards and fools deserve? Whatever happens to you, you should know that you have brought it on yourself.

As expected, the boys received sentences of execution by firing squad. Captain Mee decided that the firing squad would be provided by their own company and it fell to Kesri to pick the men. He made a few inquiries and chose exactly those men who were known to be friends or associates of the boys. He also elected to command the firing squad in person: it was distasteful but it had to be done.

March 18, 1840

Honam

Until Jodu appeared at my door I had no conception of how powerfully I would be affected by our reunion. It was not as if he and I had ever been friends, after all, and nor did we share any other connections or commonalities — of family, religion or even age, since Jodu must be a good nine or ten years younger than I. It was our flight from the Ibis that brought us together, but even as fugitives we’d spent very little time in each other’s company: no more than the few days during which we’d foraged for survival on the island of Great Nicobar, where our boat had washed up after our escape from the Ibis. After that we had gone our separate ways, with Ah Fatt and I heading towards Singapore, while Jodu, Kalua and Serang Ali had caught a boat to Mergui, on the Tenasserim coast.

Yet when Jodu stepped into my lodgings something dissolved within both of us and we wept as if we were brothers, reunited after a long parting. The shared secret of our escape from the Ibis has become a link between who we were then and who we are now; between past and present. It is a bond more powerful even than ties of family and friendship.

I had guessed that Jodu would be ravenously hungry and had arranged for Asha-didi to send over plenty of food — rice, beans, bitter melon, fish curry. Mithu had also made some luchis.

Everything was halal; I had made sure of that — and Jodu was grateful for it …

Seating himself cross-legged on the floor, Jodu began to shovel food into his mouth with his fingers, eating as though he were fuelling a furnace. But from time to time he would stop to catch his breath, and I took advantage of these pauses to ask how he’d found his way to Canton.

Jodu told me that on reaching Mergui, Serang Ali had decided that it was time for them to split up: his advice to Jodu and Kalua was that they travel eastwards. So Kalua had signed up as a lascar, on an opium ship that was heading towards the East Indies, and Jodu had joined the crew of a British brig — the shipmaster was none other than James Innes, whose intrigues would cause trouble for so many people, not least Seth Bahram!

I asked where Serang Ali was now, and Jodu said he didn’t know; at the time of their parting he had talked of going to a port called Giang Binh, on the frontier of China.

Of course, he too wanted to know what I had been doing since we last met, so I told him how Ah Fatt had run into his father, Seth Bahram, in Singapore, and how he had given me a job, as his munshi. Jodu was amazed to hear that I was in Canton with Seth Bahram through the months of the opium crisis — it is strange to think that our paths might have crossed in the foreign enclave last year, on the day when Jodu was taken to prison.

It didn’t take Jodu long to eat his fill — a starved tiger could not have been quicker to devour its food. But afterwards he showed no signs of torpor or sluggishness: to the contrary he seemed more awake and alert than ever, almost pulsating with energy. I hesitated to ask him about his time in prison, but the words came pouring out of him anyway.

The jail where he was imprisoned is in the Nanhae district of Guangdong. To my surprise, Jodu said that the conditions there were far better than those they had experienced before, when they were incarcerated in a cage, in a mandarin’s yamen. They were put on display in their cage, he said, like animals. People would come to look at them and prod them with sticks, shouting all the while: haak gwai! Gwal-Lo!

It was hell, he said, jahannum, narak.

Things got better after they were sentenced and sent off to the Nanhae prison. There at least they were not on show and the food was better too. In the yamen all they were ever given was rice and salt and rice-water. In the prison they were allowed a few scraps of vegetables as well. One day they were even given a bit of meat but Jodu suspected that it was pork and didn’t take it. The jailers asked why and the lascars told them that it was against their religion. That was when they learnt, to their amazement, that they were not the only Muslims in the prison, as they had thought. There were many others of their faith there — most of them Chinese! Some were from the community known as ‘Hui’, which is well-represented in this region. But there were Muslims from other places too, in and around China — Turks and Uzbegs, Malays and Arabs. These prisoners welcomed the lascars into their midst as if they were brothers. There are so many of them there that special arrangements have been made for them, by the authorities. They are allowed to cook their food separately. No one makes trouble for the Muslims because they are known to stand by each other.

Soon Jodu’s words began to flow with an almost uncontainable intensity: he started to pace the room as he talked, turning from time to time to fix his eyes on me.

I tell you, Neel-da, he said, only in Nanhae did I see what great good fortune it is to be born a Muslim. Wherever you go you find brothers, even in Chinese prisons! And wherever there are Muslims there is always a bond between us.

Go on, I said, tell me more …

I think now that it was kismat that sent me to that prison, said Jodu, and I’ll tell you why. One of our fellow prisoners, a Muslim, was a man of some influence.

Sometimes, on ‘Id and other special days, he would bribe the prison officials and they’d allow imams from the local mosques to visit us. I don’t know if you are aware of this, but in Guangzhou there is a very famous mosque and maqbara — the tomb of Shaikh Abu Waqqas, an uncle of the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him.

Here Jodu stopped to point to a tower in the distance: its tip was just visible above the city walls.

Do you see that minar there? he said. It belongs to the Huaisheng mosque, built by Shaikh Abu Waqqas himself. People say it is one of the oldest mosques in the world. Pilgrims come from far and away to visit the mosque and the maqbara, from places as distant as Cairo and Medina. Sometimes the imam of the Huaisheng mosque would come to the prison to lead our prayers. One day, during Ramazan, he brought a foreign pilgrim along to see us. The pilgrim was a shaikh from somewhere near Aden, in the Hadramaut. He was a small man, very simple in appearance; his name was Shaikh Musa al-Adani, and we learnt later that he was a merchant who had travelled everywhere — all around Arabia, Africa, Persia and Hindustan; he had visited Bombay, Madras and Delhi, and had lived for two years in Kolkata. But I knew none of this then so you can imagine how astonished I was when he spoke to me in Bangla and told me that he knew me, and that it was because of me that he had come to visit the prison! I was amazed; I said: That’s impossible; I’ve never met you, never seen you, never heard of you. The shaikh told me then that he had seen me in his dreams; he had had a vision of a young lascar from Bengal, who was a Muslim in name but had yet to understand the truths of the Holy Book. This angered me and I cried: What do you mean? Why are you insulting me? And he smiled and asked if it wasn’t true, what he had said? This made me still angrier and I told him he knew nothing about me and had no right to speak to me like that. He smiled and told me that I would soon understand the meaning of his words.

A few days later I got into an argument with one of the prison guards. He accused me of stealing something and came to hit me. I side-stepped and the guard fell down and hurt himself. He accused me of attacking him and the matter became quite serious: I was removed to the part of the prison where condemned men are kept. The guards told me that I too would be executed and I believed them — I had no reason not to.

Here Jodu stopped pacing and put his hand on my neck.

Neel-da, he said, do you know how they execute people here? They tie them to a chair and strangle them. I saw twenty or thirty men being strangled in that way. I thought that I too would be killed like that. You can imagine my state of mind; how afraid I was. But then a strange thing happened. It was the day after Bakri-Id. One of the guards was a Muslim: he took me aside and told me that he had paid a visit to the Abu Waqqas maqbara the day before; Shaikh Musa had given him a gift for me — a tabeez that he had removed from his own arm.

Here Jodu pulled back the sleeve of his tunic to show me the amulet: it is made of brass and is fastened just above the elbow of his right arm.

I tied it on, Jodu continued, and when I went to sleep that night I had a dream in which I saw myself on the Yoom al-Qiamah — the Day of Judgement — trying to answer for myself. Suddenly I realized that the fear that had taken hold of me was not of death itself, but of what would happen afterwards, when I would have to face the moment of judgement. And then, as I lay trembling on my mat, for the first time in my life I felt the true fear of God. I understood that even though I had gone through the motions of being a Muslim, my heart had forever been filled with filth; my whole life had been steeped in shame and sin. I had been brought up in a house of sin; a house in which my own mother was the kept woman of an unbeliever, Mr Lambert; a house in which his daughter, Paulette, and I were allowed to run around like wild creatures, with no thought of religion, or even of hiding our shame from each other.

Through all this Jodu’s tone was of testimony; it was as if he had temporarily stepped outside his skin and were watching himself from afar.

In a way I was like an animal, he said. My heart was ruled by lust and I thought of nothing but fornication, and of seducing women — this is how I had brought my fate upon myself, during the voyage of the Ibis. All of this became clear to me, and once I had understood it, my fear of death evaporated — no, you could say I longed for death, because I felt that whatever punishment was given to me would be well-deserved.

Now Jodu’s voice fell to a lower pitch.

It was then, he said, that I submitted to the teachings of the Prophet and became a true Muslim. I was ready to die — I had no more fear of it. But strangely, a few days after my conversion — for that was what it was — I was removed from the cell of the condemned men and sent back to join my lascar crewmates.

Here Jodu paused to draw a deep breath; his voice was calmer now: it was as if a fever had flowed out of him with his torrent of words. I sensed that behind the disclosures there lay a need not only to confide but also to persuade: it was important to Jodu to convey to me the significance of his transformation, the full extent of which could only be apparent to those who had known him before.

You mentioned Paulette, I said quietly. Do you know that she too is in these parts?

The blood ebbed from Jodu’s face as he turned to look at me: Putli? he said. Here? What do you mean?

I told him that Paulette was at Hong Kong, with an English plant-collector — a friend of her father’s who had more or less adopted her as his daughter.

Jodu was pleased to hear about her good fortune. I’m glad for her, he said. It wasn’t her fault that she was brought up as a kaafir …

This made me smile. I said: I’m a kaafir too, you know.

Jodu laughed: Yes, I know you were born a kaafir — but you don’t have to remain one forever.

I could only laugh.

Kaafir I am, I said, and kaafir I will remain. But let me ask you this. The Chinese are kaafirs too, and as you know they may soon be at war with England. That is why they are outfitting this ship they want you to work on, the Cambridge. If you accept you may find yourself fighting for the Chinese kaafirs. Could you bring yourself to do this, my friend, with a whole heart?

Jodu’s smile grew wider. But why not? he said. Both sides are kaafirs: one worships idols and animals, like you Hindus do, and the other worships flag and machines. Of the two I would far prefer to fight for the Chinese.

Really? I said. Why?

It turned out that this was something that Jodu and his fellow Muslims had talked about at length in the prison at Nanhae. The prisoners from Muslim lands — Johore, Aceh and Java — had told the others about how the Europeans had taken control of their countries and how they wanted to grab still more.

The Chinese are the only ones who can resist the firinghees, said Jodu. The shaikh has told us that in a conflict between the Chinese and the Europeans it is the duty of Muslims to take the side of the Chinese.

The smouldering intensity in Jodu’s eyes removed whatever doubts I may have had of his sincerity. I told him that the Chinese were unsure of his loyalties; they thought it possible that he and his friends might go over to the British.

He laughed and said they need have no concern on this score. If they wanted he and the other lascars would be glad to to swear an oath at the maqbara of Shaikh Abu Waqqas.

Two days before the Ibis was to weigh anchor for China, Baboo Nob Kissin came to the budgerow to deliver Zachary’s twenty chests of opium. As he was about to leave he said: ‘Master Zikri, when I reach Hong Kong, it is possible that Miss Lambert will once again make inquiries regarding your good self. Maybe you would like to file off a missive for her? You can yourself furnish all necessary details about your movements — that way her soft corners will not be damaged. I will facilitate safe delivery.’

This alarmed Zachary, making him wonder what Paulette’s expectations were in regard to himself: did she believe that they were as good as betrothed? If so, would it not be best to correct this misunderstanding?

‘All right, Baboo,’ said Zachary grimly. ‘I’ll give you a letter for Miss Lambert.’

‘Tomorrow morning I will come to get.’

It was already quite late and after going through many sheets of paper Zachary was still unable to find the right words to express his outrage at the insinuations that Paulette had made to Mrs Burnham, in regard to himself. Exhausted by the struggle, he went to bed and on waking the next morning he decided that it would be best to write briefly without going into too much detail.

April 16, 1840

Calcutta

Dear Miss Lambert

I hope this letter finds you in the best of health. I am writing because our common acquaintance, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, in relating the circumstances of his Meeting with you in China, has mentioned certain matters that suggest that there may be a Misunderstanding about our standing in relation to each other.

I am sure you will remember that shortly after your Flight from Mr Burnham’s home you appealed to me to obtain a Passage to the Mauritius islands for Yourself. You will recall also that I advised you against this Course and instead made an Offer of Matrimony, which you rejected.

Although I did not feel so at the time, on thinking of this Matter I have realized that I owe you a great debt of Gratitude for refusing my sincere but rash offer of Matrimony. It is perfectly clear to me that we are in no wise well-suited to each other, and that I should consider myself fortunate that your Refusal spared me the Necessity of embarking on a course of what would have been the most reckless Folly. In truth we are but acquaintances whose paths have crossed by Hazard and neither of us is justified in entertaining any Expectations of the other.

I felt it necessary to offer you this Explanation since I too am soon to depart for China and it is not unlikely that our paths will cross on those shores. Should we meet again, I trust it will be merely as Acquaintances.

Until then I have the honor to remain

Your faithful servant

Zachary Reid, Esq.

As he was signing his name Zachary heard the crunch of wheels, somewhere nearby. Looking out of a window, he saw that Baboo Nob Kissin had arrived in a hackery-garee.

‘Master Zikri!’ shouted the gomusta. ‘I have brought a gift.’

Zachary stepped out on deck to take a look. ‘What’s the gift?’

‘A servant!’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, beaming. ‘He will look after your good self during voyage. You must at once bag this golden opportunity.’

Inclining his head towards the hackery-garee, Baboo Nob Kissin clapped his hands. ‘There — look!’

Turning to the carriage now, Zachary saw, to his astonishment, that a boy had climbed out of it and was looking expectantly in his direction. He was dressed in pyjamas, slippers and a long, white tunic, bound at the waist by a cummerbund — the usual garb of a khidmatgar — but the lad could not have been more than ten years old. He was too young for a turban even, and had only a narrow bandhna around his forehead, to hold back his long black hair.

‘Hell and scissors, Baboo!’ Zachary cried in outrage. ‘How’s he going to be my servant? He’s just a gilpy of a boy. It’s I who’ll be feeding him and swabbing his ass.’

‘Arré baba, he may be young,’ said Baboo Nob Kissin, in a soothing tone, ‘but he is attentive and diligent. Clean and healthy also — tongue is clear so motions must be regular. Eating-sheating also not too much. Whatever you ask he will do — make bed, give bath, press foot. You can just sit back and enjoy. He will adjust very well on you; he will be topping khidmatgar.’

‘God dammit, Baboo! I don’t need a topping kid-mutt-whatever.’

The expression on Baboo Nob Kissin’s face now changed to one of earnest entreaty as he explained the boy’s predicament: ‘Father has expired and prospects are dim in Calcutta. Mother is very poor. If he remains here then child-lifters may catch hold of him. That is why he wants to go to Macau — his father’s co-brother is working there. He is my friend so that is why I must provide assistance.’

Something about this didn’t seem right to Zachary. ‘But I don’t understand, Baboo,’ he said. ‘If the boy’s uncle is your friend then why isn’t he shipping out with you, on the Ibis?’

‘Mr Chillingworth may not permit, no?’ said the gomusta. ‘That is why I am requesting you only. It will not be much trouble for you, Master Zikri. After you get to China you can wash your hands with him and dispose him off to uncle. Meanwhile he will happily work as khidmatgar for you — salary also is not necessary. He is extremely helpful, suitable for all donkey-works. Talkative in English also.’

Still unpersuaded, Zachary continued to protest. ‘But listen, Baboo — where’s he going to blow the grampus? There won’t be room for him to bunk down in my cabin.’

‘No problem,’ said the gomusta. ‘You can put in your bedding. No formalities.’

‘Fuckin’ell!’ Zachary spluttered. ‘I’m not going to take no nipper into my bed!’

Baboo Nob Kissin carried on undeterred. ‘Arré baba, he is a little fellow, no? He can lie on the floor even, no problem. If he makes a mischief you can shoe-beat. Just think of it as commission, for me, because of help I have given to you.’

This was an argument that could not be gainsaid. ‘Well, if you put it like that …’

Zachary beckoned to the boy and was somewhat encouraged when he came skipping up the gangplank as though he had been doing it all his life: at least he was nimble on his feet, not a clumsy landlubber. He was a lively-looking fellow too, with a sharp, expressive face. Despite himself, Zachary liked the cut of his jib.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Raj Rattan, sir,’ he said in a clear voice. ‘But everyone calls me Raju.’

‘You sure you want to go all the way to China?’

‘Yes, sir!’ cried the boy, his eagerness plainly visible in his shining eyes. ‘Please, sir.’

‘Oh all right then!’ said Zachary. ‘I’ll give it a try and see if it works out between us. Go git your things.’

The boy ran to the gharry and jumped in, leaving the door ajar. Zachary saw now that there was a woman inside: her head was hooded by her sari and he could not see her face.

‘Who’s that?’ he said to Baboo Nob Kissin.

‘Boy’s mother only. Has come for leave-taking purposes.’

For a minute or two the woman clutched the boy to her chest; from the angle of her head, it was clear that she was weeping. Then the boy whispered in her ear and she let go of him; he jumped out and came running back to the budgerow, with a small bundle slung over his shoulder. On reaching the top of the gangplank, he turned to look back at the carriage, where a glimmer of his mother’s sari could still be seen, in the crack of a window.

‘All will be well,’ Baboo Nob Kissin said to Zachary. ‘Do not worry. He is a good boy.’

‘I sure hope so,’ Zachary growled, ‘or I’ll bring him to his bearings soon enough.’

In the midst of all this, Zachary had forgotten about his letter to Paulette. It was Baboo Nob Kissin who reminded him: ‘And the letter for Miss Lambert? Better to give now since I will weigh anchors early tomorrow.’

‘Here it is,’ said Zachary, handing it over. ‘Please give it to Miss Lambert with my compliments.’

‘Do not fear, dear sir; it will arrive with blessings-message.’

‘And have a good voyage, Baboo.’

‘You too, Master Zikri — the Hind will come to Calcutta soon. It will not be long before we are reunited in China.’

‘I guess. Goodbye, Baboo.’

After the carriage had rolled away, Zachary turned to the boy and raised an eyebrow: ‘What the hell am I going to do with you, kid-mutt?’

With a cheerful smile the boy said: ‘Don’t worry, sir. There will be no problem.’

Surprised by his fluency Zachary said: ‘Say, kid-mutt — where’d you learn English?’

The boy answered without hesitation: ‘My father was a khid-matgar in an English house, sir; they taught us.’

‘Did a good job too. You’d better take your things inside.’

Now again the boy surprised Zachary, because he seemed to know exactly where to go.

‘Hey, kid-mutt — you ever been on this boat before?’

‘Why no, sir,’ said Raju quickly. ‘Never. But I have been on other budgerows.’

Zachary was glad to hear this. ‘Good. So you’ll be able to look after yourself then?’

‘Yes I will, sir. Please don’t worry about me. I will manage.’

The boy was as good as his word. Zachary saw no more of him till the next morning, when he went up to the budgerow’s upper deck to watch the Ibis setting off for China, with a steam-tug towing her downriver.

Raju was already there and they both waved as the Ibis sailed by.

Afterwards Zachary noticed that Raju had a paper kite in his hands.

‘Hey, where’d you find that, kid-mutt?’

‘It was in my cabin, sir,’ said the boy. ‘Someone had hidden it under the bunk.’

*

Within a day of leaving Bombay, the Hind ran into choppy weather. Many of the passengers were prostrated by sea-sickness but Shireen was an exception. On Rosa’s advice she chewed on a piece of fresh ginger and experienced no discomfort. The next day, heeding Rosa again, she changed into ‘English’ clothes. In practical terms the difference was not as great as she had been led to expect — but yes, she had to admit that her plain-cut black dress was indeed a little easier to manage than her sari had been. She was able to take several turns around the deck and the air was so exhilarating that she was loath to go back inside. After that, whenever the sun was up and the ship was not pitching too wildly she would step outside to pace the deck. She loved the feel of the wind in her hair and the touch of spindrift on her face.

The coast of northern Ceylon appeared off the Hind’s port bow after five days at sea. No sooner had the island been sighted than a strange fear took hold of Shireen: she began to wonder whether Zadig Bey would indeed join the ship as he had promised. There were no grounds for this concern — Vico had assured her that Zadig Bey was a man of his word — but somehow Shireen persuaded herself that something would go wrong and he wouldn’t appear.

When Colombo was sighted she hurried up to the quarter-deck, hoping to get a glimpse of the city. But a disappointment was in store: it turned out that Colombo, for all its fame as a port, did not have a proper harbour; ships had to anchor at a roadstead, well out to sea. That was where they were provisioned and unloaded, by flotillas of bumboats, bandar-craft and lighters.

All that Shireen could see of the city was a distant smudge, and this too fuelled her anxiety. She stayed on deck, scanning the waters, examining every bandar-boat that approached the ship — and it was not till she spotted Zadig Bey, sitting in the prow of a lighter, that her fears were finally set at rest.

Now Shireen became anxious about what people would think if they knew that her rendezvous with Zadig had been pre-arranged. She retreated quickly to her stateroom and did not emerge again until later in the day. When she ran into Zadig she feigned surprise, and to her great relief he responded in kind: ‘Is that you, Bibiji? How amazing! What a coincidence!’

Later, when they were taking a turn around the maindeck, she thanked him for humouring her but he shrugged her words off with a laugh. ‘I assure you, Bibiji — I was not pretending. My surprise was real.’

‘But why?’ she said. ‘You knew I would be on this ship, didn’t you?’

‘Well frankly, I wasn’t sure you would go through with it, Bibiji,’ said Zadig. ‘And besides I didn’t expect to find you looking so much at home here — walking around without a veil, dressed like a memsahib and smiling at everyone.’

She blushed and quickly changed the subject, asking him if he had received any more news from China.

‘Yes, Bibiji,’ said Zadig with a smile. ‘I had written to a friend of mine in Macau, asking him to find a place for you to rent. I received a letter from him a few days ago: you will be glad to know that he has found a nice house for you, in the centre of town.’

‘Really? And who is this friend?’

‘His name is Robin Chinnery, Bibiji.’

‘Does he live in Macau?’

‘He used to, but of late he has been helping some botanist friends with their nursery, at Hong Kong.’

After that, when the Hind set sail again, Shireen and Zadig began to take their walks together, on deck. One day Zadig said: ‘Do you know, Bibiji, this is how your late husband and I became friends? We used to walk together on the deck of a ship, the Cuffnells. Bahram-bhai loved to promenade on deck.’

Shireen had no inkling of this. It seemed unfair to her that Zadig should know so much about her husband and her family when she knew next to nothing about him.

‘Tell me about Colombo, Zadig Bey,’ she said. ‘Are your children there too? Your family?’

Zadig fell in step beside her, with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Yes, Bibiji, my son and daughter live in Colombo too. They are both married, with children of their own — they are all I have by way of family.’

A few more steps brought them to the starboard deck-rails where they stopped to look towards the horizon. Then Zadig cleared his throat awkwardly: ‘Actually, Bibiji … what I said is not true. In Egypt, where I was born, I have another family … and other children.’

For a moment Shireen thought she had misheard. ‘Another family? I don’t understand. Do you mean you had been married before?’

‘Yes, Bibiji — but it’s not so simple.’

‘Then?’

‘Bibiji — what happened is this. I was married off very young, to my cousin. The marriage was arranged within the family, mainly for reasons of business. It did not work out very well, although my wife and I had two sons and a daughter. I was always travelling, because of my work — and it happened that while passing through Colombo once I met Hilda. She was a widow, a Catholic. I began to spend more time in Colombo, and then my son was born.’

Shireen gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘So this woman in Colombo — she was not your wife …?’

‘She was my common-law wife, Bibiji. But in time it was she who became the woman to whom I felt I was really married.’

‘And your real wife? What became of her? Was she … abandoned?’

‘No, Bibiji!’ Zadig protested. ‘It wasn’t like that. In Cairo we lived in the midst of many relatives, in the family compound — just as you do in Bombay. My wife was not alone — and I settled most of my property on her, and on our children. She was well looked after.’

Shireen’s ears were beginning to burn. ‘So you left your wife, your children to go and live with …?’

She could not bring herself to say the word ‘mistress’.

‘Bibiji, the children I had with Hilda were mine too — and the fact that they were not recognized as such, by law, meant that they needed me more. There was no family in Colombo to look after them. Surely I could not have left them to their fate?’

Shireen felt her gorge rise, and had to lean against the bulwark.

‘What’s the matter, Bibiji? Are you all right?’

Turning her back on him, Shireen rushed off to her stateroom. Fortunately Rosa wasn’t there: Shireen threw herself on the bed and closed her eyes.

Over the next few days Shireen could not bring herself to step out on deck again. Her mind kept returning to the plight of Zadig Bey’s wife: an abandoned woman who had been forced to bring up her children by herself, while her lawfully married husband went off to live with another woman, in another country. She tried to think of what her own life would have been like, if she had had to live out her years in the Mestrie mansion as an abandoned wife. Her family would have been sympathetic of course, but she knew she’d have been crushed by the shame alone.

She realized now that this fate might well have befallen her as well: Bahram too must have contemplated abandoning his family in order to live with his Chinese mistress and his illegitimate son. He and Zadig had to have discussed the matter and he must have been tempted to follow his friend’s example.

The thought sickened Shireen, making her feel that she never wanted to have anything to do with Zadig Bey: the man was a libertine, a rake, a luccha.

When she finally resumed her walks on deck she made sure that Rosa was always with her. If they happened to come across Zadig Bey, she would acknowledge his greetings with a polite nod, without saying a word in return.

The coldness of her demeanour surprised Rosa, who said: Bibiji, are you not speaking to Mr Karabedian? Why?

It’s not proper, said Shireen curtly. Word may get back to Bombay.

Rosa gave her a shrewd look but did not dispute what she had said.

It was not till the Hind was approaching Calcutta that Shireen again found herself alone with Zadig Bey, by chance one day. Crossing the deck, he came straight over to her.

‘Bibiji, I’m sorry if I offended you that day. I should not have spoken as I did.’

She bit her lip, to keep it from quivering. Suddenly the question that had been circling in her head these last many days burst out of her mouth.

‘Zadig Bey, tell me: did my husband ever think of doing what you did? Did he think of leaving me and my daughters and going off to live with his … with his mistress?’

Zadig answered with an emphatic shake of his head. ‘No, Bibiji! That is one thing I can assure you of. You and your daughters were too important to him. He would never have done what I did — he was a different man.’

Although this did much to set Shireen’s mind at rest it did not entirely assuage her misgivings about Zadig. She continued to avoid him until the Hind arrived in Calcutta.

But once the ship had dropped anchor it became harder to stay out of his way. They were both shown around Calcutta by members of their own communities and it turned out that there was a great deal of to-ing and fro-ing between the Parsi and Armenian families of the city. What was more, they all lived in the same area and the Parsi agiary on Ezra Street, where Shireen daily went to pray, was just around the corner from the Armenian Church on Old China Street. Since Zadig was often there it was hard to avoid him. When they met it was easier to behave in a normal way than to be unnaturally stiff and distant.

Soon enough, they were again pacing the Hind’s quarter-deck together.

*

Four days after the Hind dropped anchor in Calcutta, Captain Mee took Kesri and a team of camp-followers on board, to make preparations for the company’s embarkation.

Down in the steerage-deck two large compartments and a few cabins had been set aside for the Bengal Volunteers. One of the cumras was assigned to the sepoys and the other to the camp-followers. Both cabins were cavernous, spanning most of the length and width of the ship; yet, even when empty, they appeared cluttered and congested, partly because the ceiling was so low that a man could not stand up straight without knocking his head. Moreover the compartments were divided up by long lines of upright beams, from which hammocks were suspended in double rows, one above the other.

Kesri disliked hammocks and was quick to commandeer a cabin for himself. Not only was it equipped with a bunk, it even had a small window. The stench of bilgewater was already strong in the steerage deck and Kesri knew from experience that the smell would get far worse when the Hind was at sea and her insides were all churned up. A breath of fresh air would seem like the rarest of luxuries then.

The Volunteers’ last morning was spent mostly in the garrison’s hospital: regulations called for every sepoy to clear a medical examination before boarding a transport ship. Afterwards, B Company mustered on a parade ground and Captain Mee made a brief speech, through interpreters. He told the sepoys that they were embarking on a historic mission and would gain great honour. In China they would have many opportunities to cover themselves with glory, he said, and the trophies they brought back would be treasured forever in their homes.

The talk of history and glory made little impression on the sepoys. They listened impassively, their faces even stiffer than usual. Only when the captain announced that he had arranged for money to be distributed, as advances on salary payments, did the sepoys liven up. Accountants from the company’s daftar were in attendance and the men quickly formed lines at their desks; also in attendance were shroffs who could arrange for remittances to be sent to Bihar, through hawala networks. As always the sepoys sent most of their money home, keeping only a little for themselves. This, in the end, was what mattered to them most, neither history nor glory, but the sustenance of their families, back in their villages.

Later in the day there was a dangal, a wrestling tournament that Kesri had organized in the hope that it would take the sepoys’ minds off their impending departure. He himself played the part of referee, and even though the event went by without incident, Kesri could tell that the participants’ hearts were not in it: the bouts were like practice sessions and there was little cheering.

Afterwards the company’s pundit, who was also travelling to China with them, performed a puja followed by a recitation of the Hanuman Chaalisa.

Kesri had hoped that the familiar ceremonies would help the men get past the untoward happenings of the last few weeks — desertions, executions, omens and the like. But instead the rituals seemed to deepen their sense of foreboding: even from the way they prayed, Kesri could tell that their minds were filled with misgiving.

Later that evening the company’s daftar sent over a half-dozen munshis to transcribe the sepoys’ last letters home.

The munshis set up their desks in front of the barracks and the men gathered around in small groups, to dictate their letters. Kesri took the first turn and being well aware that the men were listening to him he was careful to strike an optimistic note. Addressing his letter to his brother Bhim, he said:

Tomorrow we will leave for Maha-Chin and we will soon return, with abundant prize money and also bonuses for overseas service. The Honourable Company Bahadur has made ample provision for us and we will be well looked after so you must not concern yourselves about me. When I return I would like to buy more land with my prize money to add to our family’s holdings. I hope the poppy harvest on our lands was good this year. Have you been able to pay off the loans that the Company’s arkatis gave? For the rest of the year, until it is time to plant poppies again, you should grow rice, mustard and vegetables on my fields. Please tell my children and their mother that I will soon be back, with many gifts.

Although the men listened attentively, few of them echoed Kesri’s optimism. When it was their turn to dictate letters most of them struck a note of resignation.

Tomorrow our paltan will leave for Maha-chin to fight for the Honourable Company Bahadur. We do not know when we will return. Tell Babuji and Ammaji not to worry. My health is good, although last month I was in hospital with a fever. If I die do not grieve — I will go wearing a warrior’s garb, sword in hand. In my absence it will fall to you to look after my children and their mother. If there is any delay in obtaining my pension then you should send someone to petition the district officers in Patna. In addition there will be arrears of salary and prize money. Do not fail to recover everything. It should be enough to provide for my children till they are grown.

And:

We are going to a place that is very far. We know nothing about it. If I do not return I want to make sure that my field with the mango tree goes to my brother Fateh Singh. I am filled with sorrow that I have not fulfilled all my obligations to my family. For that reason alone will I regret my death. Other than that it is the duty of every Rajput to give up his life for the honour of his caste. I am ready for what may come.

The mood of the men gave Kesri much to worry about for the next day. He knew that an embarkation was a performance in its own right and the army’s Burra Sahibs would be watching closely. It was vital for the sepoys to get off to a good start by acquitting themselves well — and in their present state of mind he doubted that they would.

But when the time came, B Company did him proud by putting on a flawless display. With drums beating and fifes trilling the notes of ‘Troop’ they marched out of the fort’s western gate in double column. On reaching the designated staging ground they wheeled into line and presented arms in perfect order. Then, squad by squad, they fell out and were ferried to the Hind in lighters. After the last sepoy had boarded, the lighters began to transfer the company’s allotment of howitzers, mortars and field-pieces.

The camp-followers had embarked earlier and by the time the sepoys came aboard everything was in order to receive them. But despite all the planning and preparation, there was still a great deal of confusion. Very few of the sepoys had been on a deep-water ship before and some of them became disoriented when they stepped below deck. As tempers rose the camp-followers bore the brunt of it, as always: many had to put up with cuffs and kicks.

After ignoring the gol-maal for a while Kesri brought things to order by unloosing a bellow that shook the timbers: Khabardar! He made the men stand to attention, beside their hammocks, and proceeded to give them a dhamkaoing that made their breath run short. He ended with dire warnings about what lay ahead: seasickness, flooding, objects cannoning around in bad weather, and so on. His most urgent strictures, however, concerned a hazard of a different kind — the lascars. These were the greatest budmashes on earth, he told the sepoys. To a man, lascars were thieves, drunkards, lechers and brawlers, with skulls as thick cannonshells. They were the sepoys’ natural enemies and would steal from them at the least opportunity: they had to be watched at every moment, especially when they were hanging from the ropes like bandars.

Chastened, the men began to settle down, and when it came time to weigh anchor Kesri did not have the heart to confine them below deck. He gave them permission to go above to take a last look at the city.

Leading the way was Kesri himself: he stepped on the maindeck just as the Hind began to move. Almost simultaneously a battery in Fort William started to fire a salute of minute-guns.

Zachary too was up on deck: as the shots rang out, the planks under his feet seem to tremble in response. He remembered the last time he had set sail from this city, on the Ibis, with a shipload of coolies and overseers. It amazed him to think that only sixteen months had passed since that day — for the difference between that departure and this one seemed almost as great as the gap between the man he had been then and who he was now.

From the other end of the maindeck, Kesri drank in the sights of the receding city — the temples, the houses, the trees — as if he were seeing them for the last time.

As the city slipped past a strange, cold feeling crept through him and he realized, with a shock, that deep in his heart he too had come to believe that he would never see his homeland again.