Flood of Fire

Nineteen

On the Cambridge the first hours of the morning passed in gut-churning uncertainty, without anyone being sure of what to expect. Then a runner arrived with urgent news: five British warships and two steamers, one of them the Nemesis, had left the Tiger’s Mouth and were proceeding upriver; they would soon be crossing the First Bar.

It was a relief to have the matter resolved, to know that the battle they had so long been preparing for would soon be joined. There were some who thought that the warships might be thwarted by the shifting shoals and sandbanks of the Pearl River. But as the reports came in it became clear that no such thing would happen: the British had evidently worked out a system to deal with the obstacles of the river. The shallow-draughted Nemesis was proceeding ahead of the rest of the squadron, taking soundings and charting a safe course.

As the warships drew closer the reports began to come in faster: now they were twenty-five li away, now twenty.

At the start of the Hour of the Horse, in the late morning, the gun-crews took their stations and went through their usual preparatory drills; each sirdar checked his cannon over and again, readying it for the first shot, making sure that the touch-hole was primed with powder, and that the first cartridge and ball were properly loaded and plugged in place, with waddings of oakum, made from old hemp ropes.

It was a warm day and as noon approached it became scorching hot on the fo’c’sle deck, which was exposed to the sun. Conical hats no longer sufficed to keep the gun-crews cool so they rigged up a canvas awning over the forward gun-ports. But as the sun mounted the sweat continued to pour off their bodies; many of the lascars stripped down to their banyans, draping chequered gamchhas around their necks.

At noon the breeze died away and the air became very still. Soon word arrived that the British ships were becalmed nine li short of the First Bar; only the Nemesis was still moving upriver.

This set off a hopeful murmur among the gun-crews: if the ‘devil-ship’ could be caught in a cross-fire, between the fort and the Cambridge, then there was a chance that she might be taken down.

Hopes rising, the gunners kept their eyes ahead, on the river. In a while, sure enough, puffs of black smoke appeared in the distance; then they heard the thudding of the steamer’s engine, growing steadily louder.

Across the river too, on the ramparts of the mud fort, there were many who were looking out for the steamer. The fort commanded a better view of the channel so its lookouts spotted the Nemesis first. A signal was flashed to alert the crew of the Cambridge and a minute later Jodu pointed ahead: There! Okhané! And through a stand of acacia and bamboo Neel caught sight of a towering smokestack.

The Nemesis cut her speed as she came around the bend. She was almost within range when the Cambridge’s gunners got their first good look at her long black hull and her two giant paddle-wheels. Between the wheels was a broad, bridge-like platform: a row of Congreve rockets could be seen lined up on it, ready for launching.

The steamer’s appearance had changed since Neel had last seen her: on her bows there were two large, freshly painted eyes, drawn in the Asian fashion. Neel had never imagined that this familiar symbol could appear so sinister, so imbued with evil intent.

Jodu too was studying the steamer intently, his scarred eyebrows knitted into a straight line. He raised a finger to point to the base of the smokestack. That’s where the steam-chest is, he said. If we can hit her there, she’ll be crippled.

In the meantime, the steamer’s pivot guns had already begun to swivel; one turned towards the fort and the other to the Cambridge. Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the report of a gun; it wasn’t clear who had fired the first shot, but within seconds the steamer and the fort were hurling volleys at each other.

On the Cambridge a few more minutes passed before the steamer was properly within range. When the order to fire rang out, Neel and the rest of the gun-crew threw themselves at the tackles of their gun-carriage. Heaving in unison, they pushed the carriage against the bulwark, thrusting the muzzle out of the gun-port. Now, as Jodu squinted along the barrel, taking aim, the rest of the team armed themselves with levers and crowbars so that they could adjust the barrel as directed.

When the gun was angled exactly as he wanted, Jodu punched a quoin under the trunnion, to hold it steady. Waving the others back, he lowered a smouldering fusil to the touch-hole.

Only in the instant before the blast did Neel realize that the Nemesis had also opened fire and that the whistling noise in his ears was the sound of grapeshot. Then the recoil of their own eight-pound shot brought the gun-carriage hurtling backwards, till it was stopped by the breech-ropes that were knotted around the base of its cascabel.

After that there was no time to think of anything but of reloading: dipping his rammer into a bucket of seawater, Neel plunged the head into the smoking barrel, to extinguish any lingering sparks and embers. Then their powder-monkey — Chhotu Mian the lascar — placed a fresh packet of powder in the muzzle, followed by a handful of wadding. Another thrust of the rammer drove the cartridge to the end of the bore and into its chamber; then the ammunition-loader pushed a ball into the muzzle, to be rammed in again, with yet more wadding.

This time Jodu was slow and deliberate in his sighting. He had stripped off his banyan and was bare-bodied now; lithe, slight and deft in his movements, he snatched up a crowbar and began to make minute adjustments in the angle of the barrel, his coppery skin gleaming with sweat.

What are you aiming at? said Neel.

The steam-chest, grunted Jodu. What else?

Murmuring a prayer, Jodu lowered the fusil and stepped back.

An instant later the Nemesis shuddered and Neel saw that a jagged gash had appeared under the smokestack, roughly where the steam-chest lay.

A hit! shouted Jodu. Legechhe! We’ve hit it!

Amazed, almost disbelieving, the crew raised a cheer — but soon the steamer’s giant paddle-wheels began to turn again, making it clear that the vessel was merely damaged, not disabled.

Yet to force the Nemesis to turn tail was no small thing either. The gunners on the Cambridge paused to catch their breath, giddy with excitement, savouring the moment.

But their elation was short-lived.

Even as the Nemesis was withdrawing, the masts of several other warships were seen in the distance, moving quickly towards them. The squadron hove into view with the steamer Madagascar in the lead; under heavy fire from the fort and the Cambridge the British ships began to deploy around the channel.

The warships held their fire as they manoeuvred into position; in tandem with the Madagascar a corvette pulled very close to the raft and turned broadside-on to the Cambridge. Then there was a rattling sound, as the wooden shutters of the vessels’ gun-ports flipped open. Suddenly Neel found himself looking into the muzzles of dozens of British guns.

The two ships delivered their broadsides in unison, with a blast that shook the planks under Neel’s feet.

Stay low! Jodu shouted over the din. They’re shooting canister.

As the musket-balls whistled past, Neel looked up. He saw that the awning above the deck had been shot to shreds; a patch of canvas, smaller than a kerchief, lay at his feet, pierced in a dozen places.

Crouching low, the gun-crew pushed the carriage against the bulwark again. They were preparing to fire when Chhotu Mian toppled over with a powder-cartridge in his hands. Glancing at his body Neel saw that he had been hit by a cluster of grapeshot; his banyan was riddled with holes; blood was spreading in circles around the punctures in the fabric.

Don’t stop! shouted Jodu. Load the cartridge.

Neel snatched up the packet of powder and rammed it in. After the ball had been loaded, Jodu shouted to Neel to fetch the next cartridge; he would have to take over as powder-monkey now that Chhotu Mian was dead.

Racing to the companion-ladder, Neel saw that the maindeck of the Cambridge was shrouded by a pall of smoke. As he stepped off the ladder his foot slipped on excrement, voided by some mortally wounded sailor. When he picked himself up again, Neel found that he was in the midst of a blood-soaked shambles: men lay sprawled everywhere, their clothes perforated with grapeshot. A cannonball had knocked down a heavy purwan and in falling on the deck it had pinned several men under it. The smoke was so thick that Neel could not see even as far as the quarter-deck, less than thirty feet away.

It turned out that the sailor responsible for distributing the powder had been grazed in the head. He was sitting on his haunches, with blood pouring down his face. The packets of powder were lying behind him; Neel took one and raced back to the fo’c’sle deck where he thrust it into the eight-pounder’s muzzle.

Theirs was now one of the last gun-ports on the Cambridge that was still active. But the gunners of the Nemesis were closing in; even as their eight-pounder was recoiling from its next shot, a heavy ball struck the bulwark, knocking out one of the rings that held the gun’s breech-ropes. A slab of wood fell out, yanking the gun-carriage towards the water. As it tumbled over the side, barrel and all, Neel heard the whoosh of a rocket and looked up: in the bright afternoon sunlight the projectile seemed to be heading directly towards him.

Neel froze as he watched the rocket arcing down from the sky. He would not have moved if Jodu had not pushed him: Lafao! Jump!

*

Shireen was walking along a beachside pathway in Hong Kong, with Freddie, when the smoke from the battle at the First Bar appeared over the horizon, spiralling slowly upwards.

It was Freddie who drew her attention to it. ‘Look there — must be more fighting, lah. Very far; too far for us to hear. Maybe near Whampoa.’

The smoke was just a dark smudge in the sky, but Shireen did not doubt that Freddie was right about its cause.

‘Do you think the British will press on to Canton now?’ said Shireen.

‘Yes, this time for sure, lah.’

On the Mor Shireen had overheard a long discussion of this subject that morning. Many of the seths were persuaded that this offensive would be called off like others before; they had convinced themselves that the Plenny-potty would again lose his nerve — and if not that, then the mandarins would surely succeed in bamboozling him once more.

The day’s tranquil beginning had only deepened their conviction; the excitement of yesterday, when the bombardment of the forts of the Tiger’s Mouth had jolted them out of their berths at sunrise, was still fresh in memory and the contrast between the din of that morning and the silence of this one seemed an ominous portent.

The mood had changed briefly when the first shots of a gun-salute were heard — but the seths’ spirits had plunged again when it was learnt that the shooting did not presage a renewal of hostilities but was intended, rather, as a tribute to a Chinese admiral. Of all things! Almost to a man the seths concluded that the salute was a sure sign that the hapless Captain Elliot had once again been duped by the mandarins.

Dinyar alone had remained incorrigibly optimistic. The night before, on hearing of the storming of the Tiger’s Mouth, he had predicted confidently that this time the British would not stop short of Canton itself.

The officers are all gung-ho now, he had told the other seths. The Plenipot wouldn’t be able to hold them back even if he wanted to.

Shireen had listened to the discussion with only half an ear; it was Freddie who was uppermost in her mind that morning. She had thought of little else but of how she might contrive to see him without anyone learning of it.

Fortunately it happened that Dinyar had an errand to run in Hong Kong that day. Hearing him call for the Mor’s cutter, Shireen had made up a story about needing to visit Sheng Wan village, to buy provisions. As luck would have it she had run into Freddie within minutes of stepping off the cutter.

‘Listen, Freddie,’ she said to him now. ‘There is a reason why I came to see you today.’

‘Yes?’

‘There is something I want to tell you — something important.’ Freddie nodded: ‘So then tell, lah.’ And when she hesitated he added with a smile: ‘Do not worry — I will not say anything to anyone.’

Shireen fortified herself with a deep breath and then a string of words came tumbling out with her scarcely being aware of it: ‘Freddie, you should know that Mr Karabedian has asked me to marry him.’

To her surprise Freddie took the disclosure in his stride, quite literally. Without missing a breath or a step he said: ‘And what your answer was, eh?’

‘I told him I wanted to talk to you first.’

‘Why me?’

‘But of course, I had to talk to you first, Freddie,’ said Shireen. ‘You have known Zadig Bey all your life — he has been like a second father to you. I do not want to do anything that might hurt you.’

‘Hurt me?’

Freddie glanced at her with a raised eyebrow: ‘Why it will hurt me, eh, if you marry Zadig Bey? I will be happy for him — and for you too. You should not worry about me — or Father also.’

A weight seemed to tumble off Shireen’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Freddie.’

Acknowledging this with a grunt he shot her a sidewise glance: ‘But what about all your Parsis, eh? What they will say if you marry Zadig Bey? They are very strict, ne?’

Shireen sighed. ‘They will cut me off, I suppose. Even my daughters will, at least for a while. And I will probably never again be able to enter a Fire Temple: that will be the hardest part. But no one can take my faith from me, can they? And maybe, in a few years, people will forget.’

They had come to a sharp bend in the path now and as they turned the corner Shireen caught sight of Dinyar: he was walking briskly towards them.

Freddie too had come to a stop beside her. ‘Oh, see there,’ he said, under his breath. ‘One of your Parsis.’

It had not occurred to Shireen that Freddie might be acquainted with her nephew. ‘Do you know Dinyar?’ she said.

‘Only by sight, lah,’ said Freddie. ‘He know me too but will not speak.’

‘Why not?’

Freddie’s lips curled into a crooked smile: ‘Because I am half-caste bastard, ne?’ he said. ‘He is afraid of me.’

‘But why should Dinyar be afraid of you?’

Freddie flashed her another smile. ‘Because he also have made half-caste bastard, lah. In Macau. He know I know. That is why he is afraid.’

Freddie smiled again as she stared at him, her eyes widening in shock. ‘Now I must go, lah. Goodbye.’

*

The tide happened to be coming in when Neel tumbled headlong into the Pearl River: it was to this fact that he owed the preservation of his life — if the current had been flowing in the other direction then he would have been swept towards the raft, to be picked off by British sharpshooters. Instead he was carried in the other direction, towards Whampoa.

Neel had never before been out of his depth in a river; his experience of swimming consisted of paddling around pukurs and jheels — the placid ponds of the Bengal countryside. He had never encountered anything like the surge of the Pearl River’s incoming tide. For the first minutes he could think of nothing but of fighting his way to the surface to gulp in a few breaths.

As he was tumbling through the murky waters he caught a glimpse of a dark trail swirling around his limbs: one end of it seemed to be stuck to his right hip. Thinking that some floating object had attached itself to his body he twisted his head around to take a closer look. He saw then that the trailing ribbon was his own blood, flowing out of a wound. Only then did he become conscious of a sharp, stabbing pain in his flank. Flailing his arms he pushed himself to the surface and shouted for Jodu: Tui kothay? Tui kothay re Jodu?

Twenty feet away, a head, bobbing in the water, turned to look in his direction. A few minutes later Jodu’s arms were around Neel’s chest, pulling him towards the shore, into a thicket of reeds and rushes.

Leaning heavily on Jodu, Neel staggered out of the water but only to collapse on the bank. There was a long rent in his banyan, and underneath it, just above his hip, was a gaping wound where a musket-ball had entered his flesh.

The bullet had to have hit him when he was about to jump, or even perhaps as he was falling. In the tumult of the moment he had not been aware of it — but the pain seemed to have been waiting to waylay him for it assailed him now with a force that made him writhe and thrash his arms.

Lie still!

Neel gritted his teeth as Jodu examined the wound.

The ball’s gone too deep, Jodu said. I won’t be able to get it out, but maybe I can stop the bleeding.

Pulling off the bandhna that was tied around his forehead, Jodu tore it into strips and bound up the wound.

In the meantime the cannon- and gun-fire from the British warships had continued uninterrupted. Jodu and Neel were not far from the fighting, for the current, strong as it was, had brought them only a few hundred yards upriver from the Cambridge. Now, suddenly, there was an explosion that shook the breath out of them: the Cambridge had erupted, throwing up a solid tower of flame. The column climbed to a height of over three hundred feet, ending in a black cloud that was shaped like the head of a mushroom. A few seconds later debris began to rain down and Neel and Jodu had to crouch down, with their arms wrapped protectively around their heads. They did not look up even when the top half of a ship’s mast, thirty feet in length, landed nearby, with a huge thud. It had fallen out of the sky like a javelin, burying itself in the riverbank a few yards away.

A few minutes later there was another powerful explosion, on the river this time. When the smoke cleared they saw that a section of the raft had been destroyed. Within moments dead fish began to float up from below, clogging the river’s surface.

Soon they spotted puffs of smoke heading in their direction. Peering through the rushes they saw that a British steamer had pushed through the shattered raft and was moving rapidly upriver, swivel-guns twitching and turning. Suddenly a fusillade slammed into an already crippled war-junk; then another stream of fire hit something on the shore.

Neel and Jodu flattened themselves on the bank as the steamer swept past, unloosing bursts of fire, apparently at random. In a few minutes a second steamer appeared and went paddling after the first. Then came a couple of corvettes.

After the vessels had passed, Jodu climbed to the top of the bank.

There are some abandoned sampans nearby, he said, after looking around. The owners must have taken fright and run away. Once it gets dark I’ll get one.

Neel nodded: he knew that if they could get to the Ocean Banner Monastery they would be safe, at least for a while.

Shortly before nightfall Jodu slipped away, to return soon after, in a covered sampan. He had changed into some clothes he had found inside the boat: a tunic and loose trowsers, the usual garb of Cantonese boat-people. Of his face, almost nothing was visible: the upper part was hidden by a conical hat and the lower by a bandhna, tied like a scarf around his nose and mouth.

Jodu had found the garments below a deck-plank; after helping Neel into the boat he reached under the plank again and pulled out some more clothes, for Neel. He also came upon a jar of drinking water and some fried pancakes. The pancakes were stale but edible; Jodu devoured two of them before pushing the boat away from the shore.

Their way was lit by fires, kindled by the British gun-boats: blazing war-junks lay slumped over on their beams; the embers of shattered gun-emplacements smouldered on the river’s banks; on a small island trees flamed like torches. Jodu kept to the shadows and was careful to feather the oars so the boat glided along with scarcely a sound.

At Whampoa Roads a British corvette could be seen, in the flickering light of burning houses. The vessel was riding at anchor, her looming silhouette pregnant with menace, her guns swivelling watchfully. Along the edges of the waterway hundreds of boats were slipping through, heading in the direction of Guangzhou. Such was the panic that nobody paid Jodu or the sampan any notice.

As they drew closer to Guangzhou the signs of destruction multiplied. At the approaches to the city two island fortresses were on fire. Abreast of each was a British warship. The vessels had created such fear that people were pouring out of their homes, jamming the roadways.

Approaching the Ocean Banner Monastery they found a steamer anchored off it, abreast of the Thirteen Factories. On both shores people were milling about in large numbers; in the midst of the confusion no one noticed as Neel staggered through the monastery’s gates, leaning heavily on Jodu.

*

For ten days after the Battle of the Tiger’s Mouth the Bengal Volunteers remained in the vicinity of Chuenpee, on their transport vessel. Through that time they were constantly on the alert. Even though all Chinese troops had been withdrawn from the area new threats appeared every day: there were random attacks by bandits and villagers; some British units lost stragglers while patrolling ashore; there were rumours of camp-followers and lascars being kidnapped and killed.

As a result the men of B Company became impatient to return to their camp at Saw Chow. But instead the opposite happened: the troops who had proceeded up the Pearl River earlier were withdrawn and sent back to Hong Kong, and the Bengal Volunteers were ordered to move forward to Whampoa.

When it came to be learnt that the Hind was to sail upriver, there was much swearing and cursing. Only Raju was pleased: he knew that Whampoa was close to Canton and he imagined that if he could but get to the city his father would miraculously appear.

But on arriving at Whampoa Raju saw that nothing much was to be expected of it. It was just a way-station on the river, ringed by small townships and villages: it reminded Raju of the Narrows at Hooghly Point, where ships and boats often anchored on their way to and from Calcutta. The worst part of it was that nothing could be seen of Canton — and nor was there anything of interest nearby except a few pagodas and temples.

The boys’ first excursion ashore ended at one of those temples. It was like no temple that Raju had ever seen, with its hanging coils of incense and its unrecognizable images — yet there was an air of sacredness in it that was very familiar.

At a certain point Raju succeeded in giving the other fifers the slip. Stealing into a darkened shrine-room, he knelt before the figure of a gently smiling goddess and joined his hands in prayer.

‘Ya Devi sarvabhutéshu,’ he prayed, mouthing the first words of a remembered invocation: ‘Devi, my father is somewhere nearby. Help me find him, Devi, help me.’

*

For Zachary, the excitement of the Battle of the Tiger’s Mouth was followed by several weeks of oppressive tedium. His orders were to keep the Ibis at anchor near Humen, which was occupied by a small detachment of British troops. Other than ferrying provisions ashore and watching for thieves and bandits, there was little to occupy him.

With time hanging on his hands Zachary fell prey to anxiety, especially in regard to Captain Mee. The inconclusive end of their last meeting gave him much to worry about: he had no way of knowing whether the captain had reconsidered his threats or not. To wait for him to make his move would be an error, he knew, and he was impatient to bring matters to a head. But there was no chance of doing that while the captain was at Whampoa and he was posted to Humen.

It became especially galling to remain there after news arrived that trade had been resumed at Canton, as a condition of continuing negotiations. After that British and American merchant ships were seen daily, proceeding upriver to acquire teas, silks, porcelain, furniture and all the other goods for which Canton was famed. To be idling while others made money was exasperating; Zachary soon began to regret the onrush of enthusiasm that had led him to offer his services to the expedition.

One evening, when Zachary was fretfully pacing the quarterdeck, a boat pulled up beside the Ibis. ‘Holloa there, Mr Reid!’ shouted a familiar voice. ‘Permission to come aboard?’

‘Yes of course, Mr Chan.’

It turned out that Mr Chan was on his way to Guangzhou, at the invitation of the province’s new head-officials. ‘You see, Mr Reid,’ he said with a laugh, ‘how the tide turns? The mandarins who drove me from the city are all gone now. The new prefect has decided that he needs my advice. So after an absence of two years, I am at last able to return to my native city without fear of harassment.’

‘You’re lucky, Mr Chan,’ said Zachary enviously. ‘I wish I were going with you — what I wouldn’t give to see Canton!’

‘Have you never been there then?’ said Mr Chan.

Zachary shook his head. ‘No — I’ve been stranded here for over a month and I don’t think I can take it much longer.’

‘Well something must be done about that!’ said Mr Chan. ‘Mr Burnham is in Canton, isn’t he?’

‘So he is.’

‘I shall probably be seeing him,’ said Mr Chan, ‘and I’ll certainly put in a word for you. I’m sure something can be arranged.’

‘Oh thank you, Mr Chan! I would be ever so obliged.’

‘But you mustn’t thank me prematurely,’ said Mr Chan. ‘You should know that my assistance hangs upon the outcome of the little errand that brings me here today.’

‘Of course.’

Zachary couldn’t for the life of him imagine what service he could possibly offer to a man of such consequence; and Mr Chan’s first remark, which was uttered in a casual, almost uninterested tone of voice, served only to deepen his puzzlement: ‘This vessel, the Ibis — I gather she has an interesting history?’

Zachary could see shoals in the waters ahead and chose to answer cautiously: ‘Are you referring to what happened on the Ibis’s late voyage to the Mauritius Islands?’

‘Exactly,’ said Mr Chan. ‘Am I right to think there was a half-Chinese convict on board? A man called Ah Fatt?’

‘That is correct.’

With a nod of acknowledgement Mr Chan continued. ‘I had been led to believe that this man had died. But it has recently come to my ears that he may instead have washed up at Hong Kong. I gather he has changed his appearance and is using a different name.’

Since no specific question had been asked Zachary did not think it necessary to respond. But his silence seemed to provoke Mr Chan, who removed his hand from Zachary’s shoulder and wheeled around to face him. ‘I should explain,’ he said, in a sharper tone of voice, ‘that this man is of great interest to me, Mr Reid.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Let’s just say that I have some unfinished business with him, a trifling matter. It would be a great help to me if you could confirm that he is indeed at Hong Kong.’

Such was the contrast between the blandness of Mr Chan’s words and the silky menace of his tone that Zachary knew that the nature of the unfinished business was anything but trifling. Nor could he imagine that anyone would want to trifle either with Mr Chan or with the ex-convict: the man was a killer after all — Zachary had seen that with his own eyes, on the Ibis, on that night when he had settled his accounts with Mr Crowle. That he, Zachary, had thereby himself been spared injury — or perhaps even death — was the only consideration that made him hesitate to betray Freddie to Mr Chan.

‘Come now,’ said Mr Chan, prodding him gently. ‘We are partners, are we not, Mr Reid? We must be frank with each other — and you may be sure that no one shall know but I.’

All of a sudden now, Zachary recalled the veiled threats and innuendoes that had issued from the convict’s lips in Singapore. It was then that he made his decision: the man knew too much; to be rid of him would be no great loss for the world.

Zachary looked into the visitor’s eyes: ‘Yes, Mr Chan — I think you’re right. I too have reason to believe that he is at Hong Kong.’

Mr Chan continued to stare at him intently. ‘And would you by any chance happen to know what name he is using?’

‘He calls himself Freddie Lee.’

A smile spread slowly across Mr Chan’s face.

‘Thank you, Mr Reid, thank you. This makes everything much easier for me. I am glad we understand each other so well! One good turn deserves another — you will hear from Mr Burnham very soon; I will make sure of that.’

Zachary bowed. ‘It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Chan.’

‘And with you, Mr Reid.’

Mr Chan was as good as his word. At the end of the week a letter arrived from Mr Burnham, to tell Zachary that he had been released from his official commitments. He was to proceed at once to the foreign enclave in Canton, leaving the Ibis at Whampoa.

*

For several weeks after the extraction of the bullet from his side Neel was incapacitated by a fever. Of the extraction itself he remembered only that it was performed by a group of Chinese and Tibetan monks, armed with fearsome-looking needles and instruments. Fortunately he lost consciousness at the start of the procedure and did not regain it until the next day.

After that he would wake intermittently, to find himself lying on a mat, in a small, low-ceilinged room. In one corner lay the books and writing materials he had left behind at the Ocean Banner Monastery, with Taranathji. When he could summon the strength he would read or make notes.

Often he would hear musket- and cannon-fire in the distance; the noise would fade into his fevered dreams. From time to time familiar faces would appear — Taranathji, Compton, Baburao — and if their visits happened to coincide with a period of lucidity, they would speak of what was happening.

A truce had been declared, they told him; British warships were stationed all along the Guangzhou riverfront; steamers and gunboats were roaming the waterways, destroying batteries and gun-emplacements at will, attacking any vessel that aroused their suspicions. In the foreign enclave the Union Jack had once again been hoisted over the British Factory; many merchants had moved in and trade had been forcibly resumed. A very senior officer, General Sir Hugh Gough, had taken command of the British forces and he and Captain Elliot had issued a series of proclamations and ultimatums, demanding that the seizure of Hong Kong be formally ratified by the Emperor; that six million silver dollars be handed over immediately; that the ban on the opium trade be rescinded.

And so on.

But the Emperor was adamant: not only had he refused to make any concessions, he had recalled Qishan to Beijing in disgrace. The Governor-General had been replaced by a new set of officials, one of them a famous general; the Emperor had said to them: ‘The only word I accept is annihilation.’

But on arriving in Guangzhou the Emperor’s new envoys had been confronted with the same dilemma that had confounded their predecessors: the British forces were too powerful to be openly challenged — extensive preparations would be required if they were to be repulsed. So they had continued to parlay with the invaders while redoubling their efforts to strengthen their own forces.

Now thousands of fresh troops were pouring into the city, from other provinces and cities; new vessels, modelled on British gunboats, were being built at secret locations and guns were being cast in a foundry at nearby Fatshan, among them a colossal eighty-pounder.

Everybody knew that it was just a matter of time before war broke out again, this time with Guangzhou as the battlefield. This had caused great alarm, especially among those who lived outside the city walls; thousands had already fled from the suburbs and many more were planning to go. In some areas law and order had collapsed. The influx of troops from other provinces had added to the chaos; rumours were in the air that soldiers from faraway provinces had violated local women. This had led to clashes between the townsfolk and the newly arrived troops. Turmoil such as this had not been seen in Guangzhou since the fall of the Ming dynasty, two hundred years before.

It wasn’t long before Neel’s friends began to leave. One day Baburao came to the monastery to tell him that he was taking his whole family to Hong Kong. Guangzhou had become too unsafe, especially for boat-people; most of their relatives had already left.

Aar ekhane amra ki korbo? said Baburao, in Bengali. What are we to do here? In today’s Guangzhou there is no place for an eatery like ours.

In Hong Kong Asha-didi would be able to start over again, serving biryani, puris, samosas, kababs and all the other items for which her kitchen was famous; with so many lascar-crewed ships in the bay, there would be no shortage of Indian customers.

The move had been in preparation for a while, said Baburao. Over several weeks he and his sons had secretly transferred their household goods to his junk; they would leave in a day or two.

And the houseboat?

It will lie empty here for now, said Baburao. Maybe we’ll come back to get it some day. Then it was Compton’s turn to say goodbye. He had decided to go back to his village, he said, but he probably would not stay there long. There was no work for him there; he would have to move to a place where he could earn a livelihood.

So where will you go? said Neel.

Where can I go? said Compton despairingly. If I am to set up a print-shop again I will have to go to a place where an English-language printer is needed.

Such as?

Macau maybe, said Compton shamefacedly. Or maybe even Hong Kong.

You? In Hong Kong?

What else can I do, Ah Neel? Everything has changed. To survive I too will have to change.

A dispirited smile appeared on Compton’s face: ‘Maybe from now on we speak English again, jik-haih? I will need to practise.’

When they shook hands Neel said: ‘Thank you, Compton: for everything you’ve done for me — for all your help.’

‘Don’t thank me, Ah Neel,’ said Compton. ‘After this maybe it will be you who help me, haih me haih aa?’

The one face that never appeared at Neel’s bedside was Jodu’s. When Neel asked about him he was told, by Taranathji, that Jodu had remained in the monastery for only a few days after their arrival: then a visitor had come looking for him, a sailor from foreign parts — a fierce-looking man with a mouth that was stained red with betel.

Jodu had left with him and had not been seen since.

*

Within half an hour of reaching Whampoa, Zachary was seated in the Ibis’s longboat, heading towards Canton’s foreign enclave. He had heard a great deal about the size and populousness of Guangzhou but when the city walls came into view he was transfixed nonetheless: the ramparts seemed to stretch away forever, disappearing into the sunset sky. He had once overheard Captain Hall, of the Nemesis, saying that the two most marvellous sights he had seen in his life were Niagara Falls and the city of Canton: now he understood why.

Zachary’s amazement deepened as the Ibis’s longboat made its way along the city’s miles-long waterfront: the sprawl of habitation, the traffic on the river and the sheer density of people was almost beyond comprehension. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that his native Baltimore would be dwarfed by this vast metropolis, even if it were three, four or five times larger than it was.

To find Mr Burnham in this vast honeycomb of a city would be a devil of a task, he assumed. But when the boat drew up to the foreign enclave he had no difficulty in deciding which way to go: a tall flagpole with a fluttering Union Jack led him directly to the British Factory where Mr Burnham had taken an apartment.

On entering the factory Zachary was handed over to a bowing, gown-clad steward who led him through a series of richly panelled hallways and carpeted corridors. Zachary’s eyes widened as he took in the gilt-framed pictures, the gleaming sconces, the tall porcelain vases, the ivory doorknobs, the lavishly painted wallpapers, the thick carpets — the opulence of the place was marvellously seductive; this, Zachary decided, was how he would like to live.

Mr Burnham’s apartment too was lavishly appointed, so much so that the luxuries of Bethel seemed modest by comparison. The door was opened by another pig-tailed, black-gowned servant, and Zachary was led through a wainscoted vestibule to a large study.

Mr Burnham was sitting at a desk, enthroned in a rosewood chair. ‘Ah there you are, Reid!’ he said, as he rose to welcome Zachary. ‘You’ve arrived at last.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘And I’m much obliged to you for making the arrangements.’

‘Oh it was nothing. And you’ve come not a moment too soon.’

‘Really, sir? Why?’

‘There’s a reception this evening in this factory.’

Mr Burnham paused, as if to add emphasis to what he was about to say.

‘A large contingent of military officers will be present.’

Zachary was instantly on the alert. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘I believe Captain Mee is expected.’

‘I see, sir.’

‘I was wondering,’ Mr Burnham continued, ‘whether there’s been any progress on that little matter that we talked about?’

‘Well, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘I did speak to Captain Mee a while ago and I do believe I succeeded in planting a thought or two in his mind. He’s had some time to think the matter over — so I should be able to get an answer from him now.’

‘Good,’ said Mr Burnham, glancing at his fob. ‘Well we should go then — the reception will have started already.’

Zachary followed Mr Burnham down a flight of stairs to a mahogany-panelled refectory. A dozen or so merchants had already gathered there and they pounced on Mr Burnham as soon as he stepped in.

‘Burnham, have you heard? The mandarins have moved four thousand more troops from Hubei to Canton.’

‘And a new battery has been built on the Dutch folly!’

‘There can be no doubt of it now — the Chinese are preparing another offensive!’

‘And what I want to know is what in hell is the Plenny-potty doing about it?’

As others joined in the outcry Zachary retreated to the edges of the group, and manoeuvred himself into a position from which he could keep an eye on the door.

It wasn’t long before Captain Mee entered, with a group of red-coated officers: he was in full dress uniform, with a sword at his side. Their eyes met briefly as the officers stepped in and Zachary knew, from the way the captain flushed, that he was rattled to see him.

In the meantime Mr Burnham had added his voice to the discussion: ‘I have it on good authority, gentlemen, that General Gough has already issued orders for the troops at Hong Kong to be brought forward to Whampoa. As long as he’s at the helm we have nothing to fear!’

‘Hear, hear!’

Zachary listened with only half an ear; his attention was now wholly focused on Captain Mee.

The captain too seemed to be aware that he was being watched and his discomfiture became steadily more evident: he kept mopping his face and fidgeting with his collar. Seeing him drain several glasses of wine in quick succession, Zachary realized that he would have to act quickly if the danger of a drunken scene were to be averted. When the captain drifted away to a window he decided to make his move: he crossed the refectory and stuck out his hand: ‘A very good eveningto you, Captain Mee.’

The captain turned his head slightly and an angry flush rose to his large, heavy-jawed face. A vein began to throb on his temple and, as if by instinct, his fingers began to fidget with the hilt of his sword.

This was a decisive moment, Zachary knew, and he kept his gaze fixed unflinchingly on the captain’s face. Their eyes met and locked together; for a long moment it was as if two powerful currents had collided and each were trying to force back the other. Then something seemed to shift and Zachary sensed that he had only to keep his nerve in order to prevail; without dropping his eyes he repeated, ‘Good evening, Captain Mee,’ and again thrust his hand at him.

And now at last the captain brushed a hand across Zachary’s fingertips. ‘Good evening.’

Zachary smiled. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, Captain.’

The captain turned away with a grunt. ‘What the devil do you want?’

‘I was wondering,’ said Zachary evenly, ‘whether you’d given any thought to my proposal?’

The captain’s chin snapped up and his eyes flashed in anger.

Zachary returned his stare with an unperturbed smile. ‘We must recall, mustn’t we, Captain Mee,’ he said, ‘exactly what is at stake, for yourself and others — especially a certain lady?’

The veiled threat hung between them for a second or two while Captain Mee struggled for words. Then, in a low, gruff voice, he mumbled: ‘What do you require of me?’

At that a warm exultancy surged up in Zachary: he knew that he had won, that he had bent the captain to his will. He had suspected that the captain’s truculence was an expression not of strength but of insufficiency and this was now confirmed; Zachary understood that outside soldiering Captain Mee was at a loss to deal with the world and expected only failure and defeat. That he should capitulate to a bluff; that he should so readily abase himself to protect the woman he loved — all this seemed laughable to Zachary: how weak they were, these childlike, bumbling warriors, with all their talk of honour and conviction. It was all he could do not to gloat.

‘We mustn’t worry about the details, Captain,’ he said. ‘It’s the principle that matters and I’m glad we find ourselves in agreement on that.’

Zachary stuck out his hand again and this time he made sure to give the captain’s reluctantly proffered fingers a hearty shake. ‘It will be a pleasure doing business with you, Captain.’

As he turned away, Zachary heard the captain mumble, ‘Go to hell,’ and was tempted to laugh.

On the other side of the room Mr Burnham was still deep in discussion with his fellow merchants. Zachary made his way over, tapped Mr Burnham on the elbow and led him aside.

‘I’ve had a word with Captain Mee, sir.’

‘And what came of it? Is he amenable?’

‘I’m glad to tell you, sir,’ said Zachary proudly, ‘that he is.’

‘Good man!’ Mr Burnham beamed as he clapped Zachary on the back. ‘That’s all I needed to know. You can leave him to me now, I’ll handle the rest. It’s enough that you’ve brought him around — can’t have been easy, I imagine.’

‘No, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘I won’t ask how you did it,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘But I do think you deserve a commission.’

In any other circumstances Zachary would have been flattered by Mr Burnham’s words. But the successful resolution of his encounter with Captain Mee had given him a new sense of confidence; in these opulent surroundings nothing seemed beyond his reach.

‘I hope you will not mind me saying so, sir,’ he said, ‘but a commission is not what I want.’

‘What do you want then?’ said Mr Burnham, taken aback.

‘What I’d really like, sir,’ said Zachary, ‘is to be a partner in your firm.’

Mr Burnham’s face darkened as he took this in. But then his lips curved into a smile. ‘Well, Reid,’ he said, stroking his beard, ‘I’ve always said that when the spirit of enterprise stirs in a young man, there’s no telling where it will take him! Let’s wait for this campaign to come to an end and then we’ll see what can be worked out.’

Reaching for Mr Burnham’s hand, Zachary gave it a hearty shake. ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you.’

This second success was enough to make Zachary giddy with triumph. But as he was wandering off in search of a celebratory glass of wine, it struck him that his victory was still incomplete and would remain so until Mrs Burnham knew of it. Only when word of it had been conveyed to her would his triumph be complete; there would be a sweet, subtle pleasure in stripping her of her illusions about her knight-in-armour.

The thought brought on a sharp pang of desire, making him hungry to see her again. It struck him now that if he played his cards carefully then she too might be persuaded to yield to him again. It was no more than he deserved. After all wasn’t it she herself who had broken the promise she had made to him? Hadn’t she said that when the time came to end their liaison they would meet one last time, for a night of delirious delight, before saying goodbye?

*

The distraught wavering of Neel’s handwriting, when he learnt of Raju’s arrival in China, was perhaps a better illustration of his state of mind than the disordered jumble of words that he jotted down in his notebook that night.

What happened was this: appearing unexpectedly at the Ocean Banner Monastery, Jodu told Neel that he had spent the last several weeks with Serang Ali, who had been summoned to Canton to help with the preparations for a renewed Chinese offensive.

One of Serang Ali’s tasks was to gather information about British troop and ship movements. A few days earlier rumours had reached Guangzhou that a large British force was to be moved to Whampoa; Serang Ali had been sent to Hong Kong to investigate. While there he had met up with their old comrade from the Ibis, Ah Fatt: he had confirmed that only one company of troops and a single ship now remained at Hong Kong; every other soldier and vessel in the British force had been sent forward to Whampoa and Canton.

But there was some other news too …

This was when Neel learnt, to his utter shock, that Raju had travelled to China and was now at Whampoa, on a ship, with a company of sepoys.

To remove the boy from the ship would be impossible, Jodu told Neel; their best hope of spiriting him away was to wait for the sepoys to come ashore. In Serang Ali’s current crew there were many local men; they would help.

But when will they come ashore?

Maybe very soon, said Jodu enigmatically. For all you know something big may happen soon; maybe even tomorrow.

The date was 19 May 1841.

*

All through the last week the hallways of the British Factory in Canton had been abuzz with rumours of an impending Chinese offensive. Duringthis time Zachary had been busy shuttling between the foreign enclave and Whampoa, transferring Mr Burnham’s goods to the Ibis.

Going back and forth in a longboat, Zachary had been able to observe for himself the renewed military preparations around Guangzhou: a huge encampment of soldiers had appeared at the eastern end of the city; new batteries had been built including a large one near Shamian Island, very close to the foreign enclave; and flotillas of war-junks had gathered inside the creeks that debouched into the Pearl River.

All of this was in plain view — as was the British force that had recently come to Whampoa from Hong Kong, bringing thousands of additional troops: it was led by the seventy-two-gun Blenheim, which towered over every other craft in the anchorage.

From all this and more it was amply clear that both sides were again preparing for war. Zachary was not in the least surprised when Mr Burnham announced, one afternoon, that the Chinese were expected to spring a surprise that night: Captain Elliot had issued instructions for the British Factory to be evacuated; the merchants who were resident there were to move to a vessel that was anchored opposite the foreign enclave. The Nemesis would be nearby, standing guard.

‘I think you had better stay with us tonight, Reid,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘I’ll have to remove all my goods from the factory and that’ll take a while. And the situation being what it is, it’ll be too risky to go back to Whampoa after nightfall.’

A couple of hours went by in moving the last of Mr Burnham’s crates and chests to the longboat. It was almost sunset by the time the job was completed.

A brief ceremony was held in front of the British Factory as the Union Jack was taken down: it was a solemn moment, for the flag had flown atop that mast for almost three months now. Then, along with all the other merchants, Zachary and Mr Burnham were rowed over to a schooner, Aurora, that was anchored off the foreign enclave: this was where they were to dine and spend the night.

No sooner had they stepped on board than Manchu bannermen were seen moving along the waterfront. It was clear that the attack was now imminent.

The guests ate a hurried meal and then gathered on the foredeck. It was a dark, moonless night and the riverfront, usually so noisy, was unnaturally quiet. There were no coracles shuttling between the shores and nor were there any pleasure-boats circling around White Swan Lake. British warships and cutters had been stationed at intervals along the riverfront; their lanterns formed a thin necklace of light in the darkness.

The foreign enclave was dark too, except for the American Factory, where a few merchants had stayed on. Although the British Factory was empty and shuttered its steeple-clock was still working: just as it struck eleven the battery at Shamian Island opened up with a great thunderclap. Seconds later the whole waterfront erupted as bright jets of fire spurted from a string of concealed batteries and gun-emplacements.

The Nemesis was the first to return fire. One by one the other warships followed, unloosing broadsides at the city’s batteries and gun-emplacements. Then, with a great crackling noise, sheets of flame appeared in the surrounding creeks.

‘Fire-raft! Dead astern!’ shouted the Aurora’s lookout.

Rushing aft, Zachary saw that a blazing boat was heading towards the Aurora. Nor was it the only one — many others quickly appeared, on the river and on White Swan Lake. It was as if a tide of fire were roiling the water.

But the use of fire-rafts had been anticipated by the British commanders: this was why cutters had been positioned along the river. They moved quickly now to intercept the blazing boats; armed with gaffs and poles, sailors pushed them aside, to burn out at a safe distance.

Even as this was going on, British gunships were intensifying their bombardment of the city. The Nemesis too took some hits and her engine was disabled for a while, but her guns continued to fire and the Algerine quickly pulled up alongside to provide support. Between them the two warships unleashed a terrific fusillade at the battery on Shamian Island, and it wasn’t long before its guns fell silent.

Yet, despite the pounding, the Chinese artillery continued to fire, hour after hour. Every time a gun was knocked out another would appear somewhere else.

Meanwhile fires were blazing in various parts of the city and crowds were milling about on the roadways. Through all this the foreign enclave had remained unscathed, for the British warships had been instructed to direct their fire away from it. This special treatment did not long escape the notice of the townsfolk: with the foreigners beyond their reach the foreign enclave was now the only target on which they could vent their rage.

In the small hours of the night a large crowd was seen to be advancing upon the enclave. A detachment of Royal Marines was sent over to rescue the Americans who had stayed behind; they were whisked away just as the crowd poured into the enclave.

From the safety of the Aurora the merchants watched as the doors of the factories were battered down. Then the crowds rushed inside, to carry away whatever they could find. After the buildings had been emptied they were set alight.

The factories were all lavishly constructed, with fine wooden panelling and parquet floors. They burned mightily, with upcurling plumes of fire shooting out of their doorways and windows.

The merchants on the Aurora watched in horror as the factories went up in flames. The spectacle was poignant even for Zachary whose acquaintance with the Thirteen Factories was very brief. Some of the other merchants had frequented those buildings for decades; some had accumulated vast fortunes there. Many began to weep.

By the time the sun rose the buildings had been reduced to charred skeletons.

After breakfast the senior merchants on the Aurora were summoned to a meeting on the Nemesis. On returning, Mr Burnham told Zachary that British gunships had destroyed dozens of war-junks and fire-boats during the night; as for guns, so many had been silenced that the number was yet to be computed. On the British side the toll was negligible: some injuries, a couple of dead, and a few lightly damaged ships. The Nemesis had been swiftly repaired and she had seen a great deal of action afterwards. In a single sortie the steamer had destroyed forty-three war-junks and thirty-two fire-rafts.

But the Chinese offensive was far from exhausted, said Mr Burham: it was thought that they still had many fire-rafts and attack-boats in reserve. The mopping-up operations would continue for a while yet: once completed the British forces would probably launch a punitive attack on the city, to demonstrate, once and for all, that these attempts at resistance were futile and that no more prevarication would be tolerated.

In the meantime the merchant ships anchored at Whampoa were to remain where they were until such time as a convoy was organized to take them to Hong Kong Bay. Zachary was to stay with the Ibis until the convoy departed; he was to proceed to Hong Kong with the other merchant ships.

‘And you, sir?’ said Zachary to Mr Burnham.

‘I’ve been asked to stay on in Canton for a while,’ said Mr Burnham. ‘When you get to Hong Kong would you be so good as to tell my wife that I’ll be back in a fortnight or so, after this bit of nonsense has been sorted out?’

‘Yes of course, sir,’ said Zachary. ‘I’ll go over to see Mrs Burnham as soon as I get there.’

*

At Hong Kong Bay it was so sultry that morning that Paulette woke up wondering whether she was in the grip of a fever. Her sheets and her nightclothes were drenched in sweat — yet inside her, at her core, there was an icy feeling of disquiet.

But when she mentioned it to Fitcher he said there was no reason to worry: it was just that the weather had taken an odd turn. The temperature had risen sharply and he had a feeling that a big storm was on the way.

During his time in southern China Fitcher had become familiar with the signs of an approaching typhoon: the sudden heat, the stifling humidity and the stillness of the air were to him as much harbingers of a ‘big blow’ as a falling barometer. So certain was he of this that he went out to the western end of Hong Kong Bay, in a boat, to see whether clouds had appeared on the southern horizon. That was the direction from which typhoons usually came, sweeping up from the south to lash the coast, battering Macau, Hong Kong and Kowloon before travelling northwards to Canton and beyond.

But there was not a cloud anywhere to be seen that morning; the sky was a flat white mirror, radiating heat.

The storm would not break for a while yet, Fitcher told Paulette, and it would probably be preceded by a few showers and spells of rain. That was how it usually happened: there was no immediate reason for concern.

All of this made sense to Paulette yet her mind was not set entirely at rest. Fitcher understood then that she was fretting about something else and he urged her not to go to the nursery that day; there was no need, he said, the caretakers would be able to manage perfectly well on their own.

But Paulette decided that she would go over to the island after all — despite the heat it would be better to be at work than to fret on board.

So the Redruth’s gig set off, as it did every day — except that today the water, like the air, was unnaturally still: the boat’s ripples carved grooves upon its glassy surface.

Paulette was sitting with her back to the bows and as they drew closer to Hong Kong one of the oarsmen told her to turn around. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that dozens of people had gathered to form a ring around something lying on the beach.

A memory stirred of another day, two years ago, when a body had been washed in by the tide. Her heart lurched and she told the oarsmen to row faster, faster. When the gig pulled up to the shore she leapt out and went running across the beach.

She had to push past a number of people to get through the ring. At the centre lay a man’s body. The wet clothing was pierced all over with rents and slashes — but there was no mistaking that ragged jacket and the shapeless trowsers.

A stout, elderly man was squatting beside the body; he had covered the face with a piece of cloth but on seeing Paulette he took it off.

‘Mistoh Freddie Lee.’

It turned out that the old man was Freddie’s landlord in Sheng Wan village. The night before, he said, a couple of men had come to the house asking for Freddie. They had said that they were friends of his and that he was to meet them on the beach.

Freddie had responded warily when the message was conveyed: ‘Who they ask for, eh?’

‘Freddie Lee,’ the landlord had said, and this had settled Freddie’s doubts.

‘Only friends call me that, ne?’

He had put on his hat and set off for the beach.

That was the last time he was seen alive.