Flood of Fire

Eighteen

Following on a medical examination, Captain Mee was given three weeks’ furlough to recuperate from the wound he had received at the Battle of Chuenpee. He elected to spend that time at Macau and lost no time in setting off. Kesri assumed that he would not return to Saw Chow a minute short of the full term of his leave. But to his surprise Captain Mee was back a couple of days early.

‘Kaptán-sah’b is looking ekdum fit-faat!’ said Kesri, with a smile. ‘Am I?’

Kesri could not remember when he had last seen Captain Mee in such fine fettle.

‘Ji, Kaptán-sah’b, you look very well.’

Captain Mee smiled. ‘It was good to be away, havildar.’

‘But why you come back early then, Kaptán-sah’b?’

‘Orders, havildar — from the Plenipot himself.’

The captain explained that there was to be a ceremonial parade and trooping of colours at Hong Kong the next day. Captain Elliot and Commodore Bremer were to issue a proclamation, and the Bengal Volunteers had been asked to send a squad to the ceremony. They would be taking a field-piece and gun-crew with them, for the gun-salute.

‘The big brass will be present, havildar, so you’ll have to make sure that our lads are on their toes.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

Next morning their detachment was taken to Hong Kong by a steamer. Disembarking at the eastern end of Hong Kong Bay, they marched up a hill to a stretch of level ground. A tall flagstaff had been planted there with the Union Jack fluttering atop. Several other squads had already mustered on the ground and were preparing for the ceremony: Kesri spotted the regimental colours of the Royal Irish, the Cameronians, the 49th and the 37th Madras.

The Volunteers were placed next to the Madras sepoys, to the rear of the British squads. After taking his position at the head of the squad, Kesri took a look around: he saw that a large group of civilians, mainly British, had gathered on the far side of the ground. A still larger crowd, composed of local people, had collected higher up the hillside.

A half-hour passed before Captain Elliot and Commodore Bremer appeared: the Plenipotentiary was in civilian clothes and the commodore was in full dress uniform. Marching solemnly to the flagstaff, they turned to face the ground. Then Captain Elliot began to read from a sheet of paper.

‘The island of Hong Kong having been ceded to the British crown under the seal of the Imperial minister and High Commissioner Keshen, it has become necessary to provide for the government thereof, pending Her Majesty’s further pleasure. By virtue of the authority therefore in me vested, all Her Majesty’s Rights, Royalties, Privileges of all kinds whatever, in and over the said island of Hong Kong, whether to or over lands, harbours, property or personal service are hereby declared, proclaimed and to Her Majesty fully reserved …’

Through years of practice Kesri had perfected the art of letting his gaze stray while standing at attention. His eyes wandered now to the civilian spectators at the far end of the ground. He spotted several familiar faces in the crowd: Shireen and Dinyar, with Zadig towering above them; Mr Burnham, with his wife on one side and Zachary on the other.

‘… given under my hand and seal of office,’ the Plenipotentiary continued, ‘on this twenty-ninth day of January, in the year one thousand eight hundred and forty-one.’

Tucking away the sheet of paper, Captain Elliot looked up at the assembled soldiers and civilians.

‘God save the Queen!’

A chorus of voices returned the cry and then Commodore Bremer stepped forward to read from another sheet of paper.

‘I Bremer, Commander-in-Chief, and Elliot, Plenipotentiary, by this Proclamation make known to the inhabitants of the island of Hong Kong, that the island has now become part of the dominion of the Queen of England by clear public agreement between the high officers of the Celestial and British Courts: and all native persons residing therein must understand that they are now subjects of the Queen of England, to whom and to whose officers they must pay duty and obedience.’

Kesri’s gaze strayed now to the other, less privileged, group of spectators, on the hillside above. Among them too he recognized a face: Freddie’s. Standing beside him was a youth in jacket and breeches; he looked distantly familiar but Kesri could not recall where he had seen him before.

*

It was the eighth shot in the gun salute that drew Paulette’s eye to the the tall, broad-shouldered gun-lascar who was standing behind the Bengal Volunteer’s field-piece. After watching him for a while she took her spyglass out of her pocket.

‘What you looking at, eh?’

‘That man over there. Standing behind that cannon.’

‘Who?’

Paulette handed Freddie the spyglass. ‘Here. You have a look. See if you recognize him.’

‘Who you think it is?’

‘Just look.’

Freddie raised the instrument to his eye and kept it there for a good few minutes. Slowly a smile spread across his face. ‘You think it could be him, eh? Kalua, from the Ibis?’

‘Yes, could be,’ said Paulette. ‘I’m not sure.’

The ceremony had ended now and the parade ground was filling quickly with people. Spectators were pouring down the slope, to gawk at the soldiers and sepoys.

‘Come,’ said Paulette, tapping Freddie on the arm. ‘Let’s go closer.’

Stepping down the hillside, they mingled with the crowd. When they were about fifty yards from the gun-lascar, Paulette came to a halt. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m sure it’s him.’

Just then Maddow too happened to glance in their direction. His eyes rested first on Paulette and then passed over to Freddie and back. Suddenly his sleepy gaze brightened and a smile played over his lips. He cast a glance around him, and seeing Kesri nearby he gave them a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if to warn them not to come any closer.

Struck by a thought, Paulette murmured: ‘I wonder if Kalua knows that Havildar Kesri Singh is Deeti’s brother?’

Across the fifty-yard distance, Maddow seemed to understand what was going through her mind. He answered with another tiny nod.

Paulette smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He knows.’

*

At the other end of the ground Mr Burnham was surveying the surging crowd with an expression of marked distaste. ‘I can’t say I care much for this riff-raff,’ he said to his wife, ‘we’d better be on our way — but I need to have a quick word with the commodore first.’

‘Yes of course, dear,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’

Mr Burnham turned to Zachary: ‘Reid, can I trust you to make sure that my wife’s reticule is not snatched by some opium-crazed la-lee-loon?’

‘Yes certainly, sir.’

Mr Burnham hurried off, leaving an awkward gap between Zachary and his wife. Slowly they edged closer until they were standing almost shoulder to shoulder.

After a few minutes of silence Mrs Burnham said: ‘It has been a while, Mr Reid, since I last saw you. I trust you’ve been well?’

‘Yes I have, thank you.’

This was Zachary’s first encounter with Mrs Burnham since the levée. Apart from two days in Macau, he had spent the intervening weeks at Hong Kong, assisting Mr Burnham with the construction of his new premises on the island.

‘And what about you, Mrs Burnham?’ said Zachary. ‘How have you been?’

‘Not too well I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘That is why I had to remain in Macau while my husband was at Hong Kong. My sawbones told me that the island’s air is unhealthy and I would do well to stay away.’

Her voice was languid, her manner indifferent, in a fashion that Zachary had come to know all too well from watching her at social occasions. In the past, when they had conspired to deceive the world together, he had delighted in observing her cool public demeanour. But now he knew that he too was among those whom the mask was meant to deceive and it was like having salt rubbed on an open wound.

But Zachary was careful to keep his voice level. ‘It must have been pleasant to be in Macau,’ he said. ‘I’m told the town is filled with convalescing military men.’

She was silent for just long enough that he knew he had rattled her. Then, recovering herself she continued: ‘Were there many military men about in Macau? I didn’t see any, but then I hardly left the house.’

‘Really?’

Zachary had been waiting for this moment and he knew exactly what he was going to say. Mimicking the silky tone that she herself often used, he said: ‘As it happens I was in Macau myself for a couple of days and I could swear I saw you going into a milliner’s shop one afternoon, down the street from the St Lazarus Church. As a matter of fact, I even saw you coming out after an hour or two, with Captain Mee. I’m told this milliner sometimes has a room to rent.’

‘Mr Reid!’ Mrs Burnham had gone white. ‘What on earth are you implying?’

A bark of laughter broke from Zachary’s throat. ‘Oh come, Mrs Burnham, there’s no need to pretend with me. You forget that I am perfectly familiar with your play-acting.’

‘What on earth … what do you mean, Mr Reid?’ she said, stumbling over her words.

Zachary saw from the corner of his eye that Mrs Burnham’s face had disappeared behind her parasol. ‘Captain Mee is the one, isn’t he, Mrs Burnham? The lieutenant you told me about?’

This set the parasol twirling in agitation so he softened his tone. ‘There’s no need to hide your face, Mrs Burnham.’

Now at last she answered, in a faltering, breathless rush. ‘Oh please, Mr Reid. All we did was talk — you will not speak of it to anyone, will you?’

Her capitulation softened Zachary a little. Without quite meaning to he voiced the question that had been circling in his head ever since the night of the levée.

‘Why him, Mrs Burnham? What do you see in that clodhopping dingleberry?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t know the answer. All I can say is that if it were in my hands I would not have chosen him.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because we’re different, he and I. He is utterly without calculation, without guile; he is ruled entirely by his sense of duty. It is strange to say so, but I do not think I have ever known anyone so completely selfless.’

A thin smile rose to Zachary’s lips. ‘You are either deluded or naive, Mrs Burnham,’ he retorted. ‘There is nothing selfless about these military men. They are all drowning in debt; they can be bought for fifty dollars apiece. You should ask your husband about it — he has plenty of them in his pocket.’

‘Not Neville,’ she said with calm certainty. ‘He is not that kind of man.’

Zachary noticed now that her eyes had strayed to the other end of the parade ground, where Captain Mee could be seen, leaning against the hilt of his sword as he chatted with some other officers.

‘Is that what you believe?’ said Zachary. ‘That Captain Mee is immune to the inducements that tempt other men?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am sure of it.’

He permitted himself a smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we shall see.’

To grease the captain’s palms would not be easy, Zachary knew, but he was certain that it could be done: it was certainly a challenge worth rising to. And the more he thought about it the more important it seemed that he should succeed in the endeavour — for would it not thwart the design of the world if one man were allowed to flout the law of cupidity, that great engine of progress that matched needs to gains, supply with demand, and thereby distributed the right rewards to those who most deserved them?

*

Compton was visiting the Cambridge the day the gun salute was fired at Hong Kong.

The sound was heard clearly at the Tiger’s Mouth, where the Cambridge was still at anchor. Everybody understood that the shots were being fired by the English to celebrate their acquisition of the island; this aroused revulsion and sadness among all aboard but most of all in Compton.

Yet he knew very well that there was nothing to be done about it: Governor-General Qishan was in the impossible position of having to reconcile his instructions from the Emperor — to drive out the invaders at all costs — with the realities of the situation, which was that the British already had effective possession of the island; to wrest it from them was impossible without a change in the balance of firepower. If the Governor-General had not conceded the demands the British might have pushed on to Guangzhou, inflicting even greater losses. The best hope now was that the Emperor, on receiving the governor’s dispatches, would perceive the wisdom of following a policy of limiting the damage.

But the Emperor was unpredictable; there was no knowing how he would respond. And until word came from Beijing, what else was there to do but prepare for another British attack? This indeed was why Compton had come to the Cambridge: he was bearing orders for the vessel to move up to the First Bar of the Pearl River.

The First Bar was a feature that Neel knew well: it was a kind of cataract, only a few li from Whampoa. There were two such bars, or cataracts, on the Pearl River; at these points in the river’s course the water ran shallow and the channel was broken up by shifting shoals and sandbars. The navigable lanes changed from week to week and deep-draughted ships had to hire specialized pilots to guide them past the obstacles.

Neel had grown familiar with the First Bar during his time at Whampoa: the terrain there was flat and green, the river being flanked on both sides by rice-fields, orchards and scattered villages. In normal times the landscape was reminiscent of the Bengal countryside, lush, bucolic and sleepy.

But when the Cambridge arrived at the First Bar now, Neel saw that there had been dramatic changes in its surroundings. In the last month thousands of troops and workers had set up camp on either side of the river. A mud-walled fort had risen on the east bank: extending outwards from it was a gigantic raft, built with massive timbers; it stretched from shore to shore and was so solidly built that it looked like a dam. Hundreds of acres of forest had been cut down for the construction of the raft; the cost had been borne by the merchants of the Co-Hong: they were rumoured to have spent thousands of silver taels on the timber alone.

One section of the raft was moveable, to allow traffic to go through when necessary. The Cambridge crossed over to the other side and dropped anchor just abaft of the raft, across the river from the fort. The Cambridge was to serve as the fort’s counterpart, a floating gun-emplacement: her mission was to protect the raft’s moorings on the western bank of the river.

After experimenting with various angles it was decided that the Cambridge would be tethered with her bows pointing in the direction from which the invaders’ warships were expected to come. The advantage of this was that it narrowed the ship’s profile, presenting a smaller target to the attackers; the disadvantage was that it reduced the number of guns that could be brought to bear on the stretch of river that lay ahead: in the event of an attack only the guns in the Cambridge’s bows would be in play. To remedy this more gun-ports were created in the ship’s nose, on all decks. The forward guns being of critical importance, great care was invested in their manning. A dozen of the ship’s most competent sailors were chosen to be golondauzes and they were given free rein to pick their own men. Jodu was one of the first to be appointed: much to Neel’s joy, Jodu picked him for his gun-crew, giving him the job of sumbadar or rammer-man.

For the next fortnight the gun-crews spent their time devising and practising drills. The officers could provide little guidance, being unaccustomed to Western-style ships, so the crewmen had to draw up their own protocols, from memory. A Macahnese lascar who had served on a Portuguese naval vessel took the lead: it was he who drew up the drill for clearing the deck and summoning the crew to battle-stations.

Through this time Compton continued to visit the Cambridge regularly, bearing news. Talks were still under way, he said, between the British and Chinese; Compton himself often translated for the Governor-General’s emissaries. But as for progress there was little to report: so far as the British were concerned there was nothing to be discussed except the ratification of the convention of Chuenpee. They would not be satisfied unless the Emperor conceded all their demands.

For his part, Compton was convinced that the Daoguang Emperor would not make any concessions. And sure enough he returned to the Cambridge one morning with the news that the Emperor had indeed repudiated the treaty in its entirety. Not only that, he had severely reprimanded Governor-General Qishan for making concessions to the British. His instructions to the authorities in Guangdong remained unchanged: no compromise was possible and the invader had to be repelled at all costs. But this time the Emperor had done more than issue exhortations: he had personally sanctioned funds for the rebuilding and strengthening of all the Pearl River fortifications. In addition thousands of troops from Hunan, Sichuan and Yunnan were to be sent to Guangdong to reinforce the province’s defences.

Over the next few days a great number of fresh troops poured into the area around the First Bar. Beside the Cambridge a fortified encampment arose, manned by a battalion-strength unit of tough, seasoned troops from Hunan.

It was evident from these preparations that the raft had become a key element in the safeguarding of Guangzhou: in effect it was the city’s last line of defence. Past this point the river branched off into many channels; there were so many of them that it was impossible to effectively block them all. This meant that if British warships succeeded in breaking through at the First Bar then Whampoa and Guangzhou would be at their mercy.

One night, looking at the campfires that were burning on both shores of the river, Neel burst into laughter.

Why are you laughing? said Jodu.

It just occurred to me, said Neel, that the responsibility for defending Canton has fallen on a motley crew of ‘black-aliens’.

*

Towards the middle of February Mr Burnham accompanied the expedition’s commanders on one of their periodic expeditions to meet with Qishan. On his return, he told Zachary that the Plenipot was losing hope of having the treaty ratified by the Emperor. At the most recent meeting Qishan had seemed very much cast down, not at all his usual polished self; his manner had been strangely evasive as though he were concealing something. Captain Elliot had garnered the impression that the Emperor had already made his decision: the agreement that he and Qishan had negotiated at Chuenpee had been repudiated.

As for Commodore Bremer, he and several other officers had long believed that Captain Elliot was on a fool’s errand; it was clear to them that the mandarins were just playing for time in order to shore up their defences. Of late many signs of a military build-up had been observed around the Tiger’s Mouth. Information had also been received that the Celestials were taking steps to block the river’s navigable channels with chains, stakes and rafts.

These preparations had caused much outrage among the British leadership: they were seen as a clear sign of Chinese perfidy, offering vindication to those who believed that the victory at Chuenpee should have been consolidated with an attack on Canton. These officers were now urging swift action: if the Chinese were given more time to prepare then it would only make their own job harder in the end. Many were pressing for an immediate attack leading to the seizure of Canton itself.

Yielding to the pressure, Captain Elliot had agreed to issue an ultimatum to Qishan: if the ratified treaty were not received within four days then Guangzhou would face attack.

Few were those, said Mr Burnham, who entertained any hope of a peaceful resolution. Preparations for the renewal of hostilities were already under way. Word was out that merchant ships would be needed to serve as support vessels for the British attack force.

At this a thought leapt to Zachary’s mind. ‘Is there any chance, sir,’ he said, ‘that the Ibis might be used by the expedition? She is sitting idle after all and there is nothing I would like more than to support our brave soldiers and sailors.’

Mr Burnham smiled and patted Zachary on the back. ‘Your enthusiasm does you credit, Reid! That thought had occurred to me too. I will try to put a word in the commodore’s ear — I cannot promise anything of course. Everyone is clamouring to lend their ships to the fleet, even the Parsis, so it will not be easy.’

The next few days passed in great anxiety for Zachary. Such was his eagerness to join the expedition that he found it hard to keep his mind on the construction of Mr Burnham’s godown. Only on the day that Captain Elliot’s ultimatum expired was the matter resolved: a beaming Mr Burnham came striding up to the work site, to announce that he had good news: the British attack would be launched in a day or two and the Ibis had been included in the list of six support vessels that were to sail with the fleet. Her job was to carry supplies of munitions and to serve as a holding-ship for the badly wounded.

Zachary was overjoyed: to witness a seaborne attack at first-hand seemed to him as great an adventure as he could ever have wished for.

‘And what about you, sir? Will you be sailing with the fleet too?’

‘So I shall,’ said Mr Burnham proudly. ‘I’ll be on the Wellesley again with Commodore Bremer. He has invited me to join him on his flagship. It is a signal honour.’

‘Indeed it is, sir, but it is no more than your due. But what about the Anahita? Will she remain here at Hong Kong?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘My wife has decided that she would like to remain here. The commodore has advised the merchant fleet to move to Saw Chow but I think he is being overly cautious. I cannot imagine that there will be any danger.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, sir.’

Mr Burnham glanced at his fob before giving Zachary a pat on the back. ‘You’d better be off now, Reid; I’m sure there’s a lot to be done on the Ibis.’

Eager to get to work, Zachary hurried back to the schooner — but no sooner had he stepped on board than he learnt of a minor setback. The Finnish first mate was waiting for him, on the maindeck. His shirt was splattered with blood and he was holding a large poultice to his face.

The door of his cabin had slammed into him, said the mate, knocking him off his feet. He suspected that he had suffered internal injuries as well; in any case, he was in no state to sail.

Zachary had suspected for a while that the mate was looking for an excuse to abandon ship: he paid him off and told him to empty out his cabin.

It was too late to find a man to take the Finn’s place, but Zachary did not allow that to dampen his enthusiasm: he was confident that he and the second mate would be able to manage well enough between them.

*

The night before the embarkation Kesri was summoned to Captain Mee’s tent, for a briefing on the plan of attack. On the captain’s field-desk lay a large chart of the defences of the Pearl River’s lower reaches.

The fortifications that had been reconstructed or newly built were marked in red ink, and the area around the Tiger’s Mouth was a sunburst of colour: the recently demolished fortifications at Chuenpee and Tytock had all been rebuilt, said Captain Mee. Chains had once again been slung across the shipping lanes and at certain points stakes had been sunk into the river-bed, to obstruct entry.

The most heavily reinforced forts were those on the island of North Wantung, which lay right in the middle of the Tiger’s Mouth, halfway between Chuenpee to the east and Tytock to the west. The island was now bristling with batteries: one set of guns faced the main shipping channel to the east; the other overlooked the lane to the west. In addition, a third battery had been built on the island’s peak.

Along with a number of other officers, Captain Mee had surveyed the fortifications of North Wantung from the deck of the Nemesis. The forts were undoubtedly impressive, he said: the island was now encircled by some two hundred cannon: the month before there had been only a few dozen guns on the island; that such a vast project could be so quickly completed was in itself an astonishing thing.

But just to the south of heavily fortified North Wantung lay another, much smaller island: South Wantung. The batteries of North Wantung were within easy shelling distance of its southern neighbour — yet, unaccountably, the Chinese had failed to occupy and fortify this second island. From a military point of view this was an elementary error, said the captain: if taken, South Wantung might well be the lever with which to force open the Tiger’s Mouth. This was the thinking behind the British plan of attack, which would commence with an assault on that island.

Once again the Bengal Volunteers were to be transported on the Nazareth Shah; they would be accompanied by a full complement of followers and baggage. The fighting would probably take several days if not weeks, said the captain, so the men had to be prepared for a long stay.

‘This time there’re no two ways about it, havildar,’ said the captain. ‘We’re going to push on to Canton, come what may.’

*

Next morning excitement spread like a contagion at Hong Kong Bay. Everyone — merchants and lascars, Parsi shipowners and Chinese boat-people — knew that a critical moment was at hand. When it came time for the warships to sail, a procession of British merchant vessels, festooned with pennants and Union Jacks, left the harbour to line the route to the estuary; their decks were crowded with passengers, some cheering, some praying; their masts and yards were aswarm with crewmen who had climbed aloft to watch the fleet go by.

Three seventy-four-gun ships-of-the line, Melville, Blenheim and Wellesley, led the way, and were followed by the forty-four-gun Druid and the twenty-four-gun Jupiter. They sailed out in stately fashion, with each vessel being cheered on by the spectators, who whooped and shouted hurrahs as though they were at a regatta.

The Ibis and the other supply and troopships were the last to weigh. They were escorted out of the bay by the Queen and Madagascar. In their wake followed the merchant vessels that were moving to the safe haven of Saw Chow, the Anahita among them.

The weather was perfect, cool but not cold; the sky was a clear blue and there was a gentle following breeze. This was the first time that Zachary had ventured so deep into the estuary: even though he had seen many fine prospects on the China coast, he was awed by the grandeur of this view — the channel was like a vast valley of lapis lazuli, set between mountains of jade.

The assembly point was a mile or so below South Wantung Island; by the time the support vessels arrived there preparations for the attack were already under way. The force’s warships were anchored in a broadly triangular formation, headed by the Wellesley and two other seventy-four-gun frigates. Behind them were seven smaller warships and a flotilla of cutters and rocket-boats. Supporting the sailships were three heavily armed steamers.

The formation was like an arrowhead, pointed directly at the forts of North Wantung Island. The island was sphinx-like in shape, with its head facing the British fleet. Upon its crown sat a massive battery, the gun-ports of which were already open, with the muzzles pointing at the warships. The surrounding shores were ringed by an almost continuous circle of fortifications; battlements ran up and down the slopes, ranging over the promontories and peaks of the Tiger’s Mouth.

From the quarter-deck of the Ibis Zachary had a fine view of the preparations for the attack. Of the fleet’s complement of steamers, three were busy paddling around the anchored vessels. Only one steamer was stationary, the Nemesis — but that was only because she was to be the spearhead of the coming attack. Half a dozen longboats were clustered around her, discharging men and munitions; a string of cutters was attached to her stern, ready to be towed.

Just as the sun was going down a cloud of dense black smoke spurted from the tall funnel of the Nemesis. As steam built up in her boilers she seemed to quiver and shake, like a racehorse chomping at the bit. Then all of a sudden she darted forward, pulling three cutters behind her, heading towards the islet of South Wantung.

South and North Wantung were separated by a narrow strip of water. South Wantung was of negligible size: had it not been topped by a couple of small hillocks it could have been mistaken for a mudflat. Like a mouse beneath a cat, it seemed to cower in front of its lofty neighbour to the north.

As the Nemesis moved towards South Wantung two Chinese batteries opened up simultaneously, one from the heights of North Wantung, and the other from across the water, at Humen. The first few shots went astray and before the Chinese gunners could find their range the Nemesis had edged close to the shore of the islet. She pulled up to a beach that was protected by a hillock.

While the batteries of North Wantung continued to pound away, ineffectively, a landing party leapt ashore. All of a sudden the dun-coloured hillocks of the islet were aswarm with the blue uniforms of artillerymen.

Zachary’s spyglass was now riveted on the islet: having been trained as a shipwright he had a professional interest in the ways in which things were assembled and taken apart. He was captivated by the scene that now unfolded on South Wantung — two hundred men working together with the synchronized precision of wasps building a nest.

The gun-lascars of the Madras Artillery had brought a stack of gunny sacks with them; these they now proceeded to fill with sand from the shore. As the sacks accumulated they were passed from hand to hand, up to the saddle that separated the island’s two hillocks. Here, sheltered by the slope, stood an officer of the Royal Artillery; under his direction the sandbags were stacked to form a protective breastworks.

In the meantime squads of artillerymen were lowering an arsenal of dismantled weaponry from the Nemesis. A set of massive brass and iron barrels came first, each of them weighing half a ton or more; they were followed by the wheels and limbers of their carriages. The various parts were put together with astonishing speed and before the sun had gone down the makings of a small battery were already visible on the beach.

The fusillades from the Chinese batteries had been intensifying steadily all this while. The islet took many hits, but because of the intervening hillock none caused any harm to the artillerymen.

When night fell the Tiger’s Mouth became a vast panorama of light and fire. On the surrounding headlands the cooking-fires of the Chinese troops flickered dimly in the darkness. And all the while the guns on North Wantung continued to shoot so that the heights of the island looked like the mouth of a smouldering volcano, constantly ejecting tongues of flame.

On the protected side of the islet too, lights glimmered through the night as the British and Indian artillerymen went about the business of erecting the battery. When daylight broke it was seen that they had succeeded in finishing the job — a small artillery park, sheltered by a thick wall of sandbags, had arisen in the saddle between the island’s two hillocks. It consisted of three howitzers, two eight-inch field-pieces and a brass twenty-four-pounder. Behind the gun-carriages was a platform for the launching of Congreve rockets.

At about eight in the morning, with clear skies above and the whole estuary bathed in bright sunlight, the newly erected British battery opened up. The first rounds fell short, with the shells slamming into the cliff of North Wantung, gouging out clumps of rock and earth. But slowly the impacts crept up the rock-face until they began to crash into the walls of the battery, knocking out embrasures and castellations. Soon the field-pieces switched to canister and grapeshot, sending a hailstorm of musket-balls into the Chinese gun-emplacements. Then a flight of Congreve rockets, armed with explosives, took to the air. A series of blasts followed as they arced over the battlements. A powder magazine blew up and the explosion pushed a massive sixty-eight-pounder through its gun-port: it teetered on the edge for a moment and then toppled over and went spinning down the cliffs, with a great clanging of metal on rock. A plume of water shot up as it bounced off a boulder and plunged into the channel.

By this time the British fleet had separated into three squadrons in preparation for the coming attack. For a while the ships were held back by the retreating tide; nor was there a breath of wind to fill their sails. The pounding of North Wantung continued while they waited for a breeze; in the windless air smoke and debris rose from the island’s heights in roiling clouds, as if from a belching volcano.

It was past ten when a breeze stirred the air. Hoisting sail, the largest of the three squadrons set off for Humen, to the east; it was led by two seventy-four-gun line-of-battle frigates, Melville and Blenheim. The second squadron headed westwards, towards the restored fort of Tytock on the other shore: it consisted of only two vessels, the Wellesley and the twenty-four-gun Modeste. The third squadron converged on the battered and smoking island of North Wantung. Accompanying each group of attack vessels was a complement of rocket-boats.

Till this time no British warship had fired a single shot. Now, as the squadrons drew abreast of the gun-emplacements, they dropped anchor with springs on their cables, so that they could stay beam-on to their respective targets. Then, almost simultaneously they unloosed their broadsides at all three sets of defences — Humen, Tytock and North Wantung. The thunder of their cannon was accompanied by the shriek of Congreve rockets.

The firing was of such concentrated ferocity that it was as if a deluge of metal and flame had swept around the channel, setting fire to the water itself. As broadside followed upon broadside a dark thundercloud blossomed around the Tiger’s Mouth: the fumes were so dense that the warships had to stop firing to let the air clear.

When the smoke lifted it was seen that much of the Chinese artillery had been knocked out. The fort of Tytock had fallen silent while the guns at Humen and North Wantung were firing only sporadically. At all three points the battlements and defences had been badly battered and breached.

Now, as preparations for the ground assault got under way, the warships redeployed: the Wellesley and Modeste had already succeeded in reducing the fort of Tytock to a smoking ruin. Turning away, they crossed over to join in the attack on North Wantung.

It was only now that Zachary could bring himself to lower his telescope: he had watched the entire operation with breathless excitement, focusing now on the channel’s right bank, now on the left, and sometimes on the island in the middle.

Never had he seen such a spectacle, such a marvel of planning and such a miracle of precision. It seemed to him a triumph of modern civilization; a perfect example of the ways in which discipline and reason could conquer continents of darkness, just as Mrs Burnham had said: it was proof of the omnipotence of the class of men of which he too was now a part. He thought of the unlikely mentors who had helped him through the door — Serang Ali, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander and Mrs Burnham — and was filled with gratitude that destiny had afforded him a place in this magnificent machine.

*

Kesri and the Bengal sepoys had been assigned to the landingparty that was to attack the island of North Wantung. This force included troops from the Royal Irish, the Cameronians and the 37th Madras: each detachment was allotted a cutter of its own. Two were taken in tow by the steamer Madagascar and the others by the Nemesis.

As the cutters were pulling up to North Wantung, they were met by volleys of arrows and matchlock-fire. Even before the landing-parties reached the shore, the defendants came rushing out of the battered remnants of the fortifications, brandishing swords, pikes and spears.

Kesri knew then that what had happened at Chuenpee would repeat itself here: having endured a devastating bombardment, knowing themselves to be hopelessly outgunned, the defendants had decided that their only hope lay in hand-to-hand combat. This had given them a desperate courage, prompting them to abandon the shelter of the battlements. But once on exposed ground they were fatally vulnerable: before they could close with their attackers they were mowed down by musket-fire and grapeshot. As at Chuenpee a great number of defendents were set afire by their powder-scattered clothing; many had to fling themselves into the water, to douse the flames, only to be picked off as they thrashed about.

By the time the landing-parties stepped on shore the ground was already carpeted with dead and dying defendants. Some of the British officers began to call out: ‘Surrender! Surrender!’; some had even learnt the Chinese word — Too-kiang! But their cries went unheeded; many of the defenders fought on, flinging themselves on their attackers’ bayonets.

The landing-parties had brought escalade ladders with them but only a few were used. The battlements had been so badly battered that at some points it was possible to climb through the breaches.

On entering the fortifications, the landing-parties split up as the remaining defendants retreated towards the island’s heights. Kesri found himself running through corridors that were empty except for dead and wounded Chinese soldiers. In many of the gun-emplacements the bodies of the gunners lay draped over the barrels, pierced all over by grapeshot. Kesri was amazed to see that instead of seeking shelter they had stayed at their posts until the end.

Near the island’s summit Kesri came upon a large group of disarmed defenders, squatting in a courtyard, under the guns of a detachment of British troops. His friend Sarjeant Maggs was in charge.

‘These gents had the good sense to surrender,’ said the sarjeant. ‘But take a dekko at that lot over there.’

He pointed to an embrasure that faced the channel. Looking down, Kesri saw that the rocks below were littered with corpses: evidently rather than surrender dozens of Chinese soldiers had chosen to throw themselves down from the heights.

Once again Kesri was reminded of earlier campaigns, in the Arakan and against the tribes of the hills. There too the defenders had fought in this way, killing themselves to thwart their attackers. For sepoys and other professional soldiers there was nothing more hateful than this — it seemed to imply that they were hired murderers.

Why? Why fight like this? Why not just accept defeat and live? He wished he could explain to them that he, for his part, would much rather have let them survive than see them die: he was just doing his job, that was all.

Averting his eyes, Kesri looked ahead, at the fort of Humen which lay directly across the water. British flags were flying on it now, wreathed in plumes of black smoke. Suddenly there was a flash and an ear-splitting noise; as the sound faded an enormous chunk of the fort’s battlements slid slowly into the channel. Kesri realized that British sappers were now systematically demolishing the fort and its walls.

So much death; so much destruction: what was it all for?

*

More than anything else it was the swiftness of the operation that dazzled Zachary: within four hours all the fortifications of the Tiger’s Mouth were in British hands. No sooner was Humen captured than the chain that had been slung across the river was torn from its moorings and allowed to sink to the bottom.

Then began a spectacle that was, in its way, just as awe-inspiring as the co-ordinated assault: the destruction of captured guns and the demolition of the forts.

This too proceeded simultaneously at three locations — the channel’s two banks and the island in the middle. One after another, enormous guns were pushed out of their emplacements and sent tumbling into the water. Some were blown to bits from within: sandbags were stuffed into their barrels with massive charges of powder packed inside. They exploded like ripe fruit.

But these explosions were nothing compared to the earth-shaking blasts with which the forts were taken down. Each detonation sent a tornado of smoke and rubble spiralling upwards; the debris seemed to vanish into the clouds before it came crashing down. Soon the slopes around the Tiger’s Mouth turned grey under a hailstorm of dust.

Zachary was so mesmerized by the spectacle that he barely heard Baboo Nob Kissin’s voice at his elbow: ‘Sir, message has been received requesting for delivery of munitions to Bengal Volunteers.’

‘You take care of it, Baboo,’ said Zachary curtly. ‘I’m too busy.’

No sooner had the Baboo departed than Zachary received a message asking him to prepare the Ibis to receive some wounded men: he was told to expect a total of three officers and some twenty soldiers; they would arrive in separate groups, each accompanied by doctors, surgeons and medical attendants.

The schooner’s tween-deck had already been partitioned so that sepoys and troopers could be accommodated in different spaces. But no special provision had yet been made for officers. Zachary guessed that they would not take kindly to being sent below deck.

The first mate’s cabin was empty, but it was too small for three men. Zachary decided to move there himself, yielding the captain’s stateroom to the wounded officers. The stateroom was by far the best appointed and most spacious cumra on the schooner; Zachary knew the officers would appreciate the gesture.

The empty cabin was only a few steps from the stateroom, across the cuddy where the mates usually dined. It took Zachary very little time to move his things over. By the time the first boatload of wounded arrived, the Ibis was scrubbed and ready.

The soldiers’ injuries were slight for the most part and many were able to walk to their respective berths — very few needed litters. While the first lot were settling in, another contingent arrived, of some half-dozen men from the Madras Engineers: it turned out that they had been injured by flying debris while demolishing the forts. There was an officer among them, a Yorkshireman. He told Zachary that the engineer companies had used captured stocks of Chinese powder to blow up the forts: the walls were so solidly built that it had taken ten thousand pounds of powder to bring them down.

The intent of the demolitions was not only to flatten the defences: it was hoped also that the fearsome explosions would have a salutary effect on the Chinese, inducing shock and terror and making them mindful of the futility of continued resistance.

‘A few big bangs,’ observed the officer sagely, ‘can save a great many lives.’

*

When the Bengal Volunteers mustered on the deck of their transport vessel it became clear that the B Company had been very lucky, once again. Apart from a few scratches and cuts the sepoys had no injuries to report. The only casualty was an officer, a young ensign who had fallen while scaling the walls of North Wantung. He had suffered a spinal injury and was in great pain. It was Captain Mee who had brought him back to the transport ship, and he stayed with him while he was waiting to be moved to the holding-ship.

After roll-call Kesri went down to see the captain and found him still in his blood-spattered uniform. ‘Sir, will the ensign-sah’b be evacuated?’

‘Yes,’ said Captain Mee. ‘I’ll take him over to the holding-ship myself; he’ll be sent to Saw Chow or Hong Kong tomorrow.’

Kesri went back to the maindeck and joined the men who were gawping at the eruptions around the Tiger’s Mouth. They watched mesmerized until their trance was broken by a sudden outcry: some lascars were shouting for help as they attempted to pull up an exceptionally heavy weight on the swing-lift.

Kesri and several other sepoys flung themselves on the winch and tugged on the ropes with such a will that the swing came shooting up and was catapulted to the apex of the derrick with its load still cradled in it — and it was now discovered that the load was neither a crate nor a sack but an unusually portly visitor.

For a long moment the mechanism froze, holding the visitor aloft on the teetering swing. The sepoys and lascars stared open-mouthed at the apparition that had suddenly appeared before them — it was as if some supernatural being had risen out of the sea to levitate above the ship.

The skies too seemed to conspire in casting a heavenly light on the suspended figure — for just at that moment an opening appeared in a bank of clouds, allowing a beam of sunlight to shine down upon the swing. Yet, despite the brightness of the light, it was impossible to tell whether the visitor was male or female, man or woman, so strange was the appearance of the apparition: the body, imposing in its girth, was clothed from neck to toe in a voluminous saffron robe; this was topped by an enormous head, undergirded by heavy jowls and set off by a billowing halo of hair. Complementing this extraordinary ensemble of features were two huge eyes, now so filled with alarm that they appeared to be on the brink of shooting out of their sockets, like projectiles.

Suddenly the suspended figure unloosed a thunderous invocation, in a man’s voice: Hé Radhé, hé Shyam!

The cry resonated deeply with the sepoys and they roared back: Hé Radhé, hé Shyam!

The sound seemed to unhitch something within the machinery of the winch and the ropes began to turn again, gently lowering the visitor to the deck.

All this unfolded in a scant minute or two but the effect was electrifying. Kesri realized now that he had seen the visitor somewhere before but he could not remember where. Before he knew it, the words Aap hai kaun? had burst from his lips. Who are you?

My name, came the answer, is Babu Nobo Krishna Panda.

The moment Kesri heard the word panda everything was clear: the robes of auspicious colouring; the sacred invocation — all of this made sense, for a panda was, after all, a kind of pundit. In the past, when visiting temples, pandas had often roused Kesri’s ire with their incessant demands for money — but now the word ‘panda’ sounded like an answer to a prayer: it was as if the sea and sky had conspired to produce a figure who could answer the questions that were buzzing in his head.

Without another word, Kesri led Baboo Nob Kissin to the deck-rails and gestured at the immense columns of smoke that were rising above the surrounding forts.

Punditji, he said, what is all this for? What is the meaning of it? Do you know?

Baboo Nob Kissin nodded. Yes of course I know, he said, as though it were the simplest, most self-evident thing in the world.

Tell me then, punditji, said Kesri humbly. I too want to know.

Zaroor beta, said Baboo Nob Kissin cheerfully. I will certainly tell you: what you are seeing is the start of the pralaya — the beginning of the world’s end.

Arré ye kya baat hai? cried Kesri in disbelief. What is this you are saying?

A beaming smile now lit up Baboo Nob Kissin’s face: But why are you so shocked, my son? Do you not know that we are in Kaliyuga, the epoch of apocalypse? You should rejoice that you are here today, fighting for the Angrez. It is the destiny of the English to bring about the world’s end.

Baboo Nob Kissin raised a hand to point to the burning forts.

Dekho — see, these fires that you see today, you know what they are? They are just kindling. They have been lit in order to awaken the demons of greed that are hidden in all human beings. That is why the English have come to China and to Hindustan: these two lands are so populous that if their greed is aroused they will consume the whole world. Today it has begun.

Kesri’s head was spinning now. I am a simple man, punditji, he said. I don’t understand. Why should I be present at the beginning of the end? Why should you be here either?

Isn’t it clear? said Baboo Nob Kissin in a tone of some surprise. We are here to help the English fulfil their destiny. We may be little people but we are fortunate in that we know why we are here and they do not. We must do everything possible to help them. It is our duty, don’t you see?

Kesri shook his head. No, punditji, I don’t see.

Baboo Nob Kissin put a hand on his head, as if in blessing.

Don’t you understand, my son? The sooner the end comes the better. You and I are fortunate in having been chosen to serve this destiny: the beings of the future will be grateful to us. For only when this world ends will a better one be born.

*

On the Cambridge, which was moored less than twenty miles to the north of the Tiger’s Mouth, a hush fell on the decks when several immense plumes of smoke and dust were spotted in the distance, rising slowly towards the clouds.

The size of the plumes was such that only one conclusion was possible. The forts of the Tiger’s Mouth were on fire.

As reports came pouring in, it became evident that it was just a matter of time before the First Bar was attacked. The only question was when: would the English ships press on that very day or would they wait awhile?

With the passage of the hours the possibility of an immediate attack began to fade: the stretch of water between the Tiger’s Mouth and the First Bar was known to be treacherous and it was unlikely that the English warships would attempt to navigate it so late in the day.

At sunset, when the distant columns of smoke were turning red in the fading daylight, a silence descended on the Cambridge: after many hours of fevered speculation the quiet was almost eerie. When Jodu called the vessel’s Muslims to prayer, there was something serene and reassuring about the sound of the azaan, even for those who were not of the faith.

After the prayers were over, a huddle formed around Jodu who began to speak in a low, earnest voice. The intensity of his expression piqued Neel’s curiosity; he could not resist eavesdropping.

It turned out that Jodu was talking about Judgement Day and how to prepare for it.

Later Neel asked Jodu if he really thought it would come to that. Jodu answered with a shrug: Ké jané? Who knows? But if it does, I want to be ready.

*

A little after sunset a seacunny came to tell Zachary that yet another boat had pulled up beside the Ibis. Leaning over the bulwark Zachary saw that the boat was carrying a single litter: lying in it was a very young subaltern, an ensign. He was accompanied by a few dooley-bearers and an officer — none other than Captain Mee.

Zachary caught his breath: it seemed to him that this might be exactly the opportunity he had been waiting for. He went to stand beside the side-ladder and when Captain Mee stepped on deck, he held out his hand: ‘Good evening, Captain Mee.’

Captain Mee’s uniform was stained with sweat and streaks of blood: evidently he had been so preoccupied in looking after the wounded ensign that he had not had time to clean up or change. He seemed barely to recognize Zachary: ‘I take it you’re the skipper of this vessel?’

‘Yes I am.’

The captain peered at him. ‘Oh you’re the …’

Zachary steeled himself for an insult but it never came: instead the captain gave his hand a cursory shake. ‘Good day to you.’

In the meantime the wounded ensign had been winched up from the boat: when his litter landed on the deck of the Ibis he gave a cry of pain.

‘Hold on there, Upjohn,’ shouted Captain Mee. ‘We’ll have you snugged down in a minute.’

The captain’s voice was uncharacteristically mild, almost solicitous; evidently his concern for the young officer had softened the edge of his habitual abrasiveness. Zachary took this as a propitious sign.

‘Badly hurt, is he?’

‘Took a nasty tumble when we were scaling the walls at North Wantung,’ said the captain gruffly. ‘May have broken his back.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘If there’s anything I can do for him please do let me know.’

Captain Mee seemed to thaw a bit. He gave Zachary a polite nod. ‘That’s kind; thank you.’

Zachary hung back while the captain followed the wounded ensign’s litter into the stateroom. When he spotted him coming out again, Zachary stepped into the cuddy.

‘May I have a quick word, Captain Mee?’

The captain hesitated. ‘I don’t have much time.’

‘Oh it won’t take long.’ Zachary held open the door of the first mate’s cabin. ‘Would you mind stepping inside?’

The cabin was very small, illuminated by a single candle. After Zachary had shut the door they were barely an arm’s length apart.

‘What is it then?’

The back of Captain Mee’s head was pressed against the ceiling even though he was standing with his shoulders hunched. The only place to sit was the bunk, with its grimy and tangled sheets; Zachary decided that it would be best for them to remain on their feet.

‘It’s a very simple matter, Captain,’ said Zachary. ‘I wanted to suggest a business proposition.’

‘Business?’ The captain spat out the word as though it were a piece of grit. ‘I don’t twig your meaning.’

‘Captain, I happen to have at my disposal a large stock of provisions, of the kind favoured by sepoys — rice, lentils, spices and so on. My partners and I would be most grateful if you could bring this to the notice of your purchasing clerks.’ Zachary paused to cough into his fist. ‘And of course we would make sure that you were suitably compensated for your consideration.’

A look of bewilderment descended on the captain’s face. ‘What do you mean “suitably compensated”?’

To Zachary the question seemed like an expression of interest and it sent a thrill of excitement through him. The hook was in now and all that remained was to set it.

Picking his words carefully, Zachary said: ‘I am referring to a small token of our appreciation, Captain Mee. I am sure you know that we Free-Traders are very, very grateful to you and your fellow soldiers for the wonderful job that you are doing here in China. Since you’ve had to work hard and face many hazards it’s only fair, surely, that you too should receive a share of the benefits? It seems a shame that middle-ranking officers such as yourself should be rewarded with nothing more than a few paltry allowances’ — here again Zachary stopped to cough into his fist — ‘especially considering that many of your seniors have already received substantial considerations.’

The expression on Captain Mee’s face changed as comprehension slowly dawned on him. ‘Oh, so that’s the bustle, is it?’ he said. ‘You’re offering me a backhander — a bribe.’

‘You mustn’t jump to conclusions, Captain Mee.’ Only now did Zachary realize that he had taken the wrong approach — but no matter, he had other cards up his sleeve.

‘Don’t pitch me your gammon — d’you take me for a muttonhead? I know very well what your fakement is, you spigot-sucking shitheel.’

The captain’s big, heavy-jawed face was contorted with rage now; his fists were knotted and twitching. Zachary took a step back, flattening himself against the bulkhead. ‘Captain Mee, may I remind you that you are on my vessel? You need to get ahold of yourself.’

Captain Mee’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that — if I didn’t have a hold on myself you’d be decked already. But that’s too good for a kedger like you — what I have in store for you is going to hurt a lot more.’

‘And what, pray, is that?’

‘I’m going to blow the dicky on you,’ said the captain. ‘Now that I’ve smoked out your game I’m going to take this all the way to the top; I’m going to make sure you never try your flummery on anyone again. Bilkers like you have been responsible for too many deaths to count — why, between you, you’ve killed more of our men than the Chinese have! God damn my eyes if I don’t see you brought to book, you cunny-lapping cockbawd.’

The torrent of abuse fell on Zachary like a cold shower: far from intimidating him it made his mind quicker. He knew exactly what he had to do now, to bring the captain to heel.

‘Well, Captain Mee,’ he said, with a thin smile. ‘You must do as you wish of course. But perhaps you should ask yourself which is the greater crime in the eyes of the world: bribery or adultery?’

The captain’s eyes flickered, in shock: ‘What the devil do you mean?’

Zachary’s smile widened, in relish. ‘I mean, Captain Mee, that you have far more to lose than I do.’ He paused, so as to add emphasis to what he was going to say next.

‘And as for Mrs Burnham, she stands to lose the most, does she not?’

The captain froze for an instant. Then suddenly a fist came flying through the air and hit Zachary in the jaw. He staggered sidewise, until the rim of the bunk dug into the back of his leg causing his knees to buckle. The next he knew he was lying flat on the bunk and his mouth was full of the metallic taste of blood. Yet strangely the pain was not unwelcome; it seemed to clear his mind and quicken his calculations: he understood that by provoking the captain into losing control of himself he had seized the advantage. He had to make the best of it now.

Rubbing his jaw, he summoned another smile. ‘Mrs Burnham must have had the devil of a time,’ he said, ‘slipping a capote on an ox like you.’

Again he had the satisfaction of seeing the captain reel, as though it were he who had been hit in the jaw. On his big, heavy face there was a look of almost comical disbelief.

‘Oh yes,’ said Zachary, with slow relish. The throbbing in his jaw added immeasurably to the pleasure of knowing that it was the captain who was now helpless in his hands. Zachary smiled again: ‘Mrs Burnham sure has a way with capotes, doesn’t she? I’ll never forget the first time.’

Suddenly Captain Mee’s long limbs began to move, at great speed. Crossing the cabin with one stride he took hold of Zachary’s throat.

This only made Zachary laugh. ‘Why, Captain Mee!’ he said. ‘You seem surprised. All these years that you were wearing your hair-shirt — did you really think she was waiting for you? That you were the only one?’

‘Stubble your whids, you bastard: you’re lying!’

‘Oh you don’t believe me then? Would it be more convincing perhaps if I were to show you the little trick she does with the capote?’

The captain leant closer. ‘Have you no shame, you filthy poodle-faker?’ The words were hissed between his teeth, so that a fog of spittle settled on Zachary’s face.

Zachary slid the tip of his tongue slowly over his lips, as he had seen Mrs Burnham do many times in the past.

‘Why Captain Mee,’ he said. ‘I do believe the taste of her still lingers in your mouth — I would recognize it anywhere. I am sure you would recognize it on me too, if you’d care to put your tongue where hers has been. “Chartering” she calls it, if I remember right; and never better than on the goolie-bag …’

‘Dab your mummer!’ Goaded beyond endurance the captain shook Zachary by the neck. ‘You know what happens to blackmailers, don’t you? They always die before their time.’

The captain’s thumb was pressed against Zachary’s windpipe now, blocking off the flow of air to his lungs. Zachary began to struggle, and as he was thrashing about his thumb brushed against the handle of his jack-knife. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled it out, but just as he was flicking it open Captain Mee caught sight of it and made a lunge. In one swift motion he enveloped Zachary’s fist with the fingers of one hand, knife and all. Then he flung himself over Zachary, pinning him down with his weight, pushing him into the bunk and immobilizing his limbs. In the midst of this, there was a slight slackening in the throat-hold; Zachary tried to catch a breath but his nose was crushed against the captain’s collar and he found himself breathing in the acrid, sweat-and-blood-sodden odour of his uniform. He gagged and turned his head to the side: physically, he was helpless now, yet the more completely he was overpowered, the more his body succumbed to the strength of the bigger man, the sharper and and clearer his mind seemed to become. Snatching another breath, he hissed into the captain’s ear: ‘Poor Mrs Burnham! Bedding you must be like fucking a howitzer.’

The captain grunted, tightening his grip on Zachary’s fist. ‘You shouldn’t have pulled this knife on me,’ he snarled. ‘You’ve only made it easier.’

With slow, relentless pressure he forced Zachary’s arm up until the blade was resting on his throat. As its edge began to dig into his skin, a memory flashed through Zachary’s head. He remembered that the knife was not his own: it had belonged to Mr Crowle, who had held it to his throat in this very cabin three years before.

The memory emboldened Zachary. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Do it; kill me. And you know what’ll happen? Let me tell you: Mrs Burnham’s letters will be found among my effects — I’ve kept them all, you know. Is that what you want? To bring ruin on her?’

Zachary knew that this had made an impression because there was a slackening in the pressure against his throat. With a sudden twist of his body he squirmed loose and jumped off the bunk. Dusting himself off, he held out his hand: ‘My knife please.’

The captain was now sitting on the bunk with a look of bewilderment on his face. He handed over the knife without a word.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ said Zachary. ‘And if I may say so, you would be well-advised to think carefully about my proposal.’

‘Fuck you,’ said the captain. ‘I don’t ever want to set eyes on you again.’

Zachary smiled and went to the door. ‘Oh I’m afraid you won’t be so easily rid of me, Captain,’ he said, holding the door open. ‘I am sure we shall meet again soon — but until then, I bid you good night.’