Flood of Fire

Fifteen

On Zadig Bey’s advice Shireen stayed indoors during the fighting. But Macau was so small that it was impossible to hide from the terrifying sound of cannon-fire: as she paced her darkened rooms Shireen was visited by all manner of dreadful imaginings. It was not till the late afternoon, when Zadig Bey came running to her house, that she learnt that the Chinese troops had been dispersed.

‘Are you sure, Zadig Bey?’

‘Yes, Bibiji, take my word for it, from now on Commissioner Lin will leave Macau alone. We will be perfectly safe here.’

Shireen was inclined to think that Zadig was being too optimistic but his prediction was vindicated soon enough. Within a day or two it was confirmed that all Chinese troops had been withdrawn from the vicinity of Macau. From then on both Macau and Hong Kong became, in effect, protectorates of the British expeditionary force. Foreigners no longer had anything to fear in either place.

The changed circumstances prompted many foreigners to move to Macau, among them the Parsi shipowner, Dinyar Ferdoonjee. Having made a fortune selling opium in the Philippines and Moluccas, he rented a large house that looked out on the bayside promenade of Praya Grande — the Villa Nova.

It so happened that Dinyar Ferdoonjee was a relative of Shireen’s. When he heard that she was living in rented lodgings he went to see her and begged her to move in with him.

Bahram-bhai had helped him get started in business, Dinyar said to Shireen; he owed it to his memory to look after her. Besides, she would be doing him a favour; he had staffed the villa with cooks and stewards from his ship, the Mor, but being only in his mid-twenties, he was unaccustomed to running a household; he would be most grateful if Shireen could take charge.

Attractive as the offer was, Shireen was reluctant to accept, mainly because she thought Rosa would have trouble finding accommodation for herself. But Rosa told her not to worry; she had a standing invitation to move in with a Goan family of her acquaintance.

After that there was no reason not to accept. Within a week Shireen was comfortably settled in Dinyar’s villa. Nor did she regret it: her new living quarters consisted of an entire wing of the villa; and it was pleasant also to be running a household again. Moreover the Villa Nova was in a splendid location, with a fine view of the promenade and the Inner Harbour. Its frontage consisted of a long, shaded veranda: sitting there of an evening, in a rocking chair, Shireen could see the whole town go by on the Praya Grande. Most days Zadig Bey would stroll past too and more often than not she would step outside to join him on his walk.

Dinyar proved to be an unusually congenial and thoughtful host: Shireen had wondered whether he might look askance on her wearing European clothes and going about without a duenna. But it turned out that Dinyar was exceptionally liberal in his views; not only did he applaud her choice of clothing he also declared her to be a pioneer: ‘You’ll see, Shireen-auntie, one day all our Bombay girls will want to dress like you.’

At the same time Dinyar was a proud Parsi, observant in his religious practices and fond of the old customs. He was delighted when Shireen made lacy torans and draped them around the doorways of the Villa Nova.

Shireen was by no means the only person to benefit from Dinyar’s hospitality: he entertained frequently and prided himself on his table — in this, he liked to say, he was merely emulating Bahram, whose generosity and love of good living was a byword on the China coast. Thus, by living with Dinyar, Shireen was able to glimpse an aspect of her husband’s life that she herself had never known.

As the weeks went by other Parsimerchants began to trickle into Macau and the Villa Nova quickly became the community’s meeting place: on holidays the seths would assemble for prayers in the salon; afterwards they would exchange news of Bombay over meals of dhansak, steamed fish, stewed trotters and baked dishes of creamy, shredded chicken: marghi na mai vahala.

But in the end the conversation would always veer around to the questions that most concerned them all: Would the British be able to extract reparations from the Chinese for the opium they had seized? Would the money be adequate? Would their losses be made good?

Shireen was the only person present who did not fret over these questions: rarely had she felt as content as she was in the Villa Nova.

*

In a few short weeks Zachary became so expert in selling opium to offshore buyers that he started seeking out new markets on his own, in remote coves and bays. Almost always his buyers were smugglers from the mainland, members of cartels affiliated with certain gangs and brotherhoods. Once Zachary had familiarized himself with their signals and emblems he had no difficulty in identifying reliable buyers. Nor did language present any difficulty: the negotiations were usually conducted in pidgin, with which Zachary was already familiar through his dealings with Serang Ali. He was well able to bargain on his own behalf.

As it happened many of Zachary’s sales were to a single cartel: the network headed by the tycoon Lenny Chan. But Zachary’s dealings were always with Mr Chan’s underlings; knowing their boss to be an elusive man, Zachary assumed that he was unlikely to meet him on this voyage.

But he was wrong. One sultry August night, off the coast of Fujian, the Ibis was approached by a small, sleek-looking junk; unlike most such vessels, the junk had a canvas lateen sail; at the rear of the maindeck was a large ‘house’, with lanterns bobbing in front of it.

As usual, the negotiations were conducted by a linkister who came over to the Ibis for that purpose. Afterwards, when a deal had been reached, there was a shout from the junk, in Chinese.

Then the linkister turned to Zachary, with a bow: ‘Mr Chan, he wanchi talkee Mr Reid.’

‘Haiyah!’ said Zachary in surprise. ‘Is true maski? Mr Chan blongi here, on boat?’

The linkister bowed again. ‘Mr Chan wanchi Mr Reid come aboard. Can, no can, lah?’

‘Can, can!’ said Zachary eagerly.

The Ibis’s longboat was already loaded and ready to go, with dozens of opium chests stacked inside: usually it was Baboo Nob Kissin who handled the transfer of the cargo, but this time it was Zachary who went.

As the boat approached the junk, an unexpected greeting reverberated out of the darkness: ‘How’re you going on there, Mr Reid?’

The voice was English in its intonation, yet the man who came forward to greet Zachary when he stepped on the junk’s maindeck looked nothing like an Englishman: he had the appearance rather of a prosperous mandarin. His tall, corpulent form was covered by a robe of grey silk; on his head was a plain black cap; his queue was coiled in a bun and pinned to the back of his head. His face had the sagging, pendulous curves of an overfilled satchel, yet there was nothing soft about it: his nose was like a hawk’s beak and his heavy-lidded eyes had a predatory glint. His hand too, Zachary noted as he shook it, was unexpectedly hard and calloused, talonlike in its grip.

‘Welcome aboard, Mr Reid. I’m Lenny Chan.’

‘I’m very glad to meet you, sir.’

‘Likewise, Mr Reid, likewise.’ Putting a hand on Zachary’s shoulder he guided him aft. ‘I hope you’ll take some tea with me, Mr Reid?’

‘Certainly.’

A gust of perfumed air rushed out at them as a sailor held open the door of the junk’s ‘house’: Zachary found himself looking into a brightly lit, sumptuously appointed cabin, furnished with richly carved tables, couches and teapoys.

Seeing that his host had slipped off his shoes, Zachary bent down to follow suit. But Mr Chan stopped him as he was unlacing his boots: ‘Wait!’ He clapped his hands and a moment later a young woman stepped in. She was dressed in an ankle-length robe of shimmering scarlet silk; without looking Zachary in the eye, she sank to her knees, head lowered, and undid his laces. After removing his boots, she disappeared again into the interior of the vessel.

‘Come, Mr Reid.’

Mr Chan led Zachary to a large, square armchair and poured him a cup of tea.

‘We’ve done a lot of business together haven’t we, Mr Reid?’ said Mr Chan, seating himself opposite Zachary.

‘So we have, Mr Chan. I think I’ve sold more than half my cargo to your people.’

Mr Chan’s head was cocked to one side, and his eyes seemed almost shut — but Zachary knew that he was being minutely studied.

‘I hope,’ said Mr Chan, ‘that some of the goods you sold were on your own account?’

‘Only ten chests I’m afraid,’ said Zachary.

‘Well that’s not to be laughed at, is it?’ said Mr Chan. ‘I’ll wager you’re much richer than you were.’

‘That I certainly am.’

‘Though not quite so rich as Mr Burnham perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘But I’m sure you will be soon enough.’ Mr Chan smiled thinly: ‘People say you’re quite the coming man, Mr Reid.’

‘Do they?’ Zachary was becoming a little unnerved now.

‘Yes. I hope we will go on doing business with each other, Mr Reid.’

‘I hope so too, Mr Chan.’

‘Good, good,’ said Mr Chan meditatively. ‘But enough about business — you are my guest today and I would like to invite you to share a pipe. It is the custom, you know — men who have smoked together can trust one another.’

Taken aback, Zachary did not respond immediately.

His hesitation did not pass unnoticed: ‘You do not smoke opium, Mr Reid?’

‘I smoked once,’ said Zachary. ‘A long time ago.’

‘Was it not to your taste?’

‘No,’ said Zachary. ‘Not really.’

‘But if I may say so,’ said Mr Chan, ‘perhaps the circumstances were not right? May I ask if you were sitting or lying down when you smoked?’

‘Sitting.’

‘There you are,’ said Mr Chan, ‘that’s no way to smoke. Chasing the dragon is an art, you know — it must be done properly.’

Rising from his chair, Mr Chan went to a nearby shelf, picked out an implement, and brought it to Zachary. It was an ornate pipe, with a stem as long as a man’s forearm. It was made of a silvery alloy, like pewter, but the mouthpiece was of old, yellowed ivory, as was the octagonal bulb at the other end of the pipe.

‘This is my best pipe, Mr Reid. It is known as the “Yellow Dragon”. People have offered me thousands of taels for it. You will see why if you try it.’

A shiver passed through Zachary as he ran his fingers along the long metal stem. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll try it, this one time.’

‘Good — a man should sample the goods he sells.’ Mr Chan smiled. ‘But if you are to do it, Mr Reid, you must do it properly — and it is not possible to smoke properly in a jacket and trowsers. Better you change into Chinese robes.’

He clapped his hands and the girl appeared again; after exchanging a few words with Mr Chan she ushered Zachary through a door, into a room that looked like a large wardrobe. Handing him a dove-grey gown, she bowed herself out.

While he was changing Zachary heard the sound of furniture being moved. He stepped out of the wardrobe to find that the cabin’s lights had been dimmed and two couches had been positioned next to each other, in one corner. Between the couches was a marble-topped table, on which lay an array of objects: a box with a lacquered top, a pair of needles with hooked ends, a couple of saucers, and of course, the ‘yellow dragon’, which was almost as long as the table itself. The girl was on her knees beside the table, holding a small lamp.

Mr Chan gestured to Zachary to take one of the couches. ‘Please lie down, Mr Reid, make yourself comfortable.’

After Zachary had stretched himself out, Mr Chan lifted the lacquered box off the table. Handing it to Zachary he said: ‘Look — this is freshly cooked opium, we call it chandu. It is made by boiling raw opium, such as you have in your chests.’

Inside the box lay a small, dark brown nugget. ‘Smell it, Mr Reid.’

The odour was sweet and smoky, quite different from the smell of raw opium gum.

Taking the box from Zachary, Mr Chan handed it to the girl, who was now kneeling between the two couches, with the lamp in front of her. She picked a needle off the table, dipped it into the opium and gave it an expert twirl: it came away with a tiny pellet of the gum, no larger than a pea. This little piece she now stuck into the lamp’s flame; when it began to sizzle and blister she handed it to Mr Chan. Resting the mouthpiece of the ‘yellow dragon’ on his chest, he twirled and tapped the scorched opium on the implement’s ivory cup. This process was repeated twice, without the mouthpiece yet being put to use.

Then Mr Chan said: ‘We’re almost ready now, Mr Reid. When I roast the opium again it will catch fire. The smoke will last for one or two seconds. You must be prepared — you must blow out your breath, emptying your chest so you can draw in all the smoke. When the opium begins to burn I will put it on the dragon’s eye’ — he pointed to the tiny hole in the pipe’s octagonal cup — ‘and you must draw hard.’

Handing the pipe to Zachary, he plunged the pellet of opium into the flame again. Suddenly it caught fire, and he cried out: ‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

Zachary had already emptied the air from his chest: when the flaming pellet was placed on the ‘dragon’s eye’ he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the smoke. Its consistency was almost that of a liquid, dense, oily and intensely perfumed; it poured into his body like a flood, coursing through his veins and swamping his head.

‘You see, Mr Reid? The power that moves the world is inside you now. Lie back. Let it run through you.’

As he leant back against the cushions Zachary suddenly became aware of his pulse — except that it wasn’t beating only in his wrist or his neck. It was as if his whole body were pulsating; the drumming of his heart was so powerful that he could feel his blood surging into his capillaries. The sensation was so strong that he looked down at his forearm and saw that his skin had changed colour. It was flushed and red, as if every pore had been awoken and irradiated.

He looked up at the ceiling and suddenly it was as if his eyes had become more sensitive, his gaze more powerful. He could see minute cracks in the wood; his hearing too seemed to have become more acute and the lapping of water was loud in his ears. He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the feeling of weightlessness, allowing the smoke to carry him away, as if on a tide.

Now it was Mr Chan’s turn with the pipe. After he had finished, he laid it on the table and leant back against a bolster. ‘Do you know why I have a yen for the smoke, Mr Reid? It is because I am a gardener by profession. I love flowers — and this smoke is the essence of the kingdom of flowers.’

His voice drifted away.

In a while Zachary became aware that Mr Chan had left the cabin and that he was alone with the girl. Now, for the first time, she raised her head and looked directly at him, with a slight smile on her lips. Zachary stared, unable to tear his eyes from her face: there was something familiar about her — he couldn’t figure out what it was so he stretched out his arm and ran his fingertips over her face. Suddenly the answer came to him: she bore an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Burnham. Even the touch of her hands, as they roamed over his body and under his robe, was like hers; even more so was the feel of her limbs against his own.

When he clasped her in his arms the likeness seemed to grow more and more pronounced, making him hungrier and hungrier; it was as if he were making love to Mrs Burnham herself — so much so that at the end he even mumbled her name aloud. But no sooner had it left his lips than he was stricken with guilt; he turned away, mortified, alarming the girl, who seemed to think that it was a rebuke of some kind.

‘No, no,’ he said, to reassure her. ‘It’s not you; it’s me.’

He could tell, though, that she hadn’t understood. At a loss to explain, he took hold of her hand and gave himself a mock slap, as a punishment. The blow was very light, yet his skin, still irradiated by the smoke, began to tingle; his whole face was aglow. The feeling was pleasureable yet strange — precisely because the pleasure came from the sensation of being punished, of expiating a burden of guilt.

He did it again, a little harder, and it felt even better. Now she seemed to understand what he wanted and began to slap him playfully, not just on his face but also on his naked back and buttocks — and the pleasure was so intense that he knew that if he did not stop he would be compelled to start all over again, with another pipe.

The thought sobered him so he gave her a smile and said: ‘I must go now — it’s time for me to leave.’

When she fetched him his clothes he reached into the pocket of his trowsers and took out a handful of coins. But she would not take them; she shook her head and bowed herself out.

As he was putting on his jacket a door opened and Mr Chan stepped in: suddenly an uneasy thought entered Zachary’s mind: was it possible that he had been watching all this while?

But he could see no hint of it in Mr Chan’s manner which was once again brisk and businesslike. ‘Well, Mr Reid,’ he said, ‘I trust you enjoyed the visit. I hope it will be the beginning of a long partnership.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Zachary mumbled. ‘I hope so too.’

‘Oh I am sure we will deal very well together,’ said Mr Chan, pumping Zachary’s hand. ‘I have been doing business with Mr Burnham for a long time, and I must say you remind me very much of him. The two of you are very much alike.’

‘Thank you, Mr Chan. It is kind of you to say so.’

*

For Zhong Lou-si and his circle the Battle of the Barrier was a defeat on many counts. Even though they had watched the fighting with their own eyes they were unable to persuade Commissioner Lin of the truth of what they had seen. An army commander got to the Commissioner first and convinced him that the battle had resulted in a great victory for their side — that the British had been put to flight, with many casualties. The prefect of the district that bordered Macau corroborated these misleading reports, as did some other officials. Those who tried to tell the Commissioner the truth, like Zhong Lou-si, were vastly outnumbered and outranked.

The result was that the Commissioner accepted the military commanders’ fictitious version of the Macau battle and his dispatches to the Emperor reflected these falsehoods.

If Lin Zexu can be deceived like this, said Compton despairingly, then what chance is there that the truth will ever reach the Forbidden City?

But soon enough it became clear that the Emperor could not be shielded from the realities of what was happening along the coast.

The Macau battle was still fresh in memory when it was learnt in Guangzhou that a squadron of British ships had sailed right up to the mouth of the Bai River, very close to Beijing. With the capital under immediate threat, the governor of that province, a very senior mandarin by the name of Qishan, had agreed to receive the letter that Captain Elliot had been trying to deliver to the Emperor for the last several weeks.

And the contents of this letter were even more shocking than anyone had previously imagined: along with many other demands the British had asked for a sum of six million Spanish dollars in compensation for the opium that Commissioner Lin had confiscated the year before. In addition they had demanded that an island be ceded to them, as a trading base.

The strangest part of it was that the British accepted no blame for their crimes: they made no acknowledgement of their smuggling, their repeated provocations, or their refusal to abide by Chinese laws on Chinese soil. Instead they placed the blame entirely on Commissioner Lin, accusing him of criminal conduct and unlawful seizures. It was as if the firepower of their ships had given the British the right to dictate that night was day.

Such was the pressure on the Commissioner that he composed a long letter to the Emperor, trying to account for his errors and failures. While acknowledging that he had made some mistakes, he pointed out that he had followed the Emperor’s express instructions in all his actions. He also placed much blame on the merchants of Guangzhou, who, he said, had colluded and conspired with the British at every step.

What the Emperor thought of this letter was not yet known, but rumour had it that he was not persuaded by the Commissioner’s arguments. It was even being said that the Emperor had agreed to hand the Commissioner to the British, to face whatever punishment they saw fit.

For Zhong Lou-si and his circle these tidings were like tremors in the earth: it was impossible thereafter to ignore the indications of a coming upheaval in the firmaments of their authority. Every day there were fresh shocks and aftershocks, in the form of reports and rumours, to remind them that the ground was shifting under their feet.

From Compton’s reports it became clear to Neel that a struggle had broken out in the official circles of Guangzhou, with many different factions competing for power. It was evident also that those who were getting the worst of it were the men of heterodox views, like Zhong Lou-si. The traditionalists were in the ascendant now, and as their stars rose a miasma of suspicion came to settle upon those who had advocated or practised the study of foreign affairs, such as Zhong Lou-si and his circle.

Nor was it only officials who were affected by the recent developments. Common people too were beginning to feel the effects of the British blockade of the Pearl River. Rumours of the attacks on Ting-hae, Macau and other cities had started to spread, creating much disquiet. In Guangdong all those who had connections with foreigners — and there were many such in the province — were increasingly coming under suspicion. Everywhere there was talk of han-chien, faan gwat jai and chieng-shang, traitors, rebels, spies and treacherous merchants who colluded with the British.

For Baburao and his family the problem was especially acute: it was now common knowledge that Indian haak-gwai soldiers and sailors were rampaging up and down the coast in tandem with the English faan-gwai. Baburao’s connections with Bengal were well known on the waterfront; it was well known also that Asha-didi’s kitchen-boat catered mainly to Achhas, men from Yindu. This led to so much unpleasantness that she was left with no option but to shut down the eatery.

Then, on a cool autumn evening, two months after the battle at Macau, there was a knock on Neel’s door. It was Compton, looking utterly distraught.

I have some bad news, Ah Neel …

Commissioner Lin had been removed from his post, Compton announced, and that too in a deeply insulting manner. The Emperor had sent a letter to the Commissioner’s deputy addressing him as Lin Zexu’s successor.

In this ignominious way had that great man, Commissioner Lin, been deposed: no forewarning, no notification — just a letter to a junior to indicate that he had been replaced! This was the Commissioner’s reward for his faithful and honourable service to the Emperor!

Neel had never seen Compton so much cast down.

Official confirmation came a few days later: Lin Zexu had been recalled to Beijing in disgrace. He was to be replaced by Qishan who had been appointed Governor-General of the two southern provinces of Guangdong and Guangxi.

The news created a furore in Guangdong where the former Commissioner remained immensely popular. People poured out to express their sympathy for him: wherever he went he was besieged by crowds; people would surround his palanquin and thrust gifts at him — shoes, umbrellas, robes, incense-burners and the like.

Lin Zexu’s fall from grace was a defeat also for Zhong Lou-si, and thus, by extension, for Compton too. They both knew that under the new dispensation Zhong Lou-si’s influence would be greatly reduced: effectively it would mean the undoing of all the work of the last two years.

Neel happened to be present in Compton’s shop one afternoon when Zhong Lou-si came by for an unannounced visit. It seemed to Neel that Zhong Lou-si had aged many years in the last two months; he was leaning heavily on a stick, his expression resigned and careworn. They parted on a melancholy note. Neel would never see Zhong Lou-si again.

The next day Compton went to Lin Zexu’s residence to pay his respects before his departure. On arriving there he learnt that the former Commissioner would not be leaving after all. The Emperor had sent instructions for him to remain in Canton. He was to assist the new Governor-General, Qishan, in conducting an inquiry into his own conduct.

Lin Zexu had become the equivalent of an ancestral tablet, to be taken out and put away according to the needs of the moment.

Now, as Guangzhou waited for the arrival of the Governor-General, the disquiet that had gripped the city was deepened by a sense of drift and uncertainty.

One evening, on his way back to Baburao’s houseboat, from Compton’s shop, Neel was surrounded by a gang of urchins as he stepped off the ferry. The boys began to shout curses and obscenities.

… Yun gwai, faan uk-kei laan hai!

… laahn gwai, diu neih louh mei!

… jihn hai, haahng lan toi!

It was not unusual for taunts like these to be directed at foreigners — or, for that matter, Chinese people from other provinces, or even neighbours from the next village — but there was a note of rage in the boys’ voices that Neel had not heard before. The strange thing was that they had identified him not as a ‘black alien’ but rather as a ‘traitor’: what would have happened if they had realized that he was a haak-gwai? It was better not to know. What was clear in any case was that Neel could not go back to Baburao’s houseboat: to lead the boys there might create problems for the family. Neel decided instead to head for the Ocean Banner Monastery which was just a little way further.

The urchins’ shouts grew louder and louder as Neel walked towards the monastery. Just as he was stepping through the gates a rock hit him in the back — but fortunately the gang did not follow him inside.

Taranathji was his usual warm, welcoming self. He nodded gloomily on hearing Neel’s story. The mood in Guangzhou was turning very ugly, he said. It wasn’t just foreigners who were being targeted; Chinese people from other provinces were also being set upon by the local citizenry. Such was the situation that the monastery’s Tibetan monks no longer stepped outside.

Taranathji told Neel that he was welcome to remain in the monastery and Neel gratefully accepted the offer. A message was sent to Baburao and he appeared at the monastery shortly afterwards with a bagful of Neel’s belongings.

Baburao was not surprised to hear that Neel had been set upon. He had heard similar tales from friends and relatives; boat-people too were being stigmatized as traitors and spies. The provincial authorities had been heaping blame on their community for their failure to sink British warships. They had thought that boatman ‘water-braves’ would be able to destroy the foreign ships with their special powers; they were enraged that this had not come about.

Kintu amra ki korbo? said Baburao in Bangla. What can we do? Landsmen may believe that we have miraculous powers but we don’t — we are just ordinary folk.

The next morning Neel sent a message to Compton to let him know that he had taken refuge in the monastery. Compton came over to visit and advised Neel to stay where he was until some more permanent arrangement could be made.

A few days later Compton came to see Neel again. He had spoken to Zhong Lou-si, he said, and they had agreed that it would be best for Neel to move to the Cambridge, which was still anchored at Whampoa. He would be safe there since the Cambridge was under the special protection of the provincial authorities; and no doubt the crew would be glad of his services as a translator.

*

Zachary sold his last lot of opium in early December, off the coast of Manchuria. With the Ibis’s holds now empty he lost no time in turning the schooner around to head back to the south.

Two days from Hong Kong Bay the lookout spotted Philip Fraser’s brigantine heading towards them. The two vessels hove to abreast of each other and Zachary went over for a meal.

Mr Fraser had much news to pass on: the British fleet had returned to the Pearl River estuary to await the opening of negotiations with Qishan, the new viceroy of Guangdong. One of the Plenipotentiaries, Admiral George Elliot, had fallen ill; he had resigned his command to Commodore Bremer. Captain Elliot was now the sole Plenipotentiary which was a matter of no little chagrin to many in the expeditionary force. Among his fellow officers Captain Elliot had gained a reputation for being too soft on the Chinese; the prevalent feeling was that nothing would come of his strategy of talk-talk-talk; that the Chinese were only using this time to build up their defences. Many officers took the view that Peking would make no concessions until it was given a bloody nose and they ridiculed the Plenipotentiary for his illusions. Many regarded him as a vacillating fool and did not hesitate to say so. Derisive nicknames abounded — Plenipot, Plenny-potty, Plenny-pissy-potty and so on.

In the meantime, the British fleet had been augmented by several more warships including a revolutionary new vessel: the Nemesis, an ironclad steamer, the first of her kind to venture into the Indian Ocean. Mr Fraser had been given a tour of this marvellous vessel and he could not stop talking about her. The Nemesis was made almost entirely of metal; there was so much iron on her that a special device had to be fitted on her compass to correct the deflection. Her two massive paddle-wheels were powered by engines of one hundred and twenty horsepower which daily devoured eleven tons of coal. Yet the draught of this mighty vessel was so shallow that she could operate in waters of no more than five feet! This was because she had two keels that could be raised and lowered. Her armaments too were such as to induce awe: she carried two thirty-two-pound pivot guns, capable of shooting shell or canister, five brass six-pounders, and ten iron swivels; in addition there was a tube on the bridge between her paddle-wheels, for the launching of Congreve rockets.

It was thought by many, said Mr Fraser, that the Nemesis would forever change the nature of naval warfare: she was expected to serve as a secret weapon, striking terror into the Chinese.

Along with all the other news, there was a snippet that was of particular interest to Zachary: Mr and Mrs Burnham had arrived in China on their ship, the Anahita. Mr Fraser had met them at Hong Kong Bay and they had both been very pleased to hear of Zachary’s successes on the coast.

The news prompted Zachary to crowd the Ibis’s masts with sail, sending the schooner skimming across the waves.

*

Chusan, and the progress of the campaign in the north, were subjects of much discussion in the sepoys’ tents in Saw Chow. News was sparse in the early weeks but it was generally understood that the fighting had been light and Chusan had been taken with very few casualties.

But as August turned into September ominous rumours began to circulate, of outbreaks of sickness and disease. Kesri heard that sick and dying soldiers were being transported back from Chusan to the southern sector. The word was that they were being sent to Macau, to be accommodated either in the Misericordía or in a mansion that had been turned into a hospital.

Then one day news arrived that a contingent of sick sepoys from their brother unit — the other company of the Bengal Volunteers battalion — had been sent back from Chusan and were now languishing in the Misericordía. Kesri went to Captain Mee to ask if the reports were true; not only did the captain confirm them, he also gave Kesri permission to take a group of NCOs to Macau, to visit the sick sepoys.

Since their arrival in China the sepoys had not once set foot in Macau. Although this visit was anything but a pleasure trip, they were glad to have an opportunity to see the town. Nor were they disappointed: Macau made a tremendous impression on all of them, most of all on Kesri. Their group happened to land near the temple of A-Ma, the goddess of the sea, and Kesri could not resist going in to have a look. He was amazed by the number of things that looked familiar — the incense, the idols, the sacred trees, the carved figures that guarded the gates. Kesri had known of course that many Chinese were Buddhists but not till then did he have any sense of the similarities between their dharma and his own.

Afterwards, walking to the Misericordía, the sepoys got lost in the town’s winding lanes. But at every turn there was someone to ask directions from, not just in English but also Hindustani — there were Goans everywhere, running shops, patrolling the streets, guarding doors. A squad of Goan sepoys even showed them their barracks and gave them gifts of fruit.

The Misericordía was a sombre, grey building. The compound was very crowded and no one paid them any attention. Fortunately Kesri spotted Rosa, who recognized him from the Hind: she led the way to a small, dark room at one side of the building — this was the ward in which the sick sepoys were housed.

On inquiring about the conditions in Chusan, Kesri learnt that the initial seizure of the island had indeed been relatively uncomplicated, as he had thought — it was in the aftermath of the fighting that things had taken a hellish turn. Epidemics of fevers and other diseases had broken out; hundreds of sepoys and soldiers had been struck down by chronic, uncontrollable dysentery. In the field-hospital mattresses were packed so close together that the attendants couldn’t get through without stepping on sick and dying men.

The basic problem lay in the high command’s ignorance of the island, said the sick sepoys. Their campsites had been chosen without due regard for the terrain: the fact that the low-lying areas of Chusan were dotted with swamps and marshes had not been taken properly into account. As a result the troops had been exposed to noxious vapours and deadly miasmas. Often their tents would be flooded by rising waters. One detachment of sepoys had set up camp on a hill, but only to be beset by foul odours; the smells were so persistent that they had decided to dig down, in the hope of finding a solution to the mystery. Within a few inches of the surface they had hit upon skulls, skeletons and rotting bones: it turned out that the ‘hill’ was a burial mound. The officers had decided that the mound was a source of contagion and had ordered that it be blown up. The explosion had resulted in a crater of coffins and corpses.

On Chusan, said the sepoys, fresh water was so difficult to find that they had sometimes had to drink from the ditches that irrigated the rice-fields. Provisions, most of which had been procured in Calcutta, were scanty or rotten, infested with weevils and fungus: it was evident to the sepoys that someone had earned huge profits by providing substandard supplies. Yet so dire were the shortages that the commissariat had been forced to keep on buying, at vastly inflated prices, from the merchant vessels that had accompanied the occupying force on its northwards journey.

And then there was the heat, which even the sepoys had found hard to cope with: for the white soldiers it had been almost beyond endurance. On top of that, the occupiers had also had to cope with the unrelenting hostility of the island’s inhabitants. Because of the bounties offered by the Chinese authorities the soldiers had not been able to relax for a minute, for fear of being murdered or kidnapped. A few who had let down their guard had paid a steep price, among them a captain of the Madras Artillery who had been set upon by a mob and whisked away to the mainland: his Indian servant had died in the fracas.

Before arriving at Chusan the officers had told the troops that they would be welcomed by the islanders; the Manchus were so widely hated, they had said, that the soldiers of the expeditionary force were sure to be greeted as liberators.

In Chusan it had become clear that these were delusions.

It was in listening to stories like these that Kesri realized how very fortunate B Company had been in being stationed in the south. Although life on Saw Chow Island was none too pleasant, their provisions were certainly adequate, with plenty of supplies being brought in by the bumboat fleet. Although they too had suffered from sickness and disease, their field-hospital had not been strained beyond capacity. All in all, there could be no denying that they had been relatively lucky in their lot.

In late October, the remaining battalions of the 37th Madras Regiment began to trickle in from India. They too were quartered on Saw Chow Island and they told harrowing tales of their voyage. In order to save money the military establishment of Madras Presidency had hired leaky old tubs as transport vessels. The ships were barely seaworthy, not fit to weather even a mild storm — and as luck would have it, they had run into a monstrous typhoon in the South China Sea; all four vessels in the convoy had been badly damaged and blown afield. One had spent several days under siege by pirates; if a British steamer had not come to their rescue there was no telling what might have happened. Another ship had vanished after the typhoon. The name of this vessel was Golconda: she was the ‘headquarters ship’ of the 37th Madras and was carrying the regimental daftar, three hundred sepoys, and most of the officers too, including the CO. The worst was feared.

A few days later Captain Mee confirmed to Kesri that the Golconda had capsized and all on board had perished. He confirmed also that the ship was not seaworthy and should never have been hired as a transport vessel. It was common knowledge that many palms had been greased and that some officers had been paid off — possibly even one of those who had gone down with the vessel. There would very likely be an official inquiry.

‘It’s those money-grubbing civilians who’re to blame,’ said Captain Mee, through clenched teeth. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s these merchants who make money on soldiers’ lives. The bastards are worse than grave-robbers!’

That night, lying in his cot, Kesri thought of the two boys who had tried to desert in Calcutta and how they had revealed, under questioning, that they were afraid that their provisions would be rotten and their ships unseaworthy — all of which he had dismissed as lies and rumours. He remembered also how he had commanded the firing squad that executed them and how they had died, falling forward on their blindfolded faces.

Now the dead boys began to appear in his dreams, calling him a fool for parroting the words of the Angrez officers, taunting him as a nakli gora — a white-faker.

Through this time Kesri continued to visit the Misericordía at regular fortnightly intervals, to deliver sattu and other provisions to the sick sepoys. Often he would make the journey to Macau with Captain Mee; while the captain went off to call on friends and acquaintances, Kesri would lead a line of porters through the now familiar lanes of Macau.

These visits did much to sustain the sick sepoys, many of whom were starved of news, desperate to know when they might go home. Kesri would tell them what he had heard: that the Plenipotentiaries were still up north, trying to get the mandarins to recognize their claims.

What he did not say was that the end was nowhere in sight.

With every visit there was a steady increase in the number of sick sepoys until the Misericordía could take no more patients: those who arrived afterwards were sent on to Manila.

And still they kept coming: in early November Kesri heard that of the two and a half thousand soldiers who had seized Chusan two months before, only eight hundred were still on their feet.

It was not till the middle of the month that there was finally a bit of good news to bring to the Misericordía.

Most of the expeditionary force’s troops were returning to the south! The British had pledged to return Chusan to the Chinese in return for some other island, to be used a base. In the meantime only a small garrison would remain on Chusan.

The rest of the troops were already on their way back to the south; they would enter the Pearl River estuary in a few days.

*

On arriving at Hong Kong Bay Zachary discovered that Mr and Mrs Burnham had gone to Macau on the Anahita. He wasted no time in boarding a Macau ferry-boat.

By the time Zachary stepped on the Anahita it was late in the afternoon: he was surprised to find the maindeck empty except for a couple of lascars, dozing in the shade of a staysail. It occurred to him to wonder whether Mrs Burnham was on board; it was not unlikely, he knew, and his heartbeat quickened.

Looking astern he saw that a canvas awning had been rigged over the Anahita’s quarter-deck, to shield it from the sun. He guessed that this amenity was intended mainly to accommodate Mrs Burnham’s dread of direct sunlight, and the thought that she might be up there now flashed guiltily through his mind. He tried to disregard it: nothing good could come, he admonished himself, of letting his mind stray in that direction. Yet, when his feet began to move towards the quarter-deck, he made no effort to stop them either. What could be more natural, he asked himself, than that he, a skipper himself, should go up to the quarter-deck? It was what any ship’s officer would do.

He climbed the companion-ladder slowly, and when his head drew level with the deck, he looked carefully from side to side. Seeing no sign of Mrs Burnham or anyone else, he breathed a deep sigh — whether of relief or disappointment, he himself did not know. Stepping up to the deck he saw that there was a carved, circular bench at the foot of the mizzenmast. That was where he would wait, he decided.

But as he was crossing the deck a door flew suddenly open. Turning on his heel, Zachary beheld a veiled figure, encased in an armature of clothing.

‘Mr Reid!’

‘Mrs Burnham?’

Even though it was a chilly day Mrs Burnham had spared no effort to protect herself from the sun: from neck to toe she was enveloped in white calico, trimmed with lace; her arms were covered with elbow-length cotton gloves and her head and face were sheltered by a circular hat, from the brim of which hung a visor-like veil of white netting. In one of her hands was a parasol, made of fine white linen, with a trimming of lace.

Now, as Zachary stood transfixed on the deck, her hat, with its visor of netting, began to swivel, turning from one direction to the other. Then, with a flick of her wrist, Mrs Burnham flipped her veil back upon the brim of her hat.

‘It seems that we are alone for the moment, Mr Reid. My husband has gone to the Wellesley to call on Captain Elliot.’

Zachary could not think of what to say, how to respond. What was the most natural way for a man in his position to greet his employer’s wife? Unable to think of an answer he moved towards the starboard bulwark, where he steadied himself by taking hold of the gunwale. Even when he heard the rustling of cloth behind him he did not look around but kept his gaze fixed ahead, on the Wellesley, a quarter-mile away. His senses were now at such a pitch that he could follow Mrs Burnham’s movements without looking: he knew that she had stationed herself beside him, but at a distance that seemed to be precisely calibrated to suggest to an onlooker that they were but two casual acquaintances, standing at the bulwark to take in the view.

‘I am very glad, Mr Reid,’ she said, ‘that we have been granted this opportunity to meet on our own.’

Suddenly a wave of thwarted desire surged over Zachary and he found himself saying, not without some bitterness: ‘You surprise me, Mrs Burnham. When we parted last I had the clear impression that you wanted to be rid of me.’

From under the cover of her slowly spinning parasol Mrs Burnham shot him an imploring glance. ‘Oh please, Mr Reid; you know very well the circumstances. If I seemed unkind it was only because it was so very difficulty to forsake our … our intimacy. Anyway the past doesn’t matter now: I have something of the greatest importance to say — and I don’t know if there will ever be another opportunity. Mr Burnham will be back all too soon, so there is very little time.’

Startled by the intensity of her tone, Zachary said: ‘What is it, Mrs Burnham? Tell me.’

‘It is about Paulette: I know you have written to her, to sever your connection. She has told me about your chitty.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She did not say much but I could tell that she was deeply, deeply wounded.’

‘Well I am sorry about that, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘I tried to be polite but the truth is that I too was deeply hurt by the things she had said about me.’

‘But that’s just the cheez!’ Mrs Burnham caught her breath with a muted sob. ‘Paulette didn’t mean what I thought she had! It was all a terrible misunderstanding on my part.’

‘I don’t understand, Mrs Burnham.’ Zachary’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Do you mean that she never implied that she was “with child”?’

‘Not intentionally. No.’

‘But what of her relations with your husband? They were not entirely innocent surely?’

‘Well Mr Reid, I do believe they were, at least on Paulette’s part. I am sure her stories of the beatings were true; I am sure also that she did it without knowing what she was doing — and when she realized what it signified, she fled our house immediately, before things could go any further.’

Over the last many months Zachary had come to be convinced that Paulette had wilfully and maliciously deceived both himself and Mrs Burnham; that his suspicions might be unfounded was hard to accept. ‘How do you know all this?’ he demanded. ‘Did you ask her about it?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘I did not ask her directly. But one day when my husband and I were in Macau we ran into her unexpectedly. I watched the two of them closely and you can take my word for it that she behaved in a way that entirely gave the lie to the conjectures that you and I had nurtured. She was completely natural and unafraid — it was my husband who seemed sheepish and apprehensive. I am convinced now that she told you the truth about what had passed between them — it was only that and nothing more.’

Still unconvinced, Zachary persisted: ‘I don’t see how you can be so sure.’

‘But I am indeed sure, Mr Reid,’ she said. ‘I realize now that I had let my imagination run away with me. I was at a loss to understand why Paulette had fled our house and the only explanation I could think of was that you had puckrowed and impregnated her. When you came to ask for that job, this suspicion weighed heavily upon me; I thought that if I had you within my grasp, I could make you repent of your loocherism and cure you of it forever. But then something changed; against my own will I found myself drawn to you and was powerless to resist. That was why, perhaps, I was willing to believe the worst of Paulette — yet she was utterly without blame. The fault was entirely mine.’

Now, at last Zachary began to give ground. ‘The fault was as much mine as yours, Mrs Burnham,’ he said grudgingly. ‘What you have owned of yourself is true for both of us. I too was prepared to believe the worst of Paulette — perhaps because it seemed to lessen our own guilt.’

‘Yes, we are both guilty—’

She cut herself short as a skiff appeared in the distance, pulling away from the Wellesley and heading towards the Anahita.

‘Oh there is my husband’s boat!’ said Mrs Burnham breathlessly. ‘He will be here in a matter of minutes and after that I must go into town, to make a few calls. We have very little time left, so please, Mr Reid, you must listen jaldee.’

‘Yes, Mrs Burnham?’

‘We — or rather I — have done Paulette a terrible injustice, Mr Reid. I would have liked to make amends myself, but I dare not, for fear of revealing too much, about us — you and I.’

‘So Paulette doesn’t know about us?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘I told her nothing for fear that it might put an end to the possibility of a future for you and her.’

Zachary’s eyebrows rose: ‘What do you mean by “future”, Mrs Burnham?’

‘I mean your happiness, Mr Reid.’ Mrs Burnham raised a hand to brush away a tear. ‘You were destined to be together, you and Paulette — I can see that now. And so you might have been, if not for me.’

She looked him in the face, eyes glistening. ‘I am a vile, selfish, weak creature, Mr Reid. I succumbed to temptation with you and have been the cause of much unhappiness for yourself and for Paulette, for whom I have nothing but affection. I know all too well what it is to have one’s love destroyed and I am tormented by the thought that I may myself have been the cause of it, for the two of you. You cannot let me go to my grave with that weighing upon my soul. I will have no peace until I know that you have been reunited with her.’

‘But there is nothing to be done, Mrs Burnham,’ protested Zachary. ‘Paulette still has my letter — I cannot take it back.’

‘Yes you can, Mr Reid. You can apologize to her; you can explain that you had been deceived by salacious gossip. You can beg forgiveness. You must do it for my sake if not for your own — if ever I meant anything to you, you must do it for me.’

Such was the urgency in her voice that Zachary could not refuse. ‘But Mrs Burnham, how am I to meet with her? I doubt that she would receive me.’

‘Oh do not worry about that, Mr Reid; I have already thought of a way to bring the two of you together.’

Mrs Burnham’s voice grew increasingly hurried now, seeing that the skiff had pulled abreast of the Anahita.

‘You will have an opportunity very soon. On New Year’s Day, we are holding a sunset levée on the Anahita. Mr Burnham wants to receive and entertain some of the expedition’s officers. There will be some ladies too, and I have invited Paulette as well. She has accepted — perhaps because she does not know that you are here. You must come — you can speak to her then.’

With that Mrs Burnham turned around and made her way down to the maindeck, with her parasol on her shoulder. Zachary followed a few steps behind and stood in the shadows, watching as her posture grew more erect. By the time Mr Burnham stepped on deck she had completely regained her usual air of regal indifference. Watching the couple together, as they exchanged a brisk kiss and a few quiet words, Zachary was seized with admiration, not just for her but also for her husband, who was the picture of calm mastery.

‘May I take the skiff now, dear?’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘I thought I would go to Macau to make a few calls.’

‘Yes of course, dear,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘And if I may, I will charge you with an errand.’

‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘What is it?’

‘You will perhaps remember Mrs Moddie, who we had once met in Bombay? I think I mentioned to you, didn’t I, that she would be travelling to Macau on the Hind? Her late husband was my colleague on the Select Committee — a most remarkable man. Indeed, this expeditionary force might not be here today if not for Mr Moddie; at a crucial meeting of the committee, it was Mr Moddie who helped carry the day by standing fast in the defence of freedom.’

‘Yes, I remember, dear,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘You told me about it.’

‘Well, I gather Mrs Moddie is now at the Villa Nova, her nephew’s house on the Praya Grande. I was thinking that we should invite her to our New Year’s levée.’

‘Yes of course we must, dear,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘I’ll be sure to call on her.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’ Mr Burnham bent down to kiss his wife on the cheek.

*

Only after the skiff had departed did Mr Burnham turn to Zachary. ‘Come, Reid,’ he said, leading the way to the quarter-deck. ‘I’m sure you have a lot to tell me.’ ‘Yes, sir.’

For the next half-hour they paced the deck together as Zachary talked about his voyages, on the Hind and the Ibis, and his sales of opium, in Singapore and along the China coast. Mr Burnham listened carefully but said very little, only nodding from time to time to indicate his approval. But he broke his silence when Zachary mentioned Lenny Chan.

‘Mr Chan’s a very useful man to know, Reid; very useful indeed!’

Mr Burnham’s approbation became even more animated when Zachary showed him the accounts and explained that he had netted a profit of close to a million dollars on this one voyage: from these figures alone it was evident, that despite the best efforts of the Chinese government, the hunger for opium was only growing stronger and stronger, especially among the young.

‘Shahbash, Reid! Splendid!’ cried Mr Burnham. ‘The rise in prices is proof of the power of the marketplace; a demonstration of the folly of those who would try to thwart the workings of nature’s divinely ordained laws. To confound the tyrants is to do the Lord’s work — a day will surely come when young Free-Traders such as yourself will be regarded as Apostles of Liberty.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Zachary gratefully. ‘It was a pleasure to be of service. If there is anything else I can do I hope you will let me know.’

At this Mr Burnham’s expression turned pensive and he seemed to experience a rare moment of uncertainty. ‘Well, Reid,’ he said at last, ‘although you’ve done very well so far you’re still young. I am not sure you are ready for other challenges.’

‘Oh but please, sir,’ said Zachary earnestly, ‘I do hope you will give me a chance to prove myself!’

Mr Burnham turned aside, as though to weigh conflicting considerations. Then, coming to a decision, he put an arm around Zachary’s shoulder and led him across the deck.

‘Your hunger for self-improvement is most impressive, Reid. But you do understand, don’t you, that certain matters must be kept in the strictest confidence?’

‘Oh yes indeed, sir. I shall not breathe a word.’

‘Well then, Reid, look ahead of you.’

Leading Zachary to the bulwark, Mr Burnham raised a hand to point to the Wellesley and the Druid, which were anchored a short distance away.

‘Assembled in these waters are thousands of soldiers and sailors from many parts of the British Empire. Every one of them must be fed, several times a day, according to their tastes and prejudices. Of all those men the hardest to feed are sepoys, especially Bengal sepoys, because they adhere to a great variety of dietary rules. They will eat nothing but their familiar provisions: grains, lentils, dried vegetables, spices and the like. Fortunately these foods are cheap and easily available in their own country — but overseas they are often difficult to find. This sometimes results in a situation that is very well suited to the operation of the first law of commerce.’

‘I’m not sure I understand, sir.’

‘To buy cheap and sell dear,’ said Mr Burnham, ‘is the first law of commerce, is it not?’

‘Oh I see, sir!’ said Zachary. ‘What you mean is that those foods are cheap in India but dear over here?’

‘Exactly! And if someone happens to possess a ship that is loaded with such provisions — and I will not conceal from you that the Annahita is one such — the opportunity for profit is boundless. But in order to dispose of cargoes like these the co-operation of one or two officers is almost always necessary. And that is the trouble — to obtain the co-operation of military men is not always easy, for many of them harbour a perverse suspicion of commerce. Indeed it could be said that as a class they are no less benighted than the Celestials in their hostility to the God-given laws of the market.’ ‘Really, sir?’

‘Yes — regrettably it is all too true. But fortunately there are always a few who understand that God would not have endowed Man with a love of profit if it were not for his own good. If assured a share of the gains, they are often very helpful. Many are able to exert great influence on the purchasing officers of their commissariats.’

‘But how are such men to be found, sir?’

‘Through careful observation and hard work, Reid. The most important task is to collect information: to find out, for example, which officers are living above their means and are being dunned by tradesmen. On an expedition like this one you can be sure that there are many such — they volunteer precisely in the hope of gaining enough prize money to satisfy their creditors.’

Now Mr Burnham began to drum his fingertips on the deck-rail.

‘I do not mind telling you, Reid, that I have my eye on an officer who may be just the man we need. I met him on the Wellesley a few days ago and was able to observe him at cards. He is exactly the kind of headstrong, free-spending fellow who is likely to be mired in debt. But I suspect he is hot-tempered too so he may not be easy to approach. It is sure to be a challenge.’

Mr Burnham paused to turn a speculative eye on Zachary. ‘I am of a mind, Reid, to let you handle him. Do you think you are up for it?’

Answering on impulse Zachary said: ‘Why of course, sir! You can count on me.’

‘Good,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘I will leave him to you then. He will be attending our New Year’s levée — his name is Captain Neville Mee.’

That he would name the one officer with whom he had almost come to blows was the last thing that Zachary had expected: an exclamation of alarm rose to his lips but he was able to bite it back in time.

Fortunately Mr Burnham did not seem to have noticed his discomfiture. ‘Do you happen to know Captain Mee?’

‘A little,’ said Zachary hesitantly. ‘He was on the Hind too.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘I’d forgotten about that. It’s certainly propitious that you are already acquainted with him. Do you think you might be able to obtain his co-operation?’

To bribe Captain Mee would be no easy thing, Zachary knew, but now that he had committed himself he could not bring himself to recant. ‘I can certainly try, sir. I will do my best.’

*

Outside the gates of Dinyar Ferdoonjee’s villa was a bench, facing the Praya Grande: often, when Captain Mee was invited to a tiffin or luncheon at the villa, Kesri would wait there so that they could return to Saw Chow Island together.

Kesri was sitting on that bench, waiting for Captain Mee to emerge from the villa after a late luncheon, when he noticed a memsahib walking briskly in his direction, her skirts swinging like the casing of a bell. She was wearing a wide hat with a netted veil hanging from the brim; on her shoulder rested a white parasol trimmed with lace.

When it became clear that the memsahib was heading for the villa, Kesri rose respectfully to his feet and held the gate open. He thought she would sweep past, with at best a nod for him. But instead she came to a halt and cocked her head, at such an angle that Kesri found himself looking directly into the visor of netting that covered her face. Then, to Kesri’s astonishment, a low throaty voice emerged from the shelter of the veil, addressing him by name, in Hindustani: Kesri Singh? Mujhe pehchana nahi? Don’t you recognize me?

He shook his head dumbly, squinting into her veil: not till then did she realize that her face was hidden from his eyes. With a flick of her wrist, she threw back the netting.

Abh? Do you recognize me now?

After scanning her face once, twice and yet again, Kesri mumbled, in a hoarse, disbelieving voice: Cathy-mem? Aap hai kya? Is it you?

She laughed and continued, in Hindustani: Hã Kesri Singh! It’s me.

Kesri saw now, hidden within the contours of her visage, the chrysalis of the girl he had known some twenty years before, when he had served as her gun-bearer. He recalled the directness and spontaneity that had made such an impression on him then, and it seemed to him of a piece with the way she had stopped to talk to him now. Yet, even though her face had filled out, he noticed also that it was suffused with a kind of melancholy.

Maaf karna — forgive me, Cathy-mem, he said, for not recognizing you. But you look different somehow.

She laughed. Aap bhi — you too have changed, Kesri Singh, except for your eyes. That was why I recognized you, even though so much time has passed.

It must be twenty years or more, said Kesri.

That is true. I am ‘Mrs Burnham’ now — and you, I see, are a havildar?

Yes, Cathy-mem. And how is your father, the Jarnail-sahib?

He is well. My mother too. They have returned to England and my daughter has gone with them.

Only one daughter?

Yes, said Mrs Burnham, I have only the one daughter. And you, Kesri Singh? How many children do you have?

Four, said Kesri. Three boys and a girl. They are at home in my village, with my wife and family.

And your sister, Kesri Singh? The one you used to talk about? What was her name?

The question jolted Kesri: it was as if Deeti had reached out to him again, from the distant past. There was something so uncanny about it that he exclaimed in astonishment: Kamaal hai! Amazing that you remembered my sister! Her name is Deeti.

Yes, of course, she said with a smile. And you, Kesri Singh — what brings you here, to China?

The expedition, Cathy-mem. I decided to balamteer.

She dropped her eyes now, and he understood that there was something else on her mind. When she looked up again her voice was quieter and more tentative.

And what about everyone else in the Pacheesi? she said. The officers? How are they?

Kesri knew from her tone that the question was deceptive in its vagueness; he understood also that her inquiry concerned one officer in particular — and who could that be but Mr Mee? After all, he, Kesri, was perhaps the only person who was aware of what had passed between herself and Mr Mee all those years before.

At the thought of this an intuition of danger stirred within Kesri: no good could come to Captain Mee surely, from lapsing again into the madness, the junoon, that had possessed him at that time? Cathy-mem was no longer a girl; she was married now, and no doubt her husband was rich and powerful, fully capable of destroying an officer of the rank of Mr Mee.

On a note of warning, Kesri said, in a low, flat voice: Mr Mee is here with us, Cathy-mem; he is the CO of my company.

Oh!

Kesri saw that the colour had suddenly drained from her face. He added quickly: Mee-sahib is inside this house, Cathy-mem — he has gone there for tiffin.

Yahã hai? He is here?

Mrs Burnham froze and Kesri had the impression that she was about to turn on her heel and walk away. But just then a voice called out: ‘Mrs Burnham, is that you?’

It was Shireen. ‘How very nice to see you, Mrs Burnham!’ She came hurrying down to greet the visitor. ‘Do come in!’

‘Oh hello, Mrs Moddie.’

As they were shaking hands Shireen noticed that Mrs Burnham’s fingers were trembling slightly; glancing at her face she saw that she had turned very pale.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Burnham? Are you not well?’

The parasol dropped suddenly from Mrs Burnham’s grasp. She swayed, clasping a hand to her chest. Fearing that she would fall, Shireen took hold of her elbow and helped her towards the veranda.

‘But Mrs Burnham! What in heavens is the matter?’

‘Just a spell of dizziness,’ said Mrs Burnham faintly, pressing a hand to her temple. ‘I’m sorry to be such a gudda. It’s nothing really.’

‘Oh but you must sit down!’

Shireen helped her up to the veranda and showed her to a chair. ‘Would you like a drink of water, Mrs Burnham?’

Mrs Burnham nodded and was about to say something when the voices of Dinyar and his friends came echoing down the vestibule. A moment later the front door flew open and Dinyar stepped out. Behind him came Captain Mee and a couple of other officers.

Captain Mee raised a hand to the bill of his shako: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Moddie — thank you for the delicious karibat.’

‘Goodbye, Captain Mee.’

Shireen noticed that the captain’s eyes had wandered to her visitor. She turned to Mrs Burnham, thinking that she would introduce her to Captain Mee — but only to find that Mrs Burnham was sitting with her face averted and her veil lowered: it was clear from her posture that she did not wish to be introduced.

Shireen waved the men off and then went to sit beside Mrs Burnham. Before she could speak, Mrs Burnham whispered: ‘Forgive me, Mrs Moddie, if I seemed rude — but I’m feeling too poorly to meet anyone.’

‘I perfectly understand,’ said Shireen. ‘Would you like to lie down for a moment?’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

Taking hold of her hand Shireen led her visitor indoors, to her own bedroom, where she helped her remove her headgear and lie down.

Mrs Burnham’s veil came off to reveal a face that was beaded with moisture. The feverishness of her appearance alarmed Shireen. ‘Should I fetch a doctor, Mrs Burnham?’

‘Please, no!’ said Mrs Burnham, stretching herself out on the bed. ‘It is just a spell of the chukkers. It will pass in a minute.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Burnham patted the bed. ‘Won’t you sit beside me, Mrs Moddie?’

‘You must call me Shireen. Please.’

‘Of course. And you must call me Cathy.’

Mrs Burnham’s eyes wandered to the framed picture that stood beside the bed. ‘That is your late husband, is it not, Shireen?’

‘Yes.’ Shireen picked up the picture and handed it to her.

Mrs Burnham studied the portrait for a few minutes, in silence. Presently she said, in a soft voice: ‘He was a handsome man.’

Shireen smiled in acknowledgement but said nothing.

‘I have heard,’ Mrs Burnham continued, ‘many stories about your husband. Mr Burnham thinks the world of him — that is why he asked me to call on you today.’

The words brought a quiver to Shireen’s lips; she turned her face away and buried her head in her shoulder.

‘You must have loved him very much,’ Mrs Burnham whispered.

Unable to speak, Shireen smiled wanly.

Mrs Burnham continued: ‘But you know, Shireen, even though you have lost him, you must count yourself very lucky — it is not given to every woman to spend her life with the man she loves.’

She seemed to choke as she was saying this. Shireen shot her a startled glance and saw that she too was wiping her eyes now.

‘Cathy? Whatever is the matter?’

Mrs Burnham was struggling to compose herself now, trying to summon a smile — but instead she succeeded only in looking more and more stricken. Where her grief came from Shireen did not know and nor did it matter — even though they knew very little about one another, it was as if they understood each other perfectly.

Mrs Burnham too seemed to be moved by the intimacy of the moment. She took hold of Shireen’s hand and whispered: ‘We shall be good friends I think, shan’t we, Shireen?’

‘Yes, Cathy — I think we shall.’

‘Well then, I hope you will come to the Anahita next week — Mr Burnham and I are holding a sunset levée, on the first day of the New Year. We would both so much like to have you with us.’

‘Oh that’s very kind of you, but …’

Suddenly Shireen was bereft of words: how could she possibly explain that for her the Anahita was no ordinary ship? Every time Bahram set sail from Bombay she had been present at the dock, praying that the Anahita would keep him safe — in vain, as it turned out, since it was from that very ship that he had fallen to his death.

Mrs Burnham gave her hand a squeeze: ‘Oh please, do say you will come.’

‘I would like to come, Cathy,’ said Shireen. ‘It’s just that it’s bound to be a little trying for me since I suppose I shall be reminded of my husband’s accident …’ She paused. ‘But it might be a little easier if I could bring some friends of my husband’s — Mr Karabedian and his godson.’

Before she could finish, Mrs Burnham broke in: ‘Yes, of course. Do please bring your friends. It’ll be a pleasure to have them with us.’

*

At the end of the day, when Kesri and the officers were back at the camp on Saw Chow Island, a runner came to deliver an order for Kesri to report to Captain Mee’s tent.

Although it was quite late, Captain Mee was still in his uniform. ‘Havildar, there’s a message from Commodore Bremer. He says we have to be prepared for a resumption of hostilities. A few days ago Captain Elliot sent the mandarins an ultimatum, to respond to our demands or face attack. The ultimatum has expired so we may have to move any day now.’

‘When will we know, Kaptán-sah’b?’

‘It’ll probably be a while yet,’ said the captain, yawning. ‘I’m sure they’ll carry on buck-bucking as long as they possibly can. But I thought you should know.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

For the last several hours, Kesri had been hoping for an opportunity to speak to Captain Mee in private. Sensing that he was about to be dismissed, he said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b, there is one more thing.’

‘What is it, havildar? Jaldee please.’

‘Kaptán-sah’b — today, when I was waiting for you at the house of the Parsi merchant, in Macau …’

‘Yes?’

‘… a memsah’b recognized me.’

‘So?’ The captain raised an eyebrow. ‘What of it?’

‘It was Miss Cathy, Kaptán-sah’b.’

The captain’s head snapped back and the colour drained slowly out of his swarthy face.

‘You mean …?’

‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b: it was Jarnail Bradshaw’s larki.’

Picking up a paperweight the captain began to spin it on his desk, like a top. Without looking at Kesri, he said: ‘Was she the lady in the veil?’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘You’re sure it was Cathy?’

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. She saw me and we talked. She asked about you.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I said you were here, with the expedition — she did not know till then.’

A look of incomprehension appeared on the captain’s face now as he raised his eyes from the desk. ‘What is Cathy doing in China, havildar?’

‘She is here with her husband, Kaptán-sah’b. His name is Mr Bunn-am. Something like that.’

‘Burnham?’

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. She said her name is Mrs Burnham.’

‘Oh my God!’

Rising from his chair, the captain began to pace the tent. ‘I should have known … I just didn’t think of it …’

‘Think of what, Kaptán-sah’b?’

Captain Mee shot him a sidelong glance.

‘I met her husband the other day, on the Wellesley. It just didn’t occur to me that he was … that he might be … anyway he’s invited the officers of this company to his ship on New Year’s Day. He wants to make a proper tumasher out of it — presenting arms, saluting the flag and all that. I told him I’d bring along a squad of sepoys, and some fifers and drummers too.’

The captain stopped to look out at the estuary. ‘I suppose Cathy will be there, won’t she?’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b. Clearing his throat, Kesri coughed hesitantly into his fist. ‘Maybe, Kaptán-sah’b …’

‘Yes, havildar?’

‘Maybe you should not go.’

To Kesri’s surprise the captain did not snap at him as he had half-expected. Instead he sighed, in a manner that seemed to suggest a kind of resignation in the face of a kismet that he was powerless to change. ‘It’s the devil’s benison, havildar,’ he said. ‘But I can’t not see her — I have to go—’

Breaking off, he turned to face Kesri. ‘But I’d be glad if you were there too, havildar. I’d like you to take charge of the squad that’ll be going with me.’

‘That is an order, sir?’

‘No,’ said the captain. ‘It’s not — but I’d like you to do it anyway.’

The captain’s air of authority had completely evaporated now; in his eyes there was a look of almost childlike confusion and vulnerability. It was as though the accumulated bitterness of the last many years had drained away and he had become once again the impetuous and open-hearted boy that he had been when Kesri was his orderly, all those years ago — except that even in those days he had never pleaded with Kesri in this way; nor had he ever revealed his emotions to this extent. It was as if the cavity in which he hoarded his anguish had grown deeper and deeper over time, even as his outward self was growing harder and more coarse: now that the pain had broken through he seemed to be helpless, completely at the mercy of his emotions.

Kesri made no further attempt to dissuade the captain from going; it was clear to him now that it was beyond his power to protect his erstwhile butcha.

‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b. I will come with the squad.’