Flood of Fire

Twenty-one

That first shower was followed by many others over the next couple of days. But to the troops in the four fortresses the rain brought little relief: in the wake of the showers the stifling heat would quickly return, as if to warn that the real storm had yet to come.

For Kesri the showers became a new source of worry, to add to those caused by the disappearance of the young fifer. Whether the boy had deserted or been kidnapped he did not know — either was plausible — but he was determined to prevent anything like that from happening again. Now, every time a patrol was caught in a shower he sought shelter immediately; when on the march he would position himself at the rear of the column to make sure there were no stragglers.

The rain also brought new torments: it added the odour of mildew to the stench of the enclosure where the men were bivouacked; swarms of fleas appeared, to join forces with all the other insects that plagued them: their bite was so vicious that even on parade it was hard to keep the men from wriggling and scratching.

There was so much moisture in the air that inspections had to be conducted twice daily to make sure that the sepoys’ powder was dry. Yet Kesri knew full well that the state of their powder would be immaterial if they were attacked during a shower. It was this fear above all that now haunted him — of being caught in a situation where their Brown Besses would not fire. He could only hope that the troops would be withdrawn from the four fortresses before a major storm blew in.

But the progress of the negotiations was not encouraging: although the mandarins had fulfilled some of the conditions of the armistice — the withdrawal of troops from the city, for instance — they continued to procrastinate over the paying of the ransom money. To raise six million dollars was not easy, they had protested; they needed a few more days at the very least. And while they tried to find the funds the British force had to remain where it was, poised above the city and ready to strike: it was the knife at the mandarins’ throat.

But while they remained there they had to forage to sustain themselves — and with each passing day it became more difficult to extract supplies from the villagers. No longer were they terrified of the foreign soldiers: often they would spit and hurl stones; gangs of urchins would shout insults; people would block the roads to stop the foraging parties from entering their villages and hamlets. An even more ominous development was that groups of young men, armed with pikes and staves, had begun to confront the foraging parties; on occasion shots had to be fired to disperse them.

The soldiers too became increasingly aggressive as the days went by: although Kesri was able to restrain his own men, he saw plenty of evidence to suggest that discipline was fraying in many units. There were rumours of beatings, looting, vandalism and also of attacks on women. One day Captain Mee told Kesri that charges of rape had been brought against a havildar and some jawans of the 37th Madras: they had been accused of invading a house and molesting the women.

But when Kesri questioned the Madras sepoys he was told a wholly different story: the havildar said he had been passing through San Yuan Li, with a squad of sepoys, when he saw an angry crowd gathering around a walled compound. Thinking that a foraging party had been trapped inside he ordered the sepoys to fire into the air, to disperse the crowd, after which he had entered the compound to see what was afoot. The situation inside was not at all what he had imagined: instead of a foraging party he had come upon a rag-tag bunch of British swaddies. There was a smell of alcohol in the air and the sound of women’s voices could be clearly heard, echoing out of the house: there was no mistaking those terror-stricken screams.

The havildar had recognized one of the men there, an English corporal. But before he could ask any questions he had been shoved out of the compound, with warnings to mind his own business and keep his gob shut. On returning to his bivouack he had decided to report what he had seen to the company commander. This had turned out to be a bad mistake; when the corporal was summoned for questioning he had blamed everything on the sepoys. It was they who were now under investigation.

Kesri didn’t know what to believe but duly apprised Captain Mee of the Madras sepoys’ story.

After hearing him out Captain Mee shrugged: ‘Well I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, havildar,’ he said, ‘that in situations like these it’s always easier to blame sepoys.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘And in this instance it’s a Madras havildar’s word against an English corporal’s.’

There was no need to say any more.

*

The Ibis was still a long way from Hong Kong when a bank of dark cloud hove into view on the horizon. The sight came as no surprise to Zachary: in the week that he had spent at Whampoa, waiting for the convoy of merchant ships to leave, he had seen plenty of signs of bad weather ahead. And the barometer, which had fallen steadily as the Ibis was sailing down the estuary, had removed all doubt about what lay in store.

But Zachary guessed that it would be a while yet before the storm hit the coast — probably not till early the next day, which meant that with any luck there would be enough daylight left for him to call on Mrs Burnham, in the Anahita, when the Ibis reached Hong Kong.

But when the convoy drew abreast of the island the Anahita did not immediately come into view, even though the bay was unusually thin of vessels. Evidently many skippers had decided to move their ships elsewhere, in anticipation of a storm. This was for the best, of course, since it reduced the possibility of collisions — but that was small consolation for Zachary, who had been looking forward to seeing Mrs Burnham.

But it turned out that the Anahita had not left Hong Kong Bay after all, she was merely hidden behind the Druid. She was anchored at the eastern end of the bay, abreast of Mr Burnham’s recently built godown, at East Point.

Zachary took the Ibis in the same direction and hove to within two fathoms of the Anahita. As soon as the schooner was properly anchored he called for the longboat to be lowered.

Within fifteen minutes Zachary was within hailing distance of the Anahita. Scanning the decks he spotted a familiar daub of saffron bobbing about on the maindeck. ‘Is that you, Baboo?’ he shouted, through cupped hands.

‘Yes, Master Zikri. And how are you? Hale and hearty I hope?’

‘Yes, Baboo, never better. Is Mrs Burnham aboard?’

‘Correct, Master Zikri — Burra Memsah’b is here.’

‘I have a message for her, from Mr Burnham. Please tell her I’m coming aboard right now.’

‘Yes, Master Zikri; ekdum jaldee.’

By the time Zachary had climbed up the Anahita’s side-ladder Baboo Nob Kissin was back on the maindeck, waiting to greet him.

‘Baboo, you know there’s a storm coming, don’t you?’ said Zachary.

‘Yes, Master Zikri — I will go ashore this evening, for safekeeping. Burra Memsah’b will also go. We will sit in Mr Burnham’s godown — a room has been specially prepared for Burra Memsah’b. Only sailors will remain on Anahita.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Zachary. ‘And where is Mrs Burnham now? Did you give her my message?’

‘Yes, Master Zikri — Burra Memsah’b is waiting you on the quarter-deck.’

‘Thank you, Baboo.’

Zachary stepped up the companion-ladder to find Mrs Burnham standing alone by the bulwark, watching the sunset: her white carriage-dress had taken on the rosy sheen of the sky and her hair was glowing in the fading light.

Zachary came to a sudden stop: her allure had never been greater and something began to ache inside him — it was like the soreness of an old wound, a reminder not just of the injury itself but also of its cause. When Mrs Burnham greeted him by saying, ‘I am very happy to see you, Mr Reid,’ it was as if a scab had come off. He told himself that if she was pleased to see him it was only because she was impatient for news of Captain Mee — and in the wake of this the jealousy that was seething inside him bubbled up and brimmed over, spilling salt upon old wounds.

‘I am glad to see you too, Mrs Burnham,’ he said stiffly, struggling to keep his composure. ‘I came because your husband had asked me to convey a message to you.’

‘What is it?’

‘He has been detained in Canton. He will be back as soon as things are more settled there, perhaps in a fortnight or so.’

Mrs Burnham’s smile died away and a look of concern descended on her face. ‘I believe there has been much trouble in Canton of late,’ she said. ‘I was very worried — about Mr Burnham, and you … and all our other friends.’

Zachary could not restrain the sardonic laugh that now burst from his throat. ‘Oh come, Mrs Burnham! There is no need to be coy, with me least of all; if you were worried I am sure it was not on behalf of either your husband or myself.’

‘But you are wrong, Mr Reid!’ she protested. ‘You are never far from my thoughts, I assure you.’

‘But nor am I so close, I’ll wager’ — his bitterness was so powerful now that he could no longer disguise it — ‘as Captain Mee. Come, admit it, Mrs Burnham, it was for him that you were worried, weren’t you?’

‘Amongst others, yes, certainly, I will not deny it.’

‘Then I am sure you will be happy to know,’ said Zachary, ‘that the last time I spoke to him he was in the best of health.’

‘Oh?’

He had wanted to catch her unawares and was pleased to see that he had succeeded.

‘I did not know,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘that you were acquainted with Captain Mee.’

‘I certainly am, Mrs Burnham. I made his acquaintance at your husband’s suggestion.’

This too took her by surprise, exactly as Zachary had intended. ‘But what,’ said Mrs Burnham, ‘did my husband want with Captain Mee?’

‘Surely, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary, ‘that question needs no answer? I think you know as well as I do why your husband likes to keep a few soldiers in his pocket — you’ve told me so yourself. It is a lucrative business and your husband has been showing me the ropes. That was why he suggested that I make overtures to Captain Mee.’

Mrs Burnham’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying you tried to offer him a dustoorie?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Oh he spurned me in no uncertain terms,’ said Zachary. ‘He even threatened to report me to his superiors.’

She had evidently been holding her breath for she let it out now in a long sigh.

‘I would have expected no less of him,’ she said with quiet pride. ‘He cares nothing for money or worldly advancement.’

Zachary allowed her to feast on this thought for a few seconds. Then he flashed her a smile: ‘Well, Mrs Burnham, I trust you will not be too disappointed then to learn that I was able to bring Captain Mee around.’

She turned to him in shock, her knuckles whitening on the gunwale. ‘What do you mean “bring him around”?’

‘Only that I succeeded in changing his mind.’

‘But how?’

‘I told him,’ said Zachary, ‘that if he carried tales about me, he would run the risk of being exposed as an adulterer.’

Mrs Burnham gasped and clapped a hand on her mouth. ‘No! You did not dare!’

‘You’re wrong there, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘Not only did I dare, I informed him also that he was not the only one to enjoy your favours.’

‘No!’ she cried. ‘I do not believe it!’

‘Well you should,’ said Zachary, ‘because it is true.’

‘And what was his answer?’

Zachary laughed. ‘He is, as you know, an impetuous man, so you will not be surprised to hear that he was beside himself with rage — I think he might even have killed me. But once again I was able to get the better of him.’

‘How on earth?’

‘I told him that I had kept all your letters and in the event of my death they would be found among my effects — in other words, that you would be ruined. This had a rather touching effect — you could even say that it was a tribute to his attachment to you.’

Mrs Burnham brushed a hand across her eyes. ‘Why? What happened?’

‘Oh, the bluster leaked out of him like air from a puffed-up bladder. He was evidently quite stricken at the thought that you might suffer harm. I saw then that it would be easy to take him in hand. I told him that it was in order to protect you that he should accept my offer; that he should think of it as a small sacrifice on the altar of love.’

‘And then?’ The sunlight had faded now and her face had turned an ashen grey.

‘I gave him a few weeks to think the matter over — since his brain is scarcely his swiftest organ I thought he would need the time. I will not conceal from you that I rather doubted that he would come to a sensible decision. But I must confess that he surprised me; the last time I saw him he was perfectly amenable, quite docile in fact. His words, as I remember them, were “What do you require of me?”‘

‘Oh no!’ Mrs Burnham’s hands flew to her cheeks. ‘Mr Reid, I cannot believe that you would be so ruthless, so cruel.’

‘Oh but it is you who deserves all the credit, Mrs Burnham,’ he shot back. ‘It was you who taught me cruelty — and as you know I am a quick learner.’

She put a hand on the gunwale, to steady herself, and looked at him with imploring eyes. ‘Please, Mr Reid,’ she said, ‘you must release him from this dreadful bargain.’

‘I am sorry, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘I am afraid the matter is not in my hands any more. It is your husband who is dealing with Captain Mee now. My part was only to reel him in.’

Mrs Burnham bit back a sob. ‘Poor, poor Neville,’ she said. ‘He prizes his honour above all things. For him there could be no worse fate.’

‘Oh but there could, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘I think his fate — and yours too — would be far worse if your husband were to twig on to the history of your little dalliance.’ He paused to scratch his cheek. ‘And all it would take, you know, is a brief chat with the captain’s havildar — that is how I myself found out. I’m sure it would not be difficult to arrange for your husband to meet him too.’

‘But you wouldn’t!’

‘Well, Mrs Burnham, that depends,’ said Zachary, studying his fingernails. ‘It depends on you really.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I expect,’ said Zachary softly, ‘that you have forgotten a promise you once made to me — that when it came time for us to part, we would have one last night together. I think the time has come for you to redeem your pledge.’

‘But Mr Reid’ — she whispered the syllables slowly, as though his name belonged to someone she did not know — ‘how can you possibly ask that of me now? After everything you have said? It is unthinkable, unimaginable. I cannot do it.’

‘Oh but you can, Mrs Burnham! And you shall. If Captain Mee can make a small sacrifice on the altar of love, why shouldn’t you?’

Mrs Burnham was now clutching the gunwale with both hands, as if to prevent herself from falling over. ‘Oh Mr Reid,’ she whispered. ‘What has become of you? What have you become?’

He was not slow to retort. ‘I have become what you wanted, Mrs Burnham,’ he said. ‘You wanted me to be a man of the times, did you not? And that is what I am now; I am a man who wants more and more and more; a man who does not know the meaning of “enough”. Anyone who tries to thwart my desires is the enemy of my liberty and must expect to be treated as such.’

Mrs Burnham began to sob, quietly. ‘Mr Reid — Zachary — you cannot do this. What you’re asking of me is utterly inhuman. Only a monster or demon could contemplate such a thing. I cannot believe that you are those things.’

‘It is yourself you have to thank, Mrs Burnham,’ said Zachary. ‘It was all your own doing, wasn’t it? It was you who decided that I needed to be re-made in a more enlightened mould. It might have been better for both of us if you had left me to languish where you found me. But you chose instead to rescue me from that dark, unnameable continent — and now it is too late.’

Zachary broke off to look up at the darkening sky; it was still cloudless but the wind had strengthened a little.

‘There is a storm coming, as you probably know. I will arrange our rendezvous once it blows over. And you need not worry, Mrs Burnham; everything will be done with the utmost discretion. But until then I’d advise you to be careful — it looks as though we’re in for quite a blow. I’m glad you’re going ashore. A ship is no place for landlubbers during a storm: you’ll be safer in the godown.’

‘You need not concern yourself with my safety, Mr Reid,’ she said, turning her back on him. ‘As I’m sure you know, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

*

That night, word was received that six million silver dollars had finally been handed over by the Chinese authorities; the money had been transferred to the Blenheim for safekeeping.

In the four fortresses there was great relief: for the first time in many days, Kesri fell into a deep sleep.

But all too soon someone was shouting into his ears: Havildar-sah’b, utho! Wake up!

It was a little after daybreak and an orderly had brought an urgent message: Kesri was wanted by Captain Mee, up in the turret of the fortress.

Kesri dressed quickly, putting on a freshly washed vest before pulling on his red koortee. But once again the weather was hot and steamy: sweat poured off him as he climbed up the turret’s stairs and by the time he reached Captain Mee the vest was plastered clammily against his skin.

Captain Mee was sweating too. ‘It’s going to be another teakettle day,’ he said, mopping his face — but to Kesri it seemed that there was something different about the heat of that morning. The air was so still and heavy that even the birds and insects had fallen silent. And along the southern horizon there was a broad smudge of blue-black cloud. Kesri looked at it with foreboding: ‘I think today the storm will come, sir.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, sir — looks like a real tufaan.’

‘Well, it couldn’t have picked a worse time.’

The captain pointed to the rice-fields at the foot of the hill. ‘Look over there.’

Looking down, Kesri saw that the rice-fields were once again swarming with people, but these were not the refuge-seekers of the last few days: they were armed men, and instead of fleeing northwards they were heading towards the four fortresses.

How had so many men materialized in the fields overnight? ‘You think they are soldiers, sir?’

‘No, havildar — they could be irregulars, but they’re certainly not soldiers.’

Kesri took a closer look with the captain’s spyglass: he had the impression that the crowd was composed largely of youths like those who had been gathering in the villages over the last few days — except that their numbers had suddenly swelled a hundredfold or more.

Soon afterwards Captain Mee was summoned to a meeting at headquarters. On his return Kesri learnt that the general and his aides had taken notice of the crowds as well; they had concluded that something would have to be done to disperse them. As a first step Mr Thorn, the translator, had been sent to the mandarins, to demand that measures be taken to break up the gatherings.

But nothing had come of it: the mandarins had protested that they had nothing to do with the uprising and were themselves thoroughly alarmed; the crowds had gathered of their own accord, they had insisted, and for all they knew they might well turn against them too.

‘It’s a rabble,’ said Captain Mee to Kesri, ‘and since the mandarins can’t send them home then we shall probably have to do it for them.’

*

At daybreak the sky over Hong Kong was a dark, churning mass of cloud and there was only a faint glimmering of light to the east. Soon sheets of rain and seawater were blasting head-on into the Ibis, sweeping her decks, from fore to aft. At the same time, colossal waves were coming at her from the rear, swamping her stern.

The night before, Zachary had taken every possible precaution, dropping the sheet anchor, taking in the sails and yards, checking and double-checking the anchor cables, battening down the hatches. He had taken care also to make sure that there was a safe distance between the Ibis and every other vessel in the vicinity; the nearest of them was the Anahita two fathoms away — and as far as Zachary could tell she too was holding steady against the gale.

Over the next couple of hours there was no flagging in the fury of the wind. But a pale sheen of light slowly spread itself across the sky, so that it was possible, when the Ibis was carried aloft by a wave, to catch glimpses of what the storm had already wrought on the island. Zachary saw that dozens of junks and sampans had been driven aground and battered to pieces; most of the newly erected shacks and shanties had been blown away too and many buildings had also been damaged. But the godowns at East Point, Zachary was glad to see, were unharmed; so long as Mrs Burnham remained within those sturdy stone walls she would be safe.

Around mid-morning, when the light in the sky was still just a fractured grey glow, the Ibis’s bows suddenly reared up and began to thrash about in a way that left little doubt that the cable of the bow anchor had snapped.

Zachary had anticipated that something like this might happen and had already made a plan. He took a dozen crewmen off the pumps and got them to roll the heaviest of the Ibis’s cannon forward. On reaching the bows they attached a cable to the gun and heaved it over the side. The effect was immediate: the Ibis’s head stopped its wild swinging.

As he was turning to go back inside, Zachary’s eyes happened to veer towards the Anahita. He saw now, to his shock, that the windows in her stern — which had been closed at last glance — had flown open. Even as he watched, a huge wave rose up behind the ship and went surging through the windows, swamping the Owner’s Suite.

Zachary knew that unless those windows were quickly secured, the Anahita would founder. In all likelihood the crew were not even aware of what had happened; they were probably down in the belly of the ship, working the pumps.

How to warn them?

Signals and lights would take too long; all Zachary could think of was to fire a shot into the air. Racing down to the captain’s cabin, he snatched a musket from the arms’ cabinet and took it up to the wheelhouse. But as he was trying to prime the gun, he realized that it was a flintlock; the powder was damp and the flint wouldn’t spark. He could not get it to fire.

The Anahita’s stern had already begun to go under; the windows of the Owner’s Cabin had disappeared beneath the waves and the jib-boom was standing at a sharp angle to the water. In his heart Zachary knew that the Anahita was beyond all help already but to watch and do nothing was impossible. He ran down again to fetch a pistol and came back to find that it was too late: only the forward half of the Anahita was still visible; her elegant bows were pointing straight upwards, at the raging sky.

For a few minutes the Anahita seemed to hang in the water, her head upthrust, as if to take a last look at the heavens. Through the curtain of rain Zachary saw a longboat pulling away from her, heading towards the nearby jetty: he began to pray that the oarsmen would row faster, faster, so that they would not be sucked down by the sinking ship.

Then with gathering speed, the Anahita began to spin as the water dragged her under. A whirlpool took shape around the stricken ship, and as she was vanishing into it, the spinning whorls seemed to race towards the longboat. But then a wave took hold of the boat and carried it away, pushing it towards East Point.

‘Thank God!’

The second mate was standing beside Zachary, fingering the crucifix that hung around his neck and muttering to himself. ‘At least the crew’s safe.’

‘Yes,’ said Zachary. ‘And thank God all the live-lumber had been sent ashore well in advance.’

*

At Guangzhou, eighty miles away, the skies were still clear and people were continuing to pour out into the rice-fields. Soon crowds were gathering in so many places that it looked as though the British troops encamped in the four fortresses were at risk of encirclement.

Inside the fortresses preparations now began in earnest. At rollcall Kesri found that B Company was almost a fifth below strength because of fevers and dysentery. The followers too were much diminished in number and every available man had to be pressed into service, including the cooks and bhandaries. At the last minute Captain Mee ordered an equipment check, to make sure that every sepoy was carrying a rain-cape.

When the bugle sounded the four brigades paraded near the rectangular fortress. The First, Third and Fourth Brigades were ordered to move downhill, to a staging-point in the rice-fields. The Second Brigade, which consisted of marines and armed sailors, was to stay behind to guard the four fortresses.

The descent took a long time because of the narrow hillside pathways; it was not till noon that all three brigades were assembled at the staging-point. Directly ahead of them, at a distance of about a mile, was a crowd of some four or five thousand men. They were armed with pikes, spears, scythes, cudgels, sabres and even an occasional matchlock. Some were carrying long staves with hooks at the end.

There was an extended wait while the officers studied the crowds. It was the hottest hour of the day and the intensity of the sun seemed to increase as storm-clouds crept in from the south. For the troops there was not a spot of shade; the metal frames of their shakoes and topees grew so hot that it was as if they were carrying ovens on their heads. Gaps began to open up in the ranks as men collapsed and were carried away by doolie-bearers.

Meanwhile General Gough and his entourage had decided to go a little way ahead, to a shaded knoll. On the way two officers were seen to reel and lurch. One was the general himself, but he recovered and was able to walk the rest of the way without assistance. But the second officer had to be held up by others; on reaching the knoll he collapsed, falling forward on his face.

It turned out that this was the Quartermaster General; within a few minutes he was dead, of apoplexy, brought on by the heat.

This led to further delays and a good while passed before General Gough finally issued his orders. The brigades were to move in different directions with the aim of engaging and dispersing the mobs. The 4th Brigade was to tackle the crowd that had gathered directly in front of the staging-point. The Cameronians were to advance on it from the left and the Madras and Bengal sepoys from the right.

The fields ahead were flooded. Stepping into the mud, the sepoys waded forward at a slow, deliberate pace, with their muskets at the ready, the barrels resting on their hips.

The crowd began to fall back as the sepoys advanced, but even as it withdrew its numbers kept growing. On coming to a raised embankment the crowd’s retreat suddenly stopped; outlined against a lowering sky, thousands of silhouettes turned to face the sepoys.

It was late in the afternoon now and the Cameronians had disappeared from view, behind a cluster of houses on the left. The three hundred sepoys were on their own now, facing an assembly of six or seven thousand men.

The long trudge through the mud had all but exhausted the sepoys so a rest was ordered. The respite lasted just long enough for the followers to catch up and for water to be distributed to the sepoys. Then suddenly the crowd began to move towards them in a mass, brandishing weapons and shooting matchlocks.

Meanwhile a contingent of artillerymen had taken up positions to the rear of the sepoys. A flight of Congreve rockets now sailed over the soldiers’ heads; crashing into the crowd, the projectiles went ploughing through its ranks, leaving behind furrows of fallen bodies. But still the crowd kept on coming, undeterred.

Now it was the sepoys who began to retreat, but being weighed down by heavy loads, they could not move as fast as their adversaries. When the gap between them and the crowd had dwindled to a stone’s throw, the sepoys were ordered to stop and take up firing positions.

The sepoys’ first volley decimated the front rank of the crowd, bringing it to a halt. The sky had darkened now and a fierce wind had arisen. A sheet of lightning darted through the clouds and then, to the accompaniment of peals of thunder, the rain came pelting down, not in drops but in long jets. It was as if the countryside were being bombarded with liquid projectiles. The sepoys were soaked before they could put on their rain-cloaks.

To fire flintlock muskets was impossible now: swords and bayonets were the sepoys’ only serviceable weapons — and both were shorter in reach than the pikes and spears of their adversaries. The storm was now the sepoys’ sole ally, its fury the crowd’s only check.

Through the roar of the wind Kesri heard Captain Mee’s voice, shouting in his ear: the CO had ordered him to make contact with the Cameronians; he was setting off in search of them with a platoon of sepoys; Kesri was to accompany him.

‘We’ll need to take a runner with us, havildar.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

Shielding his face against the driving rain, Kesri went to take a look at the few followers who had managed to keep up with the company. His eyes went at once to Maddow and he beckoned to him: Chal — stay close to me.

*

At Hong Kong the rain kept falling, in torrents, even after the storm had passed over the bay, sweeping northwards, in the direction of Canton. But the fury of the gale quickly abated and the mountainous waves subsided into heavy swells. As soon as it was safe, Zachary called for the Ibis’s longboat to be lowered. Climbing in, he ordered the crew to row over to the jetty that led to the new Burnham godown.

The building was unharmed but there was so much wreckage all around that it took a while to approach it: Zachary had to hammer on the door for several minutes before he was let in.

The godown’s cavernous interior was lit by a few dimly flickering lamps: some of the Anahita’s crewmen were kneeling in rows, saying namaaz; some were sitting huddled in the corners, shivering as they hugged their knees.

‘Master Zikri!’

Turning to his right Zachary saw that Baboo Nob Kissin was hurrying towards him.

There was now only one thought in Zachary’s mind. ‘Where’s Mrs Burnham?’ he said. ‘Is she in that room you’d prepared for her?’

Baboo Nob Kissin took a few more steps and then his enormous head shook slowly from side to side. ‘Master Zikri — I am sorry.’

‘What do you mean you’re sorry?’ Zachary snapped. ‘Where is she? Just answer the question.’

Again Baboo Nob Kissin shook his head: ‘I am sorry …’

Zachary laid his hands on the gomusta’s shoulders and shook him hard. ‘Baboo, this is no time for your flumadiddles: just tell me where she is.’

‘Yes, Master Zikri — that is what I am trying …’

Mrs Burnham had changed her mind at the last minute, said Baboo Nob Kissin. She had decided that instead of going ashore, to take shelter in the godown, she would ride out the storm on the Anahita: she had complete confidence in the crew, she had declared, and she wasn’t going to allow a bit of a blow to throw her into a funk. Baboo Nob Kissin had tried to persuade her to leave but she had silenced him in her usual imperious way. It was impossible to argue with the Burra Memsah’b beyond a point; at her orders Baboo Nob Kissin and a few others had left the ship as planned, to take refuge in the godown.

The rest of it Baboo Nob Kissin had heard from the crew, when they came ashore after the sinking of the Anahita.

Early that morning, before the storm hit the coast, Mrs Burnham had rung for a steward and asked for a tray of tea. The steward had returned to find her sitting in the Owner’s Suite, beside a window. It was already blowing hard then: she had said that she would be safe there and that she wanted to watch the storm coming in.

Once the storm broke the crew had no time to check on Mrs Burnham. It wasn’t till the ship began to take in water that a serang ran down to the Owner’s Suite. He had found the suite’s door jammed, perhaps by a piece of furniture: he had pounded on it and on receiving no answer he had gone to fetch an axe. But by the time he returned the ship’s stern was already below water, the gangway flooded — he would have drowned if he had stepped in. There was nothing more to be done.

‘But Master Zikri …’

Although Baboo Nob Kissin was leaning close to Zachary now, his voice seemed to reach his ear from very far away.

‘Last night, Master Zikri, before I departed from Anahita, Burra Memsah’b gave one letter. For you. She said to ensure that you received.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Here — I have safely kept.’

Withdrawing into a corner, Zachary broke the seal and began to read.

*

The platoon set off with Captain Mee in the lead and Kesri bringing up the rear. As they veered leftwards Kesri handed his now useless musket to Maddow and took his sword in his hand.

The surrounding fields had already turned into a continuous expanse of water; the bunds had disappeared and the only points of orientation were a few clusters of dwellings, dimly visible through the rain. Although nightfall was still a while away the sky was so dark that it was as if the sun had already set.

Hearing a sound behind him, Kesri looked over his shoulder; peering into the failing light he spotted the misted outlines of moving figures. It occurred to him that these might be the Cameronians and for an instant he was light-headed with relief. But then a rock came hurtling through the rain, to hit him in the shoulder, and he knew that they were being followed by the mob.

‘Halt! Halt!’ Kesri shouted and in a matter of seconds Captain Mee appeared beside him, sword in hand.

‘They’re behind us, sir,’ said Kesri — and as soon as the words were out of his mouth Kesri realized that he’d spoken prematurely. The armed men weren’t just behind the platoon; they were all around, their outlines enshrouded by rain. Suddenly the pointed head of a pike shot out of the curtain of falling water; it would have pierced Kesri’s ribcage if Captain Mee hadn’t struck it down with his sword.

Now, as rocks and stones began to fly out of the deluge, Kesri felt something tugging at his ankles and looked down. It was a large hook, attached to a staff. He slashed at it with his sword, breaking it in two. But somewhere to the rear one such staff had succeeded in hooking a sepoy; he had fallen and was being dragged through the mud.

Two sepoys caught hold of the fallen man’s arms and pulled him back. When he was on his feet again, Captain Mee shouted: ‘A square! Form a square!’

Sluggishly, fending off brickbats with their arms, the men fell into a square. Standing shoulder to shoulder they thrust their bayonets at every moving shape.

After a few minutes Captain Mee’s voice was again in Kesri’s ear: ‘We’re too exposed here; we have to move. I saw some houses to the left. If we can reach them we’ll have a wall at our back.’

Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.

‘I’ll lead,’ said the captain, wiping his streaming face with his sleeve. ‘You bring up the rear.’

The radius of visibility was no more than a few feet now; only when flashes of lightning streaked through the clouds was Kesri able to see beyond that. When the platoon began to move he kept his eyes fixed on the darkness, moving backwards, sword at the ready.

Projectiles kept raining down on the platoon as it waded through the mud. When at last there was a slight quickening in the pace, Kesri sensed that they were out of the paddies, on level ground. Then he glanced back and saw that a gap had opened up between him and the rest of the platoon: they were already out of his circle of visibility. He would have to hurry to catch up.

Just as Kesri was about to quicken his pace, the pointed end of a spear came hurtling towards him, from the right. He brought his sword down upon the shaft and had the satisfaction of seeing the tip fly off. And then, inexplicably, without his being aware of an injury, his left leg crumpled under him, bringing him down heavily, on his back. A flash of lightning split the sky, to reveal a circle of faces, closing in, with pikes and spears pointed at him.

Kesri’s sword was still in his hand and he tightened his grip on it: he knew that his time had probably come but he felt no panic; only a kind of sadness that it should happen here, at the hands of men with whom he had no quarrel; men who were not even soldiers, who were trying only to protect their villages, as he himself would have done back home.

He saw a shadow moving towards him and slashed at it with his sword. Even as his blade dug into flesh and bone he felt an impact in his own flank. He was trying to turn when a pike crashed into his wrist and the sword dropped from his hand. And then, as he lay helpless on the ground, he heard a deep-throated voice calling his name — Kesri Singhji? — and he shouted: Hã! Yahã! Here, I’m here!

A bayonet swung out in an arc above him, scattering the faces that had been closing in.

Havildar-sah’b?

The voice was Maddow’s.

Kesri answered with a grunt and Maddow squatted beside him, with his bayonet levelled at the darkness.

Hold on to my neck, havildar-sah’b, said Maddow, and I’ll pull you on to my back.

Kesri wrapped his arms around Maddow’s neck and felt himself being lifted up; then Maddow began to back away, with the Brown Bess circling watchfully in front of him, the bayonet slicing through the darkness.

As he clung to Maddow’s back Kesri became aware of a searing pain in his thigh. Only now did it dawn on him that his hamstring had been severed — and once he had become conscious of the injury the pain welled up in waves, almost overwhelming him. As if through a fog, he recognized Captain Mee’s voice: ‘Havildar? What the devil …?’ — and he realized he was back with the platoon, in the enclosed centre of a square. On every side of him sepoys were fending off attacks.

‘You’re losing a lot of blood, havildar.’

Through gritted teeth Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b, you go back to the men. Maddow here will take care of me.’

The captain nodded and his face faded away. Meanwhile Maddow had already slit open Kesri’s trousers.

Bahut khoon ba, said Maddow. There’s a lot of blood; I’d better tie up the cut.

Maddow peeled off his tunic, tore off a few pieces of cloth and bound them over Kesri’s wound. Then he reached into a pocket and pushed something into Kesri’s mouth. In a second Kesri’s nostrils were filled with the grassy, sickly-sweet odour of opium.

It was like an answer to a prayer: at the very smell of the substance the pain receded and Kesri’s breath returned.

In a few minutes Kesri heard Captain Mee’s voice again: ‘How are you, havildar?’

‘Better, Kaptán-sah’b. And the men?’

‘They’re doing their best — but if we can’t get our guns to fire I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to hold off this rabble. They’re everywhere.’

An odd calm had descended on Kesri now and he remembered something he had once witnessed, as a young sepoy.

‘Give me some rain-capes, Kaptán-sah’b,’ he said. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

With Maddow’s help, Kesri fashioned a tent-like covering with a couple of rain-capes. Then he snapped open his Brown Bess; digging a sodden cartridge out of the barrel he told Maddow to find him some dry cloth.

Maddow took off his turban and tore a few strips from the inside, where the cloth was still dry. Kesri took them from him, twisted them into wicks and used them to wipe dry the inside of the barrel. Then he called for Captain Mee and told him to try firing the musket under cover of a rain-cape.

A minute or two later he heard the crack of a musket-shot, followed by cries in the distance.

‘That’ll scatter them for a bit,’ said Captain Mee, ducking under the tented cape. ‘Do you think you could do that again, havildar?’

‘Already done, Kaptán-sah’b.’

As Kesri was handing over the next musket a shot rang out, in the distance, and was quickly followed by another.

‘Percussion guns!’ said Kesri.

‘Yes,’ said the captain jubilantly. ‘I suppose it’s the Cameronians. They must have heard our shot.’

Knowing that help was near, Kesri allowed his head to sink to the ground. By the time the Cameronians arrived he had lost consciousness.

My dear Zachary

I write in haste …

I do not know if there is anything I could do or say to persuade you that I have never meant to cause you pain. If I have seemed cruel or capricious it is only because I knew that there could be no better expression of my love than to set you free, to find your own way in the world. I am, as you know, a foolish, vain, unhappy creature and I wanted to spare you the misery and dishonour that I have inflicted upon everyone I have ever loved. But in that too I was vain and foolish: I understand now that there is only one way in which I can truly set you free –

There is but one last thing I ask of you — that you take care of Paulette, whose hopes of happiness I have also destroyed. You are now well launched in your career and will no doubt achieve great success; for her, things will be much harder. If ever I meant anything to you then you will do for me what I could not do myself: make amends.

I hope also that some day you will come to forgive both yourself and the woman whose unfortunate destiny it was to be

Your

Cathy

May 29, 1841

The British force regrouped quickly once the storm had passed: the units that had gone astray were tracked down and the three brigades then made a hasty retreat to the safety of the four fortresses.

But the confrontation was far from over: the hostile demonstrations continued for two more days, with as many as twenty-five thousand villagers turning out to oppose the invaders; they marched behind the banners of their villages and answered only to leaders of their own choosing.

The British commanders countered by delivering yet more ultimatums to the mandarins, warning that the city would face attack unless the crowds stood down. These threats eventually prompted official intercession and the villagers were persuaded to return to their homes. Only then did the British troops withdraw from the heights above Canton.

Kesri was not aware of these events of the time and did not learn of them until much later: the force was still marooned in the fortresses when the wound in his thigh turned gangrenous; it was there that his left leg was amputated.

Through that time Kesri was aware of very little, having been given massive doses of morphine. But once, during a brief period of lucidity, he realized that Captain Mee was standing by his cot, looking down at him.

When the captain saw that Kesri had opened his eyes, he said, in a shaky voice: ‘Havildar — how are you?’

‘I’m alive, Kaptán-sah’b,’ Kesri whispered.

‘I’m sorry, havildar …’

‘You should not be sorry, Kaptán-sah’b. I am here today — I did not think I would be.’

‘I might not have been here either,’ said the captain, ‘if it weren’t for you. The Cameronians probably wouldn’t have found us in time if you hadn’t got those guns to work. Who knows what would have happened?’

‘We were lucky, Kaptán-sah’b.’

‘It wasn’t just luck,’ said the captain. ‘It was what you did with those muskets that saved us. You should know the CO’s recommended you for a citation, for bravery in the field.’

‘Thank you, Kaptán-sah’b.’

‘Tomorrow we’ll be going back to our transport ship at Whampoa,’ said Captain Mee. ‘From there you’ll be evacuated to Hong Kong. You’ll be well looked after there — I’ve asked them to give you a room to yourself. And the gun-lascar, Maddow, will be accompanying you; he’s specifically asked to go.’

‘Thank you, Kaptán-sah’b. I’m grateful.’

‘It’s no more than you deserve.’

The captain gave Kesri a pat on the shoulder. ‘I’ll come to see you as soon as I get back to Hong Kong. It shouldn’t be too long.’

‘Yes, Kaptán-sah’b. Thank you.’

After that, for several days, Kesri was aware of very little but of Maddow’s constant presence at his side, changing his clothing, cleaning his stump, clearing away his bedpans, giving him his morphine.

One day, in a moment of consciousness, Kesri said: Batavela — tell me, why do you look after me like this? Why did you come back for me that day, when I was cut down? It’s not your job — you’re not a soldier. Didn’t you know you could have been killed?

Several minutes passed before Maddow answered.

Kesri Singhji, he said at last: I did it for your sister’s sake. I knew that if I didn’t I would never again be able to look her in the face.

My sister? Do you mean Deeti?

Yes. Deeti.

It was all clear now; as Kesri drifted out of consciousness again, Deeti’s face appeared in front of his eyes and he knew that she had once again taken charge of his destiny.

*

It was thought at first that Mrs Burnham’s body had been trapped inside the Anahita and would be unrecoverable. But two days after the storm, on the very afternoon that Mr Burnham returned to Hong Kong, the corpse was found at the eastern end of the bay.

Mr Burnham being prostrate with grief, the arrangements for the funeral were made by Zachary and Mr Doughty. It was decided that she would be buried at the Protestant cemetery in Macau. A coffin was quickly bought and the body was transported the next day. The interment was in the late afternoon and a large number of people attended.

Through the ceremony Zachary kept careful watch for Paulette. But it was only at the end that he caught sight of her: she was at the back of the graveyard, sitting on a mossy tomb, with her face buried in a handkerchief. He stole up on her quietly, so that she would not have time to make an escape.

‘Miss Paulette?’

Removing the handkerchief from her face she looked up at him.

‘Yes?’

‘May I sit down, Miss Paulette?’ he said.

She shrugged indifferently and he saw that she was past caring. She buried her face in her handkerchief again, and after waiting a while he cleared his throat: ‘Miss Paulette, it was Mrs Burnham’s wish — she told me this herself — that you and I should be reconciled.’

‘What did you say?’ Whipping away the handkerchief, she shot him a puzzled glance.

‘Yes, Miss Paulette,’ Zachary persisted. ‘She specifically said to me that I should take care of you.’

‘Really, Mr Reid,’ she retorted. ‘But to me she said something else.’

‘What?’

‘She said I was your only hope and that I should look after you.’

They were quiet for a bit and then Zachary said: ‘May I at least come to take a look at your garden?’

‘If that is what you wish,’ she said. ‘I will not prevent it.’

‘Thank you, Miss Paulette,’ said Zachary. ‘I am sure Mrs Burnham would be pleased.’

*

Kesri did not see Captain Mee again until the Bengal Volunteers were sent back to Hong Kong.

By that time Kesri had spent a week in the island’s newly built military encampment. He was dozing one evening, with a candle flickering by his bed, when the door flew open. At first Kesri thought that it was Maddow who had stepped out to fetch something. But then he saw that the silhouette in the doorway was Captain Mee’s: he was bare-headed, swaying slightly on his feet; in his hands was a leather satchel.

It was a hot day and Kesri had thrown off his sheet. Now, wanting to spare the captain the sight of his exposed stump, he began to grope around, trying to cover himself. The sheet eluded his grasp and in the end it was Captain Mee who found it and draped it over him.

‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, havildar.’

His words were a little slurred and Kesri could smell liquor on his breath.

‘It’s all right, Kaptán-sah’b,’ said Kesri. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

Captain Mee nodded and sank into a chair beside the bed. The candle was close to him now, and when its light fell on his face Kesri saw that the captain was haggard, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. Pushing himself a little higher, on his pillows, Kesri said: ‘How are you, Kaptán-sah’b?’

To Kesri’s surprise there was no answer; instead Captain Mee fell forward in his chair and buried his face in his hands, planting his elbows on his knees. After a minute or two Kesri realized that he was sobbing. He sat still and let him continue.

Presently, when the captain’s shoulders had ceased to heave, Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b, what is it? What has happened?’

At that Captain Mee looked up, his eyes even redder than before. ‘Havildar, I don’t suppose you’ve heard — about Cathy … Mrs Burnham …’

‘What about her, sir?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘No?’ cried Kesri, recoiling in shock. ‘But how did it happen?’

‘During the storm — she was on a ship that went down. That’s all I know.’

Fumbling for words, Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah’b — I don’t … I don’t—’

Captain Mee cut him short with a brusque gesture. ‘It’s all right — there’s no need to say anything.’

Turning abruptly to his side, Captain Mee picked up the satchel he had brought with him. ‘I have something for you, havildar.’ ‘For me?’

‘Yes.’ He thrust the satchel into Kesri’s hands. ‘Open it.’

The satchel was very heavy for its size and as he was undoing the buckle, Kesri heard the scraping of metal on metal. Captain Mee held up the candle as Kesri looked in.

At first glance Kesri thought his eyes had deceived him and he looked away, in disbelief. Then he looked again and his gaze was again met by the glitter of gold ornaments and the sparkle of silver coins.

‘What is this, Kaptán-sah’b?’

‘Some if it is booty — my share of it. And yesterday we were given our arrears of pay and battas — that’s there too. As for the rest, don’t ask.’

‘But Kaptán-sah’b — I cannot take this.’

‘Yes you can. I owe it to you.’

‘No, Kaptán-sah’b — it is much more than you owe me. More than I have ever earned. I cannot take it.’

The captain rose to his feet. ‘It’s yours,’ he said roughly. ‘I want you to have it.’

‘But—’

Captain Mee cut Kesri short by clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Goodbye, havildar.’

‘Why “goodbye”…?’ said Kesri, but the door had already closed.

Captain Mee’s abrupt departure left Kesri distraught; the captain’s words kept circling through his head and the more he thought about them the more he worried.

Lying helpless in bed, Kesri tried to think of some means of preventing what he thought was going to happen. He considered approaching another officer, but he doubted that anyone would believe him unless he divulged everything he knew about Captain Mee and Mrs Burnham — and this he could not bring himself to do. They would probably think he was lying anyway: why would a havildar know about such things?

When Maddow returned, Kesri said: Did you know that Burnham-memsah’b had died?

Yes, said Maddow. I heard.

Why didn’t you tell me?

I thought I’d tell you later, Kesriji. How did you find out?

The kaptán-sah’b was here …

If not for the intensity of the pain in his leg, Kesri would have skipped his medicaments that night; his foreboding was so acute that he would have preferred to stay awake. But when the time came he could not refuse: he took his draught of morphine and soon fell into a deep, stupefied sleep. Hours later he woke to find Maddow shaking his shoulder.

Kesriji! Kesriji!

Kaa horahelba? What is it?

Listen, Kesriji — it’s about Mee-sah’b.

Kesri sat up and rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, trying to clear his mind: What is it?

Kesriji — there’s been an accident. The kaptán-sah’b was cleaning his gun. It went off.

What happened? Is he badly wounded?

No, Kesriji — he’s dead.

Kesri took hold of Maddow’s arm and tried to swing his body around: Help me get up; I want to go there; I want to see him.

Kesri had not yet learnt to use a crutch. He hooked an arm around Maddow’s neck and hopped along by his side, towards the officers’ lines, where guards and orderlies could be seen rushing about.

Halfway there they were stopped by a sarjeant of the Royal Irish: ‘Halt!’

‘Please let me pass,’ said Kesri. ‘Mee-sahib was my company commander.’

‘Sorry — orders. No one’s allowed any further.’

Kesri could see that the sarjeant would not relent. He turned away with a sigh: Abh to woh unke hain, he said, more to himself than to Maddow — he’s theirs now; we have no claim on him.

With Maddow’s help he hobbled back to his room and fell again into his bed.

But now, despite the lingering effects of his medication, Kesri could not go back to sleep: he thought of all the years he had known Captain Mee and the battles they had fought together: it was sickening that he had died in this way; he had deserved a soldier’s death. It was a waste, such a waste, of Captain Mee’s life — and his own too. And for what? A pension? A citation?

Kesri reached for the satchel that Captain Mee had given him and ran his fingers over the coins: they were worth much more, he knew, than the pension that was due to him.

And then another thought struck him: the other officers were sure to know that Captain Mee had recently received his back pay and allowances; they were bound to search for the money in his rooms and when they failed to find it there would probably be an inquiry.

What would happen if the officers came to learn that Kesri was in possession of a satchel-ful of gold and silver? Would they believe that Captain Mee had given a gift of such value to his havildar?

Or would they find a pretext to take it away?

Kesri could not stand to think of it: to throw the satchel in the water would be better than to lose it to them.

Turning on his side, Kesri whispered to Maddow: Listen — are you awake?

Ji, Kesriji. Do you want some medicine for the pain?

No. I want to ask you something.

Ji, Kesriji.

That day, when that boy disappeared …

Yes?

You helped him, didn’t you? You helped him escape, with those men you were talking to — isn’t that so?

Why do you ask? said Maddow quietly.

I was just thinking, said Kesri, that if you were to speak to those men again, then maybe we could get away too — you and I? Do you think it could be arranged?

*

British-held Hong Kong’s first auction of land was held on 14 June 1841, a fortnight after the storm.

The area on sale was smaller than expected: it consisted of only fifty plots, each with a sea-frontage of one hundred feet, along a stretch of shore on the seaward side of the island’s only proper thoroughfare — the Queen’s Road. The authorities announced beforehand that the currency of the auction would be pounds sterling. But since Spanish dollars were still in wide use a fixed rate of exchange was thought necessary — it was declared to be four shillings and four pence for one silver dollar. It was ordained also that the bidding would start at ten pounds and advance in increments of ten shillings; every purchaser would be required to erect a building valued at one thousand dollars or more, within six months of the sale; as a guarantee of this undertaking, a sum of five hundred dollars would need to be deposited with the treasury as ‘earnest money’.

Although few could afford to meet these terms the event still drew a great number of spectators, from the dozens of ships that were anchored at Hong Kong Bay. Passengers, supercargoes, mates, bo’suns and even cabin boys flocked to Mr Lancelot Dent’s new godown at East Point, where the auction was to be held: even if they couldn’t bid they could at least sniff the scent of wealth.

Presiding over the proceedings was Mr J. Robert Morrison, the Acting Secretary and Treasurer to the Superintendents of Trade. Only a few dozen chairs had been set out, for the turnout was not expected to be large. When the godown began to fill up Mr Morrison issued instructions that only bidders were to sit; spectators would have to stand at the back, in a roped-off enclosure.

Once the bidding started it proceeded briskly. Some of the merchants had already received their share of the six-million-dollar indemnity paid by the Chinese; as a result there were many bulging purses at the auction.

One of the largest lots, a parcel of 30,600 square feet, fetched £265; another even larger lot, of 35,000 square feet, went for £250, its location being less desirable. Very few lots went for less than £25; most fetched well over double that sum. Only one lot went unsold.

The Parsi seths were among the most enthusiastic bidders; between them they acquired no fewer than ten lots. The Rustomjees, a Bombay family, acquired more land than any other group of bidders, amassing no less than 57,600 square feet. Seth Hormuzjee Rustomjee alone bought six lots, a total of 36,000 square feet, for £264.

The second largest buyer was Jardine, Matheson and Co. which acquired three contiguous lots for £565, with a total area of 57,150 square feet. Mr Dent, who had been expected to make an equally big purchase, disappointed the auctioneers by spending only £144, on two lots that added up to a mere 14,800 square feet.

As a special consideration a few prospective buyers were permitted to reserve plots for future purchase. One such was Fitcher Penrose who was unable to attend the auction for reasons of ill-health. Another was Zadig Bey who was in mourning for his godson; although he attended the auction with Shireen, neither of them made a bid.

This was Zadig and Shireen’s first appearance together in public and and many took it as a declaration of their intention to wed. When they entered the godown there were some who held their breath, imagining that they were about to witness a famous contretemps in which Shireen would be dealt the cut direct by her co-religionists.

But they were disappointed: far from shunning Shireen, her fellow Parsis accorded her a warm welcome; soon they were observed to be chatting with each other in a fashion so cordial as to leave no doubt that the seths had reconciled themselves to her remarrying outside the community.

By this time Shireen too had received compensation for her late husband’s losses from the opium crisis of two years before. Most of it she had already remitted to Bombay to pay off his debts; in addition she had sent large sums to her two daughters. But even after these disbursements the monies that remained still amounted to a sizeable fortune, amounting to tens of thousands of silver dollars.

Those in the know were well aware that Shireen was a wealthy woman and many were surprised when she did not join the bidding. Later, when she went to congratulate Seth Hormuzjee Rustomjee he even asked her why she had refrained from making a bid. Shireen’s answer was that she had decided to wait until the slopes of ‘Peaceful Mountain’ were made available to buyers.

Why?

The air was more salubrious there, Shireen explained, and it was her intention to endow a public hospital, in the name of her late husband, Bahram Moddie.

*

At the end of the bidding it emerged that one tract of land, consisting of lot numbers 16 to 20 had been reserved by an unnamed buyer: this being one of the largest acquisitions of the day, there was much excited comment.

Afterwards, when the spectators had dispersed and Mr Dent’s servants were serving champagne to the successful bidders, Mr Morrison was besieged with questions about the buyer’s identity. His protests to the effect that he was not at liberty to say found little purchase with the gathering. The clamour quickly grew so loud that he threw up his hands and cried: ‘This much I can certainly tell you, gentlemen, that the purchaser is amongst us now. If he should wish his name to be known then he will reveal it himself.’

At this a hush fell. It lasted until Mr Burnham, who was dressed in deep mourning, stepped forth and turned to face the gathering. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am grateful to Mr Morrison for being so scrupulous in respecting my request for confidentiality. It was not in order to create a mystery that I asked him to withhold the name of the purchaser. It is because to reveal it would require another announcement, one that I had deemed unbecoming for a time of bereavement. But it strikes me now that no one would have been more gratified by this disclosure than my late, beloved wife so there is perhaps no reason to delay it any longer.’

Here Mr Burnham stopped to gesture to Zachary who went to stand beside him. Placing a hand on his shoulder Mr Burnham continued: ‘Ladies, gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the purchaser of lots 16 to 20 is a new entity, created just this week — the firm of Burnham and Reid.’

A round of applause broke out now and Mr Burnham paused until it had died away: ‘It would be remiss of me,’ he went on, ‘if I were to omit to mention another collaboration that we have entered into just this day, an association that will, I am certain, greatly strengthen our new company.’

Now Mr Burnham again made a beckoning gesture, at which another man stepped forward to join him and Zachary. This caused something of a stir — for when this man, who was dressed in an impeccably cut suit, turned to face the assembly he was seen to be Chinese.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Burnham, ‘it gives me the greatest pride to announce that from this time on the firm of Burnham and Reid will be working closely with our good friend, Mr Leonard Chan.’

Now, taking Zachary’s wrist in his right hand and Mr Chan’s in his left, Mr Burnham hoisted up their arms and held them aloft in triumph.

*

One of the few spectators to remain in the godown was Baboo Nob Kissin who was looking on from a dark corner at the back. When the three men made their gesture of triumph his heart flooded over with the joy that comes from seeing a mighty endeavour brought to its intended conclusion. Tears came into the gomusta’s eyes as he recalled the day he had first beheld Zachary, on the Ibis: that he should have been transformed so quickly from an ingenuous, good-natured boy, into a perfect embodiment of the Kali-yuga, seemed to Baboo Nob Kissin nothing less than a miracle; he marvelled to think that a creature as humble as himself should have played a part in bringing about the change. He knew of course that his role in promoting the ascendancy of the triumphant trio was but a small one — yet he was certain also that when the day of reckoning arrived, and the Kalki avatar manifested itself on earth, he would not be denied the credit for having advanced the coming of the pralaya by at least a decade or two. To be awarded that much credit would be enough for him; he wanted no worldly reward or recognition for being the first of his compatriots to recognize that it was their assigned destiny to serve the Kalki’s chosen precursors, to be their faithful gomustas in hastening the end of the earth.

It occurred to him also that it was the Ibis, that marvellous vehicle of transformations, that had launched him on the path of destiny and he was seized by an uncontrollable urge to clasp his eyes once again upon that vessel of blessed memory. In a swirl of saffron, he ran outside — but only to be confronted with yet another miracle: the Ibis, which had for the last several days been at anchor off East Point, was gone.

*

In Deeti’s shrine, high up on the slopes of the Morne Brabant, at the south-western corner of Mauritius, there was a special chamber for that episode of Maddow Colver’s life that came to be known as ‘the Escape’. This part of the ‘memory-temple’ was especially beloved of the Fami Colver, particularly the young ones, the chutkas and chutkis, laikas and laikis: every year, during the Gran Vakans, when the family made its annual pilgrimage to the ‘memory-temple’, they waited breathlessly for that moment when Deeti would point to the stylized image of a sampan, with six figures seated inside: Serang Ali, recognizable by his blood-red mouth; Jodu with his three eyebrows; Neel, with his journals; Raju, in his fifer’s hat; Kesri, who, by convention, was always drawn with a bundook — and of course, the patriarch himself, Maddow Colver.

‘Ekut, ekut!’ Deeti would cry, and that great horde of bonoys, belsers, bowjis, salas, sakubays and other relatives would follow her finger as she traced the path of Jodu’s sampan as it edged across the bay, from the Kowloon side, to draw up beside the Ibis, which was all but empty, with the second mate away at the land auction, and the sailors either ashore or asleep.

There vwala!

Her finger would come to rest on Serang Ali: You see him, this gran-koko with a head teeming with mulugandes? This is the great burrburiya who had once again thought up the plan for their escape.

You see now, how he vaults on deck, with Jodu and Maddow behind him? In a matter of minutes the crew are locked up in the fo’c’sle and then Kesri, Raju and Neel come aboard too.

In a trice the sails are hoisted and filling with wind, and by the time the auction ends the schooner is long out of sight …