Flood of Fire

Twenty

Around Canton the attacks and counter-attacks, the explosions and bombardments continued for three long days, to the accompaniment of a continuous and rising din — the howling of unseen mobs, the panicked cries of children, the crackling of flames.

On the British side the fighting and shooting was done entirely by the navy; the infantry battalions that had been brought to Whampoa remained on their respective ships, at Whampoa, through this time.

The confinement was particularly trying for the Bengal Volunteers since they had been at Whampoa for many weeks already. To make things worse, on the second day of the offensive, there was a sudden change in the weather, which became increasingly torrid and sultry. Without a catspaw of wind to stir the air the stench of the bilges permeated every corner of the ship, making it as hard to remain below deck as it was to venture out into the sun.

The conditions were particularly hard on Captain Mee, whose mood had taken a turn for the worse ever since the day of the fighting around the Tiger’s Mouth. The change was particularly striking, or so it seemed to Kesri, because at the start of the operation he had seemed still to be riding on the high spirits in which he had returned from his sojourn at Macau. But from the time of his visit to the Ibis, to drop off the wounded ensign, he had fallen into a black humour: Kesri had thought at first that it was just that he was distressed to see the young ensign’s career ending so sadly and suddenly. But he soon realized that it could not be that alone, that something else had happened to make the captain brood and fret to this degree; not since the days of his abrupt separation from Miss Cathy, at Ranchi, had Kesri seen him in such a dark state of mind. Now, as the troops sat stewing in their transport vessels, at Whampoa, the captain seemed at times to be almost beside himself with frustration: Kesri had never known him to be as morose and irascible as he was during those three long days.

On the third day the turmoil around the city reached a climax, with the sound of gunfire echoing along the riverfront from sunrise onwards. That afternoon the officers’ daily briefing on the Blenheim went on for an unusually long time. Soon after Captain Mee’s return Kesri received a summons to his cabin. On stepping in Kesri knew at once that they would soon be going into the field: for the first time in days Captain Mee seemed untroubled and at ease. He sounded almost cheerful as he said: ‘It’s on at last, havildar! We’re going to teach the Longtails a lesson they won’t forget.’

A chart was lying open on a desk: following the captain’s forefinger, Kesri saw that the walled city of Guangzhou was shaped like a dome, with its base resting on the Pearl River, to the south, while its apex lay upon a range of hills and ridges, to the north. Sitting finial-like on its crown was a five-storeyed edifice called the Sea-Calming Tower. Opposite the tower, just beyond the city walls, were some hills topped by a cluster of four small forts. Three of these were circular in shape but the largest, which faced the Sea-Calming Tower, was rectangular.

These four forts were lightly defended, said Captain Mee: the Chinese commanders had calculated, no doubt, that if the British launched an attack on the city it would come from the south so they had concentrated their forces along the banks of the Pearl River. But General Gough had prepared a surprise for them, a two-pronged assault. A small British detachment would land at the Thirteen Factories, on the Pearl River shorefront, with the aim of seizing and clearing the foreign enclave. But the main force would continue along the Pearl River to White Swan Lake at the western end of the city, before veering northwards, along another river: it would land well above Guangzhou at a village called Tsingpu. Between the landing-point and the four forts lay three or four miles of farmland: this was a rural area, with only a few scattered villages so no resistance was expected. Once the hills had been scaled and the forts seized, the city would be helpless: a single battery of guns positioned on the northern heights would be enough to control all of Guangzhou.

Some 2,400 fighting men were to be deployed for the operation, accompanied by the usual contingents of auxiliaries and camp-followers. The force would be divided into four brigades: the Bengal Volunteers, with its 112 sepoys, had been assigned to the 4th Brigade which would also include 273 Cameronians and 215 men of the 37th Madras.

‘Any questions, havildar?’

The only aspect of this plan that worried Kesri was the composition of the 4th Brigade: he knew, from his experience with the Cameronians, that they would be none too pleased at having to join forces with sepoy units — there was bound to be some friction.

Other than this he had no concerns: the meticulous planning, the carefully drawn chart and the precise numbers were all reassuring, presaging as they did a set-piece operation of the kind at which British commanders excelled. With any luck the battle would bring the campaign to an end and they would be able to go home soon afterwards, with some decent prize money in their pockets.

‘Embarkation will be when, sir?’

‘Tomorrow, 1 p.m., havildar.’

The lateness of the hour surprised Kesri; it was unusual for a big operation to start so late in the day. ‘Why that time, sir?’

Captain Mee smiled. ‘Have you forgotten, havildar? It’s the twenty-fourth of May tomorrow — Queen Victoria’s birthday. There’ll be a gun salute at noon.’

Kesri had indeed forgotten about the Queen’s birthday. He was glad to be reminded of it, however, for this was one of those occasions when sepoys were entitled to a special ‘wet batta’ of grog.

*

There being no one else to claim Freddie’s body it fell to Zadig Bey and Shireen to make arrangements for his funeral.

They quickly agreed that he would be buried according to Chinese rites; that, said Zadig, was what Freddie would have wanted. As for the site, it was Shireen who suggested that he be buried next to his father.

This suggestion drew a quizzical look from Zadig. ‘But what about Dinyar and the other Parsi seths?’ he said. ‘What will they say about Freddie being buried next to Bahram-bhai? What if they object, because he wasn’t a member of the community?’

‘Let’s not worry about the seths,’ Shireen said. ‘What matters is what Bahram would have wanted. And in death at least I think he would have wanted to give Freddie the acceptance he could not give him in life. It’s only right that Freddie should be buried beside him.’

Zadig did not demur: ‘Yes, that is true — Bahram-bhai would have wanted it so.’

They agreed also that the funeral would be held that very day. The body had been in the water a long time already and the weather being as hot as it was it would not do to put off the interment. In any case the island would be celebrating the Queen’s birthday the next day, and who knew what problems might arise?

Since neither Zadig nor Shireen had any idea of how to organize a Chinese funeral, the arrangements were left to Freddie’s landlord. It was he who found a coffin and pasted yellow and white papers on it; he also hired grave-diggers, a cart and a few professional mourners.

It took a while to get all this done and it was not till late afternoon that the corpse was properly prepared and the coffin closed.

The sun was dipping towards the horizon when the procession set off from Sheng Wan. As they were leaving the village Zadig said to Paulette: ‘Have you had any news from Robin Chinnery?’

Paulette nodded: ‘Yes, he sent a letter recently, from India. He fell very ill in Chusan and was evacuated to Calcutta—’

She broke off to point to the bay, where a longboat could be seen heading towards Sheng Wan. ‘Look, there’s Mrs Burnham.’

The cart was told to go on while Paulette, Zadig and Shireen went back to the seashore to greet the visitor.

Despite the heat and humidity, Mrs Burnham was wearing gloves and a veil, as always, except that they were black instead of white. She was mortified to find the others dressed in light-coloured clothing.

‘Oh good heavens!’ she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘I’ve made an ooloo of myself, haven’t I? I don’t suppose they wear black at Chinese funerals, do they? Should I go back and change?’

‘Oh no,’ said Shireen. ‘I’m sure it’ll make no difference. It’s enough that you came.’

Mrs Burnham gave Shireen’s hands a squeeze. ‘Of course, Shireen dear: I’d have come earlier if I had known.’

The cart was now a long way ahead so they had to hurry after it.

The old coastal pathway that ran past Sheng Wan village had recently been widened and paved, but work on it was still continuing: the road was to be formally named the next day, in honour of the Queen. Gangs of labourers were putting in milestones and removing rubble as they passed by.

The cart was waiting for them at the top of the ridge that led to the Happy Valley. On arriving there they saw that a cloud was coming across the valley, trailing a sheet of rain.

‘It’s just a shower,’ said Zadig Bey. ‘But we’d better take shelter here while it passes.’

There were some trees beside the road and they huddled under them to wait.

From where she stood Shireen could see much of the shoreline of Hong Kong Bay. The year before, when she had gone to visit Bahram’s grave for the first time, there were only a few little villages dotted along the shore. Now there were godowns, barracks, parade grounds, marketplaces and clusters of shanties. Preparations were already being made for the first land auction: plots had been marked out along several stretches of the shore. At some points sampans and junks were anchored so closely together that it was as if the very soil of the island had expanded.

Paulette too was looking down at the shoreline and she saw that a large, official-looking boundary had been staked out right above the beach where Freddie’s body had washed up earlier in the day. It was there too that he had been sitting the year before when she came down from the nursery and unexpectedly ran into him. The memory brought tears to her eyes and she raised a hand to wipe them away.

Mrs Burnham was beside her, and she slipped her hand into Paulette’s.

‘Do you miss him already, Paulette?’

Paulette buried her face in her hands. ‘I cannot believe,’ she said between sobs, ‘that he too has left me.’

*

At Whampoa the next day, when the guns went off to mark the Queen’s birthday at noon, the blasts seemed to congeal the heat and humidity, making it hard to breathe: Kesri was reminded of the sultry weather that preceded the coming of the monsoons, back home.

The embarkation took unusually long because the transport vessels were a disparate assortment of junks and local boats, captured only the day before. There were no fewer than thirty of them and it was 3 p.m. before the convoy began to move, with all the boats being taken under tow by the Nemesis. But on the way there were further delays because of attacks by fire-boats; as a result there was only an hour of daylight left when the convoy finally reached the designated landing-point, at Tsingpu village, to the north of Guangzhou.

When the boats pulled in Kesri was with Captain Mee on the highest deck of the Bengal Volunteers’ transport vessel. Spyglass in hand, the captain was surveying the salient features of the landscape that lay ahead of them: the four forts he’d pointed out on the chart lay almost due south and were dimly visible through the haze.

The distance between the landing-point and the forts was not great — only three or four miles, as the captain had said — but Kesri saw at a glance that the intervening terrain would not be easy to cross. In between lay a stretch of land that was strikingly similar to the surroundings of his own native village: it was a flat patchwork of fields, covered with green shoots — the crop was rice and Kesri guessed that many of the paddies were flooded. As at home the paths that wound through the fields were very narrow, scarcely wider than a man’s foot, with surfaces of slippery wet clay. Even experienced rice farmers were apt to lose their footing on such pathways; for soldiers and sepoys, balancing muskets and fifty-pound knapsacks, it would be hard going.

Nor was the area as sparsely populated as Captain Mee had led Kesri to think. Kesri guessed that several thousand people lived in the tightly packed clusters of houses that dotted the plain. It was probably in order to resist dacoits and marauders that they lived so close together — and evidently this was exactly what the people of Tsingpu had in mind now. Armed with sticks, staves and pikes they were pouring out to confront the squad of marines that had gone ashore to establish a perimeter around the campsite.

The villagers’ response did not surprise Kesri — people in his own district would have reacted the same way — but the marines were caught off-guard and for a few minutes it looked as though there would be an all-out confrontation. Then an officer took matters in hand: a couple of warning shots were fired, a cordon was formed and the angry villagers were pushed back, past a small temple at the edge of the settlement.

As soon as the situation had been brought under control General Gough stepped off the Nemesis and marched over to the crest of a nearby elevation, to take stock of the terrain. In the meantime some of the junior officers, Captain Mee among them, went into the village temple to look around. They emerged whooping with delight, having found quantities of offerings inside the temple, among them haunches of fresh meat, which they requisitioned for their own table.

‘That fat heathen joss-god can’t have any use for venison, can he?’ said Captain Mee, with a sardonic laugh. ‘So it may as well be used to celebrate the Queen’s birthday.’

The theft of these offerings further inflamed the villagers and groups of men began to collect around the campsite, brandishing scythes and throwing stones; some were even armed with matchlocks. The marines had to shoot into the air to disperse them.

These incidents further delayed the disembarkation. When it finally started the Bengal Volunteers, being small in number, were the first of the 4th Brigade’s units to go ashore.

Sensing an opportunity, Kesri decided to secure a good location for B Company’s tents. He chose a spot on the riverbank, where they were likely to catch a breeze. The sepoys and followers would be grateful, he knew, for an opportunity to wash away the day’s grime in the river — this was a comfort they prized above all others.

But just as Kesri was issuing instructions to the tent-pitchers, Colour-Sarjeant Orr of the Cameronians appeared: ‘Who the hell said you coolies could settle your black arses here?’ He pointed to the tents of the 37th Madras: ‘You belong back there with the Ram-sammies.’

Kesri tried to hold his ground but was outranked and heavily outnumbered. When Captain Mee himself took the other side, saying, ‘I’m sorry, havildar, you’ll have to move,’ he had to give in.

The Cameronians’ taunts rang in Kesri’s ears as he walked away.

‘… let that be a lesson to you, boy …!’

‘… and you’d better be sure we don’t see any of your nigger-snot back here!’

Worse still, the only remaining spot was at the back, where there was not a breath of fresh air, but mosquitoes aplenty, swarming in from the rice-fields. The perimeter site was also uncomfortably close — a group of angry villagers had gathered around a clump of trees, just beyond the nearest picket. But there was nothing to be done about any of this: they would have to spend the night here.

Kesri sighed as he looked around. He could only hope that B Company would soon be gone from this place.

*

That night, because of a shortage of camping equipment, the banjee-boys were billeted with the company’s bhistis and gun-lascars, in a tent where their bodies were packed together as tightly as cartridges in a case. The trapped air reeked of unwashed clothing, stale sweat and urine, and the drone of mosquitoes was as loud as a gale. The ground too was swarming with insects so everybody had to sleep fully clothed, with sheets swathed around their bodies for additional protection — and these too were soon soaked in sweat.

Raju could not sleep, and in a while, hearing a rustling sound, he peered out from under his sheet and saw a shadow slipping out of the tent.

Beside him, Dicky too was awake. ‘You know where that bugger’s going?’ he whispered.

‘Where?’

‘Bet he’s going to have a dip. I heard the bhistis have found a pond nearby. Let’s follow him, men; we can also cool off a little.’

‘But what if Bobbery-Bob …?’

Raju remembered that the fife-major had said that he’d flog anyone who was found outside the tent.

‘Balls to bloody Bobbery-Bob,’ hissed Dicky. ‘I’m going, men.’

With a twist of his body Dicky slipped under the tent-flap. A second later Raju followed.

A red-rimmed moon was shining dimly through a pearly haze. In the faint light they caught a glimpse of the bhisti’s crouched figure darting past the nearest picket, heading towards an incline where a body of water could be seen shimmering in the darkness.

They followed slowly, staying low and keeping their eyes on the bhisti as he crept ahead to the water’s edge. Having made sure that nobody was around, the man stripped off his ungah and his pyjamas, and slid quietly into the pond.

‘It’s safe, see?’ said Dicky. ‘Come on, men, let’s go.’

They took a few more steps forward and were only a short distance from the water when they saw the bhisti coming out and reaching for his clothes.

Then something else caught Dicky’s eye and he ducked under a bush, pulling Raju down with him.

Peering through the leaves, they saw that three shadowy figures had crept up behind the bhisti as he was pulling on his ungah. Before he could push his head through the neck-hole the shadows lunged at him; with his face still swaddled in the garment, the bhisti was pushed down on to his knees.

All this happened very quickly so that the bhisti’s single cry for help — Bachao! — was still hanging in the air when a blade flashed in the silvery moonlight. Then the man’s decapitated trunk tumbled forward and the ungah was whisked away, with the head still inside.

The bundle of white cloth seemed to float off into the darkness as the three figures melted back into the shadows.

A voice called out from the picket — Kaun hai — who goes there? — and then the guards went running past. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell began to ring, causing a stir in the camp.

‘Come on, men.’ Dicky gave Raju’s arm a tug. ‘Follow me and stay low.’

The camp was in an uproar now so nobody noticed the two boys as they slipped back into their tent.

Once they were under their sheets Raju whispered into Dicky’s ear: ‘We should tell someone what we saw, no men?’

‘Fuck off, bugger!’ Dicky hissed back. ‘Mad or what? Bobbery-Bob will stick a tent-pole up your chute if he hears you were out there. And mine too.’

Raju tried to close his eyes but found that he was shivering, despite the heat. Through the chattering of his teeth he caught the sound of metal tools biting into the soil — somewhere nearby a grave was being prepared for the decapitated bhisti.

In a while Dicky whispered into his ear: ‘You know why they took his head?’

‘Why?’

‘Must be for the reward, no?’

‘How do you know?’

‘What else? Don’t you wonder, men, how much they’d get for your head or mine?’

*

At dawn, when the reveille was sounded, the air was still hot and heavy. The men and boys of B Company were drenched in sweat even before the morning hazree — and as luck would have it they were served the item they hated most: potatoes.

As they were eating an alarm bell began to ring: Chinese soldiers had been spotted in the distance, issuing from the city’s northern and western gates.

Kesri had barely drained his mug of tea when Captain Mee came striding over. He told Kesri that B Company and the 37th Madras would be the first units to move out of the camp; General Gough wanted to study the enemy’s movements and they had been detailed to accompany him to a hillock, a mile or so away.

The sepoys fell in hurriedly and marched out of the camp with drums beating and fifes playing. But once they entered the rice-fields it became impossible to keep good order: just as Kesri had thought, the paddies were flooded. The men were ordered to fall out and advance in single file, along the bunds.

Soon all pretence of marching was abandoned; to keep their footing was as much as the sepoys could do. Churned up by their feet, the clay turned into a slippery slurry; the sepoys had to plant their musket-barrels in the mud to steady themselves. But even then some could not keep their balance and toppled over into the paddies. Once down, pinioned by their knapsacks and constrained by their tight, heavy uniforms, they could do nothing but flail their limbs until they were pulled out.

The officers had an even harder time of it: unlike the sepoys, who were in sandals, they were shod in heavy boots and were reduced to shuffling along sidewise, with their arms spread out for balance.

The Jangi Laat himself was only a short distance ahead of Kesri: a tall, mournful-looking man with a walrus moustache, General Gough — or Goughie, as he was spoken of by the officers — usually held himself stiffly upright. But now he was teetering along as though he were walking a tightrope, with his arms extended and his shako skewed dangerously to one side. His son, who was also his principal aide-de-camp, was right behind, trying to steady him by supporting his elbow. But he was himself wobbling precariously and it was almost inevitable that something untoward would occur. Sure enough, just as they were approaching the hillock, the general and his son both tumbled over into a rice-field. A halt was ordered while they were pulled out and wiped down.

The pause gave Bobbery-Bob an opportunity to berate the boys, many of whom were tittering and giggling. ‘You buggers think this is a joke, eh? I’ll teach you to laugh at the general-sahib! You just wait and see, men; you’ll soon be laughing out of the wrong hole.’

Raju was not among those who had found the incident amusing; nor, unlike the other boys, had he enjoyed the walk across the rice-fields. While Dicky and the others were sliding and slithering along the paths, Raju’s mind was elsewhere: thoughts and images that had never visited him before now kept passing through his head. How did it feel to be speared in the neck, or the chest? What was it like to be bayoneted in the groin? What happened when a bullet hit you? If it struck a bone were there splinters?

When the column began to move again Raju was slowly overtaken by nausea. On reaching the hillock, when the boys were given permission to relieve themselves, he went aside and vomited up a slew of potatoes and bile.

Dicky fetched some water, from a bhisti, and whispered urgently in Raju’s ear: ‘What’s the matter with you, bugger? Have you been thinking about what happened last night? I told you to forget it, no?’

‘It’s just the heat,’ said Raju quickly. ‘I’ll be all right now.’

*

On the other side of the hillock Kesri was surveying the ground with Captain Mee. The four hilltop fortresses were shimmering in the haze, straight ahead. The slopes below them were dotted with detachments of Chinese troops; to the rear of the fortresses lay the walls of the city, stretching away for miles, pierced at regular intervals by soaring, many-roofed gates.

The fortresses’ guns had been shooting intermittently since daybreak but now the rhythm of the firing picked up, gradually intensifying into a full-scale barrage. The distance was too great for the guns to do much damage, yet the cannonade was more spirited, and better directed, than any they had faced before.

In the meantime the general had settled on a plan of attack. First the fortresses were to be softened up by the British field-artillery, which consisted of a rocket battery, two five-and-a-half-inch mortars, two twelve-pound howitzers and two nine-pounder guns. Then, under cover of the bombardment, the four brigades would advance up the slopes that led to the forts. The 4th Brigade was to attack the largest of the four fortresses — the rectangular citadel that faced the Sea-Calming Tower. The final attack would be mounted in echelon and the fortresses would be carried by escalade: the quartermaster would be issuing ladders to every company.

Escalade ladders were both heavy and unwieldy: it took only a moment’s thought for Kesri to realize that Maddow was the only man in B Company who would be able to shoulder the weight. Looking around, he saw that Maddow had almost reached the hillock, with two enormous wheels on his shoulders.

‘Sir, we will need that gun-lascar, for our ladder,’ Kesri said to Captain Mee. ‘He will have to be taken off the gun-crew.’

Captain Mee nodded: ‘All right; I’ll tell his crew to release him.’

*

The first element of the general’s plan — the initial bombardment — quickly ran into difficulties: transporting the artillery pieces through the flooded paddies presented unforeseen challenges. The crumbling bunds would not bear the weight of the massive barrels so the gun-crews were forced to flounder through knee-deep mud. Had the fortresses been closer to a waterway the guns of the Nemesis and the other steamers might have been brought into play — but they were too far inland and out of range.

Kesri realized that there would be a long wait before the field-artillery arrived so he led his men to a patch of shade and told them to get some rest. He himself had slept so little the night before that he fell asleep at once and did not stir until the bombardment was well under way.

It was only mid-morning now but the air was stifling. Heated by the sun, the rice-fields were giving off so much moisture that the slopes ahead seemed to be shimmering behind a veil of steam.

It had been decided that the Cameronians would lead the advance of the 4th Brigade; when the bugle blew they were the first to move. The fields immediately ahead of the hillock were almost dry; they leapt right in, pushing through the knee-high rice.

The Bengal Volunteers went next. As they came around the hillock the sound of cannon-fire, British and Chinese, suddenly grew deafeningly loud. A shell crashed into a field a hundred yards to the right, sending up a plume of mud and green stalks.

Maatha neeche! Kesri shouted over his shoulder: Heads down! And at the same time the fifers and drummers changed tempo, switching to double-quick time.

With his head lowered Kesri lengthened his pace, trying to shut out the whistling of incoming shells. His high, stiff collar was soaked and its grip tightened like a vice on his neck as he ran; on his back, his knapsack had taken on a life of its own and was flinging itself from side to side, trying to throw him off balance; between his legs the sweat-caked seam of his trowsers had turned into a length of fraying rope, sawing against his groin.

Then the rice-fields ended and they were racing up a scrub-covered slope, with shells throwing up dust all around them. Kesri saw an officer go down and then a cannonball landed right on the Cameronians, felling three troopers.

In the distance Manchu bannermen were banging their shields and brandishing spears, almost as if to taunt the attackers. Then a volley of projectiles took flight from the ramparts of the nearest fortress and came arcing down the hill, towards the sepoys. Kesri caught a glimpse of them as they slammed into the scrub, amidst clouds of smoke. He realized, to his disbelief, that the Chinese were launching rockets.

All of this was new: the improved gunnery, the rockets — how had the chootiyas learnt so much so fast?

Up ahead the Cameronians had halted to catch their breath, under the shelter of an overhang. Captain Mee brought B Company to a stop too and then went to join the Cameronians.

Shrugging off his knapsack, Kesri dropped gratefully on to the rocky soil. They were within musket range of the Chinese troops now and volleys of grapeshot were whistling through the air. Keeping his head low, Kesri reached for his flask; it was almost empty so he was careful to take only a sip. It would be a while yet before the followers caught up and they too were probably running low on water now; the company had been so thirsty at the last stop that the bhistis’ mussucks had shrunk to less than half size.

When at last the bhistis arrived, Kesri signalled to them to stay low and serve the sepoys first. From here on it would be a straight run up to the rectangular citadel: only the sepoys would advance now; the fifers, drummers, runners and bhistis would remain here. Of the followers Maddow alone would accompany the fighting men, with the ladder.

Glancing back, Kesri saw that Maddow had kept up with the front line despite his unwieldy burden. Beckoning him forward, Kesri said: You’ll stay beside me from now on: understood? Samjhelu?

Ji, havildar-sah’b.

*

Further down the slope the fifers were still scrambling after the sepoys. Now, as grapeshot began to hum and whistle around them Bobbery-Bob shouted, ‘Get down, you fucking barnshoots! Do you want to get your balls shot off?’ They flattened themselves on the ground.

Raju’s mouth was as dry as sawdust: he was thirstier than he had ever been. Snatching at his flask he pulled at the cap with trembling fingers — but only to discover that the cork had come loose and all the water had leaked out.

A disbelieving wail burst from his throat: ‘It’s gone — all my water.’

Dicky, lying beside him, had already drained his own bottle. On impulse he grabbed Raju’s flask and jumped to his feet: ‘Wait, men — I’ll get some more from a bhisti.’

Dicky started off at a run but came to a sudden stop after a few steps. For a moment his body stayed upright, as if frozen in motion, and then he spun sidewise and fell to the ground.

‘Dicky?’ screamed Raju. Leaping to his friend’s side, he took hold of his shoulder and gave him a shake. ‘Dicky, what’s the matter with you, bugger?’

Raju could not understand why Dicky would not look at him, even though his amber eyes were wide open.

‘What’s happened, Dicky?’ Raju shook him again. ‘Get up, bugger, get up! This is no time to play the fool, men.’

There was still no answer so Raju flung himself on the unmoving figure and wrapped his arms around him.

‘Please, Dicky, get up. Please listen to me, men. Get up!’

*

The British barrage had risen to a crescendo when Captain Mee came scrambling back to tell Kesri that he was going ahead with the Cameronians.

That the captain was impatient to be in the thick of the fighting was amply evident to Kesri; during the advance he had exposed himself to fire with a recklessness that was unusual even for him: it was almost as if he were courting a bullet.

‘Be careful, Kaptán-sah’b,’ said Kesri.

The captain gave him a nod and ran off, ducking and dodging as grapeshot whistled through the air.

As he lay on the gravelly slope Kesri was aware of a quickening in the rhythm of his breath; when he tried to tighten his grip on his Brown Bess the barrel slipped through his palms which were oozing sweat. In his stomach too there was a peculiar gnawing tightness, a sensation that puzzled him until he recognized that his guts were churning in fear. He shut his eyes and pressed his cheek into the ground, so that the pebbles pushed against his teeth.

His old wounds had begun to throb now; it was as if his body had become a storehouse of memory, a map of pain. Yet what he recalled most vividly was not the fiery burning that had accompanied each injury but rather the dull, crushing pain of recovery — the weeks of lying in bed, of not being able to turn over, of having to soil himself. He did not want to go through that again; he did not want to die, not now, not for nothing, which was what this was.

Somewhere nearby there was a sound of convulsive swallowing.

Opening his eyes, Kesri saw that it was coming from the sepoy who was lying next to him — a man not much younger than himself. He was from the hills, Kesri remembered, and was the father of a large brood of children. Was he thinking of them now? Was he remembering the shadows of the mountains as they stretched across his valley on frosty evenings? It was plain to Kesri that the sepoy too had been seized by fear: his lips were white, his hands were shaking and his eyes were showing their whites. In a minute or two he would curl up; his whole body would be paralyzed by fear. When it came time to move he would not be able to rise to his feet. It would fall to Kesri to report him to Captain Mee; there would be a court martial and the man would probably be shot for cowardice — and he, Havildar Kesri Singh, would be as much to blame as the man himself, for it was his job, his duty, his karma, to protect his men as best he could, even from themselves.

Sticking out an elbow, Kesri jabbed the sepoy in his ribs: Chal! It’s almost time now.

The words stuck in his throat and he had drag them out as though he were making himself retch.

Then, abruptly, the noise of the gunfire diminished and the British barrage drew to an end.

‘Fix bayonets!’

A bullet threw dust into Kesri’s face as he pulled himself over the escarpment; his feet slipped on the loose gravel but he managed to stay upright and began to stride uphill, head lowered, moving with a stooped, lumbering gait, which was the only way you could run up a slope with a fifty-pound knapsack on your back and a musket in your hand. Between steps he sucked in a mouthful of air and shouted — Har har Mahadev! — and the battle-cry came roaring back at him, propelling him forward.

After another two hundred yards Kesri saw that the Cameronians had stopped their advance. They had come under heavy fire from a detachment of Manchu bannermen, positioned at the crest of the hill.

Looking rightward, Kesri spotted a grove of trees and held up his hand to signal to the sepoys to follow him there.

Just as Kesri had thought, the spot offered a clear line of fire to the bannermen. It took him only a few minutes to site the sepoys to his satisfaction. Then they unloosed one volley after another until the bannermen withdrew.

As soon as the firing had ceased Kesri sprinted over to the Cameronians: ‘They’re gone!’ he shouted. ‘They’re gone!’

The Cameronians seemed to be unaware of the little sideshow to their rear.

One by one their faces turned blankly towards him. Then he heard Colour-Serjeant Orr’s voice shouting into his ear. ‘Where the fuck have you black bastards been? Were you hiding below so you wouldn’t have to fight? Bloody bunch of cowards.’

Suddenly Kesri’s musket began to twitch in his hands. The urge to thrust his bayonet into Colour-Sarjeant Orr’s belly was almost irresistible: to skewer this maadarchod seemed far more urgent than fighting some unknown Chinese soldier.

But before he could make a move Captain Mee’s voice cut in — ‘Havildar?’ — and habit took over. Kesri snapped off a salute: Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘Has our ladder been brought forward?’

Glancing down the slope Kesri saw that Maddow was squatting beside the sepoys of B Company. ‘Ladder is here, sir.’

‘Good. Let’s get the job done then. The Cameronians will charge to the right — we’ll take the left.’

At a signal from Captain Mee the ranks began to peel off, in staggered order, to advance slantwise, in echelon. The fire from the fortress died away as they charged. On reaching the ramparts B Company formed a protective cordon around Maddow as he assembled and erected the ladder.

The first man to scale the walls took a look around and announced that the fortress had been abandoned; its garrison had withdrawn towards the city. Kesri went up next and found himself on a parapet that led to an embrasured turret.

Kesri went into the turret and climbed up to the highest of the embrasures. Sprawled below lay the vast expanse of the city of Guangzhou. The streets and avenues, towers and pagodas, houses and shanties stretched away as far as the eye could see, to the east and to the south. Some of the gates of the walled city were open and long lines of people could be seen trickling out: they appeared to be fleeing in every direction.

Before Kesri could take it all in the guns on the city walls opened up with a tremendous roar. A shell crashed into the ramparts, just below the turret. Kesri ducked his head and went racing down, to take cover inside the fortress.

*

The rectangular fortress was a simple structure, with a large covered enclosure in the centre, surrounded by a few rooms and antechambers. The enclosure filled up quickly as the rest of the 4th Brigade poured in, through the rear gate.

In the meantime the other three forts had also been overrun by British troops. The barrage from the city walls continued without interruption all the while but failed to impede the operation. At noon word was sent back to General Gough that all four fortresses had been occupied. One was being prepared to serve as his headquarters; he could occupy it when he pleased.

On his way up the general had a narrow escape: a bullet flew right past his ear to hit the officer behind him.

Soon after his arrival the general called a meeting at his headquarters. Captain Mee was among those who attended. On his return Kesri learnt that the morning’s fighting had taken an unexpectedly heavy toll. The British forces had suffered more battlefield casualties than on any other day. The Bengal Volunteers had been lucky not to lose any men.

Feelings were running high among the officers, said the captain. The hotheads were talking of teaching the Celestials a sanguinary lesson by sacking the city’s temples, pagodas and markets: these were known to be vast storehouses of silver and gold — the booty would be beyond calculation.

It had been decided, in any event, that the walled city would be stormed the next day. The northern gates had been studied by the engineers and they had come to the conclusion that it would not be difficult to force an entry. Plans had been drawn up for the attack: it would start early, with all four brigades converging on the northern walls.

Through the afternoon followers kept straggling in, but none belonged to B Company. Their absence was both an inconvenience and a worry for Kesri; a couple of hours before nightfall, he dispatched a squad to look for them. They returned at dusk and only then did Kesri learn of the casualties: a runner, a cook and a bhisti injured; one fifer killed. That was why they had been so slow to arrive; because it had taken a long time to arrange for the injured men and the dead boy to be evacuated to the rear.

The news of Dicky’s death had a powerful effect on Kesri: he remembered that he had himself chosen the boy, thinking that he might become the company’s mascot. And so indeed he had: his ready smile, quick tongue and jaunty step had won the sepoys’ hearts: it was cruel that B Company could not be present at his interment, to bury him with the honour he deserved.

Kesri recalled also that a close friendship had blossomed between Dicky and Raju: his eyes sought out the young lad, who was sitting crouched and red-eyed in one of the muddy, mosquito-infested recesses of the fortress. Kesri felt a pang of sympathy for the boy; he would have gone over to say something had he been able to be sure of keeping his own emotions in check. But instead, seeing Maddow nearby, he said: Keep an eye on that little fellow, will you? It must be hard for him, losing his friend.

*

On hearing that a storm was expected Dinyar decided to move the Mor from Hong Kong Bay to the inner harbour at Macau, which was said to be safer in bad weather. He offered to take the other seths with him but none accepted. Many of them had taken rooms in Hong Kong: a resolution to the conflict seemed so close now that they were loath to absent themselves from the island for so much as a day. It was common knowledge that a land auction would be held soon and they did not want to run the slightest risk of missing it.

The seths gave themselves much of the credit for having persuaded the island’s current administrator, Mr J. Robert Morrison, to hold the auction even before Hong Kong was formally ceded to the British Crown. But Mr Morrison had dragged his feet over the auction and this had aroused their suspicions; they had convinced themselves that he would seize any possible opportunity to keep them from bidding, and being determined to prevent this, they spent their days dogging the tracks of the land surveyors and arguing over which plots they would bid on.

Shireen alone decided to return to Macau with Dinyar, on Zadig’s advice. A south China typhoon was like no storm she’d ever experienced, Zadig told her; she would do well to sit it out within the sturdy walls of Villa Nova.

‘And once the storm blows over,’ Zadig added with a twinkle, ‘maybe we can make the announcement?’

‘Of what?’

‘Our engagement.’

Shireen gasped. ‘Oh Zadig Bey — it’s too soon! I need more time. Please. Nothing can be made public until I’ve spoken to Dinyar — and there just hasn’t been time.’

‘All the more reason then,’ said Zadig, ‘to go to Macau with him. There will be plenty of time to talk during the storm.’

Of late Dinyar had been noticeably cool towards Shireen, as had the other seths. She’d been led to wonder whether they’d heard rumours about Zadig and herself, or whether something else was amiss. She had wanted to probe Dinyar about it, but he had been avoiding her and she hadn’t been able to corner him.

But soon after the Mor hoisted sail Shireen was able to create the opportunity she needed. She had instructed the cook to prepare aleti-paleti — masala-fried chicken gizzards — one of Dinyar’s favourite Parsi dishes. After it was brought to the table she sent the stewards away and served it to Dinyar with her own hands.

Majhanu che? How is it, Dinyar deekro?

He wouldn’t answer and sat sullenly at the table toying with his fork.

After a while Shireen said: Su thayu deekro — what’s the matter, son? Is everything all right?

For the first time since he’d sat down Dinyar looked directly at her. ‘Shireen-auntie,’ he said in English — and this was itself a departure for he usually spoke Gujarati with her — ‘is it true that Mr Karabedian’s godson has been buried next to Bahram-uncle’s grave?’

So that was it: the placement of the graves had made the seths anxious about their own guilty secrets.

Shireen nodded calmly. ‘Yes, deekro,’ she said. ‘It’s true.’

‘But Shireen-auntie!’ he protested. ‘Why should Mr Karabedian’s godson be buried there? That’s not right.’

‘Not right?’

‘No, Auntie — it’s not right.’

Shireen folded her hands together and laid them on the table. Looking Dinyar squarely in the eyes, she said: ‘I think you know, don’t you, Dinyar, that Freddie wasn’t just Mr Karabedian’s godson? He was also my husband’s natural child.’

Evidently Dinyar was completely unprepared for an open acknowledgement of an illicit relationship. He reacted as though he had been hit in the face. Su kaoch thame? What are you talking about, Shireen-auntie? How can you speak of such things?

Do you think, Dinyar, said Shireen patiently, that these things will disappear if you don’t speak of them? But they won’t, you know — because it is impossible to bring children silently into this world. They all have voices and some day they too learn to speak.

Shireen tapped the table loudly, to lend emphasis to what she was about to say.

You should remember all this, Dinyar, she said. Especially in relation to your own children.

There was a sharp intake of breath across the table; Dinyar began to say something but then changed his mind. Staring at his food, he ran a finger around his neck, to loosen his collar.

Shireen-auntie, he said presently, in a shaky, faltering voice: You must remember one thing. Men like Bahram-uncle, like myself — the work we do takes us away from home for years at a time. It’s very lonely — I think you won’t be able to understand how lonely it is.

Kharekhar? Really? said Shireen. You think we don’t know what loneliness is?

At that he turned his face towards her and she saw that he was wearing an expression of genuine perplexity.

How could you understand, Shireen-auntie? he said. Women like you — like my mother and my sisters — you live at home, in Bombay, in the midst of your families, surrounded by children and relatives, with every comfort in easy reach. The reason we travel overseas is so that you can live in luxury. It’s all for our families — to keep all of you comfortable and happy. How could you possibly know what we have to go through for that? How could you know what it’s like for us? How alone we are?

Shireen’s lips were trembling now, and she had to take a deep breath to regain control of herself. ‘Well, Dinyar,’ she said, ‘if you really know what loneliness is then maybe you will understand what I am going to tell you.’

‘Yes?’

‘Dinyar — Zadig Bey has asked me to marry him. I have accepted.’

Dinyar’s mouth fell open and his voice dropped to a disbelieving whisper. ‘What are you saying, Shireen-auntie? You can’t do that! It’s impossible. You will be cut off by all of us. None of us will ever speak to you again.’

Shireen shook her head. ‘No, Dinyar,’ she said with a smile. ‘You’re wrong. You will accept it. And not only that, you will persuade all the others to accept it too. You will tell them that you will all be better off if I marry Zadig Bey and stay on in Hong Kong.’

Shireen paused to take a breath. ‘For there’s one thing you should know, Dinyar: if you and the other sethjis make a great fuss and create a scandal; if I am driven away from here and forced to go back to Bombay — then you can be sure that many Parsi families are going to find out that they have unknown relatives in China. And yours will be the first.’

*

The shelling of the four fortresses continued through the night, not as a steady barrage but in fits and starts, which was worse because it preyed on the nerves. But even without the shelling it would have been difficult to sleep in that stifling heat, with hundreds of dust-caked, sweat-soaked men crammed into a small space.

The enclosure had no windows and the stench inside was overpowering. Dysentery spread very rapidly through the ranks that night; many men were in a state where they soiled themselves before they could get to the latrines. The sour, acrid stink of their almost liquid, blood-spotted excretions hung upon the hall like a miasma.

The Cameronians were especially badly affected by the ‘bloody flux’ — but it was the sepoys who had to put up with volleys of abuse about ‘nigger-stink’ and ‘darkie-dung’. Had they been in India fights would have broken out and the Madras and Bengal sepoys might even have joined forces against the Cameronians. But here, caught between the Chinese on the one hand and the British on the other, they were helpless; they had to bear the insults in silence. And men like Colour-Sarjeant Orr understood this very well, and it made the insults and curses flow still more freely from their tongues.

Around dawn Kesri and Captain Mee went up to the fortress’s turret to take another look at the city. Kesri saw that the trickle of refuge-seekers had turned overnight into a flood. The roadways around the city were jammed with people, carts, sedan chairs and carriages; they were pouring out of the gates, fleeing in every direction. The roads were so crowded that people had spilt over into the rice-fields.

‘I suppose they want to get out of the city before it’s attacked,’ said Captain Mee.

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

Now that all the preparations were in place Kesri was anxious for the attack to begin. No matter what the dangers, it would be better to fight than to spend another night in this hell-hole of a fortress.

But it was not to be. A white flag appeared above the city’s northern gate just as the brigade was mustering.

‘The devil take me!’ cried Captain Mee. ‘I’ll be damned if it isn’t talkee-time again.’

The troops were told to stand down and the officers spent the rest of the morning shuttling back and forth between the fortress and headquarters.

Later Captain Mee told Kesri that the mandarins had sued for peace and the Plenipot had agreed to an armistice on condition that an indemnity of six million silver dollars was handed over immediately and all Chinese troops were withdawn from the city.

As so often before the mandarins had agreed — but the officers were to a man convinced that nothing would come of it and the sweat and blood they had spent in seizing the fortresses would be wasted. General Gough for one was eager to press on with the attack but his hands were tied: Captain Elliot had insisted that the Chinese authorities be given time to meet the conditions of the armistice. The force would probably have to remain in the fortresses for a while yet, possibly several days.

As the hours passed the heat continued to mount and vast swarms of flies, midges and stinging gnats invaded the fortresses, drawn by the smell of rancid sweat and overfilled latrines. Soon supplies dwindled to a point where water and food had to be strictly rationed. The only spot of good news was that a few clouds had at last appeared in the sky, scudding in from the south.

In the afternoon, Captain Mee was summoned to headquarters for yet another meeting: it had been called, he explained later, to address the shortages of food and water. The high command had authorized the four brigades to send out foraging parties. They were to operate under a strict set of rules: nothing was to be taken by force; they were to go from house to house asking for donations of rice, vegetables and livestock. Every household that made a contribution was to be given a placard to put over their doorway so that no further contributions would be asked of them. Under no circumstances were civilians — men, women or children — to be molested or harmed. Infractions of these rules would be severely punished.

‘Do you understand, havildar?’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

Captain Mee took out a chart and pointed to a road that led to a village called San Yuan Li. Kesri was to put together a foraging party and head in that direction. As for the captain, he was planning to join a group of fellow officers who were on their way to explore some of the nearby pagodas and temples.

‘And listen, havildar,’ said the captain, directing a stern glance at Kesri. ‘I don’t want anyone making any trouble. No looting, no pinching, no monkeying about with the local woman. Do you understand?’

Kesri snapped off a salute: Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

*

Assembling a foraging party was no easy task: to make sepoys carry loads was difficult at the best of times for they baulked at anything that hinted of manual labour. Nor were there many camp-followers left to choose from — their numbers had now dwindled to fewer than twenty. In the end Kesri had no option but to include the fifers and drummers — they too hated to serve as porters but their protests were not hard to override.

Once all the available mussucks, chagals, sacks and other recap-tacles had been gathered up, the party set off with the sepoys guarding the flanks and Kesri in the lead.

The path to San Yuan Li ran down a steep slope. On reaching the plain the path joined a road that led northwards. Marching up this road they passed a good number of people who were fleeing the city. They were families for the most part and took fright easily; the mere sight of the sepoys sent them running into the fields.

The heat was so unrelenting that the party soon began to tire: Kesri was glad to spot a group of Madras sepoys at the entrance of a pagoda: they were lounging in the shade of a sweeping, red-tiled roof. Kesri decided that it was time for a rest-break; he sent the men to sit under a tree and went over to talk to the Madras sepoys. They told him that they had come to the pagoda with Captain Mee and some of their own officers. There was a graveyard at the back and the officers had gone to inspect it, leaving them on guard outside.

What are they doing in a graveyard? said Kesri.

At this the sepoys shot sidelong glances at each other. One of them inclined his head at the gate: Go in and see.

Kesri stepped inside and after making his way through a succession of courtyards and incense-scented hallways he came to a corridor that led outside. He could see the officers through a doorway; they were in the adjoining graveyard, issuing orders to a squad of sepoys. Kesri went a little closer and saw that a pink-cheeked young lieutenant was directing the sepoys in digging up a tomb. Several graves had already been broken open; the lieutenant was examining their contents and scribbling in a notepad.

In the distance a crowd of local people had gathered and were being held back at gunpoint by a line of sepoys.

Kesri caught a whiff of putrefaction: evidently some of the exhumed graves were quite new. A shiver — brought on by both disgust and fear — went through Kesri. The idea of disturbing the dead filled him with dread; his instincts told him to get away from there as quickly as possible.

With a hand over his nose Kesri spun around but only to find Captain Mee coming towards him, down the corridor. The captain’s eyes went from Kesri to the graveyard and back again.

‘Don’t get the wrong idea, havildar,’ said the captain. ‘Nothing is being taken from these graves. Lieutenant Hadley over there’ — he nodded at the officer with the notepad — ‘is a scholar of sorts. He’s making a study of Chinese customs and practices. That’s all.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘You’d better be on your way now.’ The captain dismissed him with a nod.

*

As the foraging party marched away from the pagoda Kesri spotted a bank of dark clouds moving towards them, trailing sheets of rain. This was not the long-awaited storm, he guessed, just a preliminary shower: it would pass soon.

A short way ahead lay a compound that looked as though it belonged to a family of farmers: a small dwelling and several storehouses were grouped around a paved courtyard and a well. There was no placard at the gate to indicate that the house had already been visited: it seemed as good a place to start as any.

Seeing no one around, Kesri sent the followers to the well, to fill their mussucks and chagals. The main doorway was to the left: Kesri rapped on it several times without receiving an answer, although he knew that there were people inside — he could see their eyes glinting behind a crack in a window.

Kesri was thinking of what to do next when one of the followers came running up to tell him that two men had been found in one of the storehouses. Crossing the courtyard, Kesri went to the open door: inside were two terrified men, cowering in a corner. Beside them lay several sacks of rice and baskets of freshly picked bananas, green beans and a vegetable that looked like karela — it was a plumper, smoother version of the bitter gourd that was so beloved of the sepoys.

The two men were dressed in threadbare tunics and pyjamas; Kesri decided they looked like servants or field-hands. When he stepped into the storehouse they began to whimper in fear, rocking back and forth on their heels. It was clear that they were frightened half out of their minds; their faces were twisted into almost comical masks of terror.

Kesri made a half-hearted effort to signal to them that he had come in search of food. But the men wouldn’t so much as glance at his clumsy attempts at mime; they kept their eyes averted as though he were an apparition too terrifying to behold.

What to do now?

Kesri spat on the ground, in exasperation.

What sense did it make to ask these men for donations? The food in this storeroom was probably not theirs to give away in any case — and even if it were, why would they willingly part with things they had laboured hard to produce? No farmer would do that, Kesri knew, not here nor in his native Nayanpur — not unless the request was tendered at the point of a gun, by a dacoit or soldier, and it was a matter of saving one’s skin. Yes, that was what this was, dacoity, banditry, and why should it fall on him, a mere havildar, to pretend otherwise, just because Captain Mee had asked him to? Kesri decided that to leave quickly was the most considerate thing he could do for these people.

Kesri signalled to the camp-followers to pick up five sacks of rice and two baskets of vegetables.

Cover them with tarpaulin, he told them, in case it rains.

Going back to the courtyard Kesri was taken aback to find that a group of men, dressed in the usual clothing of Cantonese villagers — tunics, pyjamas and conical hats — had collected around the entrance to the compound. That was not surprising in itself; what was really startling was that Maddow appeared to be conversing with one of those men.

A roar burst from Kesri’s throat — eha ka hota? What’s going on here? — and he went striding across the courtyard.

At Kesri’s approach the men melted away; he would have given chase except that they had vanished by the time he reached the courtyard’s entrance.

Turning on Maddow, Kesri snapped: Wu log kaun rahlen? Who were they? Did you know them?

There was no change in Maddow’s usual sleepy expression.

They were lascars, havildar, he said. Chinese lascars. I had sailed on a ship with one of them. He was my serang. That’s all.

Kesri glared at him: Saach bolat hwa? Are you telling the truth?

Ji, havildar-sah’b, said Maddow. It’s the truth — I swear it.

Kesri sensed that there was more to thisthan Maddow had said but there was no time to pursue the matter: it had already begun to drizzle.

‘Fall in!’

The foraging party had gone only a few hundred yards when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down.

It was quite late now and the light was poor. Glancing over his shoulder, Kesri caught sight of a couple of conical hats, a little to the rear of the foraging party. It occurred to him to wonder whether the men who had been speaking to Maddow were following them. But when he ran his eyes over the party he saw that Maddow was nowhere near those men: he was marching close to the front, with an enormous sack slung over his shoulder; with his free hand he was helping Raju with a chagal of water.

Reassured, Kesri turned his eyes ahead again.

*

It wasn’t long before Raju realized that Maddow was slowing down. The change of pace did not surprise him for Maddow’s burden seemed enormously heavy.

Thak gaye ho? Raju whispered. Are you tired?

Maddow shook his head without answering — and this too did not surprise Raju for he knew that Maddow was not a man of many words. The night before, when a couple of the older boys had set upon Raju, threatening to take him down a peg or two, Maddow had appeared out of nowhere and somehow his very presence had scared them away — yet the gun-lascar had uttered hardly a word to Raju, even though he had stayed beside him all through the night. If not for that, Raju would have had a difficult time of it, he knew: in the hours after Dicky’s death he had discovered very quickly that Dicky had been not just a friend but also a protector. With him gone it was as if Raju had become fair game for the louts and bullies. Even today they had picked on him whenever Maddow was out of sight — which was why he was grateful to be walking beside him now.

Raju thought nothing of it as he and Maddow slowly dropped back to the rear of the party.

It was still raining hard when Maddow bent down to talk into his ear: Listen, boy, there is someone here for you. Look behind.

Glancing through the rain, Raju glimpsed the outline of a figure in a conical hat. Who is he? he whispered fearfully.

Don’t be afraid, said Maddow. He is a friend. He will take you to your father.

My father?

Even though he had dreamt of receiving a message from his father, Raju had never imagined that it would happen like this.

You must go with him, Maddow whispered. You’ll be safe. Don’t worry.

But who is it? said Raju. What’s his name?

Serang Ali.

At this Raju’s heart leapt for he knew well that name, from Baboo Nob Kissin’s stories.

What do I have to do? he said to Maddow.

You only have to stop walking, that’s all.

Without another word Maddow whisked the chagal out of Raju’s hands and stepped away.

It was still raining and in a few minutes Maddow and the foraging party had disappeared from view. It was the man in the conical hat who was standing beside Raju now, a fierce-looking man with a wispy, drooping moustache — a man whose face would have frightened Raju if his appearance had not so exactly fitted Baboo Nob Kissin’s descriptions.

The next thing he knew, a rain-cloak made of straw had been thrown over him, covering his uniform, and his topee had been replaced by a conical hat. Then Serang Ali took hold of Raju’s hand and led him into an alley.

Stay beside me, said the serang, and don’t say a word. If anyone speaks to you pretend you are mute.

*

The hours of waiting, on a sampan moored a few miles from San Yuan Li, were the worst that Neel had ever endured. Had he been allowed to accompany Serang Ali and his party he would at least have had the satisfaction of doing something — but the serang had been inflexible on this score: on no account, he had said, was Neel to leave the sampan. Emotions were at such a pitch in the countryside that if the villagers suspected that a haak-gwai was in their midst he would certainly be killed.

Nor could the serang’s instructions be flouted for he had left Jodu behind, on the sampan, to enforce his orders. And Jodu was diligent in doing his job, making sure that Neel did not so much as stick his head out of the covered part of the boat.

Luckily, just before leaving the Ocean Banner Monastery, Neel had snatched up a book — the one that he and Raju had so often read together, The Butterfly’s Ball. He had thought that it would be comforting for Raju to have something familiar at hand. But it was Neel himself who now began to find comfort in the book’s familiarity; he leafed through it many times as the rain poured down on the boat.

He was flipping through the book one more time when Jodu whispered: Look — they’re coming back.

Peering at the riverbank, Neel spotted a group of shadowy figures taking shape in the gloaming. His heart almost stopped — for the shadows were all of grown men. It seemed certain to him then that something had gone terribly wrong. He would have let out a cry but Jodu was ready for that too: he clapped a hand over Neel’s mouth before any sound could escape his lips.

And then, as the figures came closer, another shadow, one that had been hidden by the others, detached itself from the group: it was of about the height of a boy — but Neel’s mind was now so disordered with worry that he could not be sure of what he was seeing. He began to struggle against Jodu’s grip.

Only when the boy had stepped into the sampan did Jodu let him go — just in time for Neel to fling wide his arms.

Raju? Raju?

All he could think of was to repeat the name, over and over, until Raju broke in to say, in a quiet, unruffled voice: Hã Baba — yes, it’s me.

At that Neel buried his face in the boy’s small shoulder and began to sob. It was Raju who had to comfort him: It’s all right, Baba — it’s all right.

Then Neel’s fingers brushed against the book he had brought with him. He handed it to Raju: Here, look what I’ve got for you.

A frown appeared on Raju’s face as he read the words on the spine. Then he said in a quiet but firm voice: You know, Baba, don’t you, that I’m not a little boy any more?