Sea of Poppies

Sixteen

It happened that Deeti went early to the nullah next morning, so she was among the first to come upon the rowboats that were moored around the camp's jetty: the scream that broke from her lips – nayyá á gail bá! – was such as to freeze your liver, and by the time its echoes had faded, there was not a soul in the campsite who was still at rest. In twos and threes they came creeping out of their huts to ascertain that the boats were real and that this was indeed the day when they would take leave of the camp. Now that disbelief was no longer possible, a great uproar broke out and people began to mill around, gathering together their belongings, taking down their washing, and hunting for their pitchers, lotas and other necessary utensils. The long-planned-for rituals of departure were forgotten in the confusion, but strangely, this great outburst of activity became itself a kind of worship, not so much intended to achieve an end – their bundles and bojhas were so small and so many times packed and unpacked that there was not much to be done to them – but rather as an expression of awe, of the kind that might greet a divine revelation: for when a moment arrives that is so much feared and so long awaited, it perforates the veil of everyday expectation in such a way as to reveal the prodigious darkness of the unknown.

Within minutes the maistries were going from hut to hut, swinging their lathis, rooting out those who had shrunk fearfully into corners, and kicking loose the knots of whispering men who were blocking the campsite's paths and doorways. In the women's hut, the prospect of departure caused such a rout that Deeti had to put aside her own fears in order to organize the evacuation: Ratna and Champa could do little but cling to each other; Heeru had prostrated herself on the floor and was rolling from side to side; Sarju, the midwife, had buried her face in her precious bundles and bojhas; Munia could think of nothing but braiding tassels into her hair. Fortunately, Deeti's own bundle of possessions was packed and ready, so she could apply herself fully to the task of organizing the others, prodding, slapping and shouting as was necessary. To such good effect did she apply herself that by the time Kalua appeared in the doorway, every last belonging, the smallest pot and the thinnest shred of cloth, had been accounted for and packed away.

A pile of baggage was clustered around the doorway: picking up her own, Deeti led the women out of the hut with their saris draped carefully over their heads and faces. The women kept close to Kalua's giant frame, as they made their way through the milling migrants. Nearing the jetty, Deeti caught sight of Baboo Nob Kissin: he was in one of the boats, wearing his hair loose so that it fell to his shoulders in shining ringlets. He greeted the women almost as if he were an elder sister, ordering the maistries to let them through first.

When Deeti had crossed the quaking gangplank, the gomusta pointed her to a thatched section at the rear that had been screened off for the women: there was someone already seated inside, but Deeti did not notice her – she had no eyes now but for the pennant-topped temple at the edge of the camp, the sight of which filled her with remorse for her unperformed devotions. No good could come, surely, of a journey embarked upon without a puja? She joined her hands together, closed her eyes, and was soon lost in prayer.

The boat's moving! squealed Munia, and her cry was quickly echoed by another voice, an unfamiliar one: Hã, chal rahe hãi! Yes, we're on our way!

It was only now that Deeti realized that there was a stranger in their midst. Opening her eyes, she saw, sitting opposite her, a woman in a green sari. Deeti's skin began to prickle, as if to tell her that this was someone she had seen before, perhaps in a dream. Seized by curiosity, she pulled her own ghungta back from her head, laying bare her face. We're all women here, she said; ham sabhan merharu. We don't need to be covered up.

Now the stranger too pulled back her sari, revealing a face that was long and finely shaped, with an expression in which innocence was combined with intelligence, sweetness with resolution. Her complexion had a soft, golden glow, like that of the cosseted daughter of a village pandit, a child who had never worked a day in the fields and had never had to endure the heat of the sun.

Where are you travelling to? said Deeti, and such was her sense of familiarity with the stranger, that she had no hesitation in addressing her in her native Bhojpuri.

The girl answered in the bastardized Hindusthani of the city: I'm going where you are going – jahã áp játa…

But you aren't one of us, said Deeti.

I am now, said the girl smiling.

Deeti was not so bold as to ask the girl directly about her identity, so she chose instead the more circuitous course of revealing her own name and those of the others: Munia, Heeru, Sarju, Champa, Ratna and Dookhanee.

I'm called Putleshwari, said the girl in response, and just as everyone was beginning to wonder how they were ever going to pronounce this tongue-tripping Bengali farrago, she rescued them by adding: But my nickname is Pugli, and that's what people call me.

'Pugli?' Why, said Deeti, with a smile. You don't look at all mad.

That's just because you don't know me yet, said the girl, with a sweet smile.

And how is it that you are here with us? Deeti asked.

Baboo Nob Kissin, the gomusta, is my uncle.

Ah! I knew it, said Deeti. You are a bamni, a Brahmin's daughter. But where are you travelling to?

To the island of Mareech, said the girl, just like you.

But you're not a girmitiya, said Deeti. Why would you go to such a place?

My uncle has arranged a marriage for me, said the girl. With a maistry who is working on a plantation.

A marriage? Deeti was amazed to hear her speaking of crossing the sea for a wedding, as if it were no different from going to another village downriver. But aren't you afraid, she said, of losing caste? Of crossing the Black Water, and being on a ship with so many sorts of people?

Not at all, the girl replied, in a tone of unalloyed certainty. On a boat of pilgrims, no one can lose caste and everyone is the same: it's like taking a boat to the temple of Jagannath, in Puri. From now on, and forever afterwards, we will all be ship-siblings – jaházbhais and jaházbahens - to each other. There'll be no differences between us.

This answer was so daring, so ingenious, as fairly to rob the women of their breath. Not in a lifetime of thinking, Deeti knew, would she have stumbled upon an answer so complete, so satisfactory and so thrilling in its possibilities. In the glow of the moment, she did something she would never have done otherwise: she reached out to take the stranger's hand in her own. Instantly, in emulation of her gesture, every other woman reached out too, to share in this communion of touch. Yes, said Deeti, from now on, there are no differences between us; we are jahaz-bhai and jahazbahen to each other; all of us children of the ship.

Somewhere outside, a man's voice was shouting: There she is! The ship – our jahaz…

And there she was, in the distance, with her two masts and her great beak of a bowsprit. It was now that Deeti understood why the image of the vessel had been revealed to her that day, when she stood immersed in the Ganga: it was because her new self, her new life, had been gestating all this while in the belly of this creature, this vessel that was the Mother-Father of her new family, a great wooden mái-báp, an adoptive ancestor and parent of dynasties yet to come: here she was, the Ibis.

From his perch on the foremast, high up in the kursi of the crosstrees, Jodu had as fine a view as ever he could have wished: the wharves, the river and the schooner were spread out beneath him like treasure on a moneylender's counter, waiting to be weighed and valued. On deck, the subedar and his men were busy making preparations for the embarkation of the convicts and the migrants. All around them, lascars were swarming about, coiling hansils, rolling bimbas, penning livestock and stowing crates, trying to clear the deck of its last-minute clutter.

The convicts arrived first, preceding the migrants by some fifteen minutes: they came in a jel-bot, a large vessel of the budgerow type, except that all its windows were heavily barred. It looked as if it could hold a small army of cutthroats, so it came as a surprise when it disgorged only two men, neither of whom looked very threatening despite the chains on their ankles and wrists. They were wearing dungaree pyjamas and short-sleeved vests, and each had a lota under one arm and a small cloth bundle in the other. They were handed over to Bhyro Singh without much ceremony, and the jail-boat left almost immediately afterwards. Then, as if to show the convicts what they were in for, the subedar took hold of their chains and herded them along like oxen, prodding them in the arse and occasionally flicking the tips of their ears with his lathi.

On the way to the chokey, before stepping into the fana, one of the convicts turned his head, as if to catch a last glimpse of the city. This brought Bhyro Singh's lathi crashing down on his shoulder with a thwacking sound that made the trikat-wale wince, all the way up in their perch.

Haramzadas, these guards and maistries, said Mamdoo-tindal. Squeeze your balls at any chance.

One of them slapped Cassem-meah yesterday, said Sunker. Just for touching his food.

I'd have hit him back, said Jodu.

You wouldn't be here now if you had, said the tindal. Don't you see? They're armed.

In the meantime, Sunker had pulled himself upright, so that he was standing on the footropes. Suddenly he called out: They're here!

Who?

The coolies. Look. That must be them in those boats.

They all rose to their feet now, and leant over the purwan to look down below. A small flotilla of some half-dozen dinghies was coming towards the schooner, from the direction of Tolly's Nullah; the boats were filled with groups of men, uniformly clad in white vests and knee-length dhotis. The dinghy in the lead was a little different from the rest in that it had a small shelter at the back: when it pulled up alongside the side-ladder, a sunburst of colour seemed to explode inside it, with eight sari-clad figures stepping out of the shelter.

Women! said Jodu, in a hushed voice.

Mamdoo-tindal was not impressed: so far as he was concerned, few indeed were the women who could match the allure of his alterego. Hags the lot of them, he said darkly. Not one a match for Ghaseeti.

How do you know, said Jodu, with their faces hidden?

I can see enough to know they're bringing trouble.

Why?

Just count the number, said the tindal. Eight women on board – not counting Ghaseeti – and over two hundred men, if you include the coolies, silahdars, maistries, lascars and malums. What good do you think will come of it?

Jodu counted and saw that the tindal was right: there were eight sari-clad figures advancing towards the Ibis. It was the number that led him to suspect that they might be the same people he had rowed to the camp: had there been seven women in the group that day, or eight? He could not remember, for his attention had been focused mainly on the girl in the pink sari.

Suddenly, he leapt up. Stripping the bandhna from his head, he began to wave, with a foot in the tanni and an elbow hooked through the labran.

What're you doing, you crazed launder? snapped Mamdootindal.

I think I know one of the girls, said Jodu.

How can you tell? said Mamdoo-tindal. Their faces are all covered up.

Because of the sari, said Jodu. See the pink one? I'm sure I know her.

Shut your chute and sit down! said the tindal, tugging on his pants. You're going to be lundbunded if you don't take care. The Burra Malum's already got it in for you after your stunt with Zikri Malum yesterday. If he sees you honeying up to those coolie girls you're going to be a launder without a mast.

Down by the boat, the sight of Jodu, rising to his feet to wave, gave Paulette such a scare that she nearly fell into the water. Although her ghungta was certainly her most important means of concealment, it was by no means the only one; she had also disguised her appearance in a number of other ways: her feet were lacquered with bright vermilion alta; her hands and arms were covered with intricate, hennaed designs that left very little of her skin visible; and under the cover of her veil, the line of her jaw was obscured by large, tasselled earrings. In addition, she was balancing her cloth-wrapped belongings on her waist, in such a fashion as to give her the gait of an elderly woman, shuffling along under the weight of a crushing burden. With these many layers of masking, she had felt reasonably confident that not even Jodu, who knew her as well as anyone in the world, would harbour any suspicions about who she was. Yet, evidently, all her efforts had been in vain, for no sooner had he set eyes on her than he had begun to wave, and from a long way off, at that. What was she to do now?

Paulette was convinced that Jodu, whether out of a misplaced brotherly protectiveness, or by reason of the competitiveness that had always marked their quasi-siblingship, would stop at nothing to prevent her from sailing on the Ibis: if he had recognized her already, then she might as well turn back right now. She was contemplating exactly that when Munia took hold of her hand. Being close in age, the girls had gravitated towards each other on the boat; now, as they were going up the stepladder, Munia whispered in Paulette's ear: Do you see him, Pugli? Waving at me from all the way up there?

Who? Who do you mean?

That lascar up there – he's crazy for me. Do you see him? He's recognized my sari.

You know him then? said Paulette.

Yes, said Munia. He rowed us to the camp when we came to Calcutta. His name's Azad Lascar.

Oh, is that so? Azad Lascar, is he?

Paulette smiled: she was halfway up the stepladder now, and as a further test of her disguise, she tilted her face upwards so that she was looking directly at Jodu, through the cover of her ghungta. He was hanging from the shrouds in an attitude she knew all too well: exactly so had they played together in the tall trees of the Botanical Gardens across the river. She was aware of a twinge of envy: how she would have loved to be up there, hanging on the ropes with him; but instead, here she was, on the stepladder, swathed from head to toe, while he was free and at large in the open air – the worst of it was that it was she who had always been the better climber. Ushered along by the maistries, she stepped on deck and paused to look up again, defiantly, daring him to expose her – but he had no eyes except for her companion, who was giggling as she clung to Paulette's arm: See? Didn't I tell you? He's mad for me. I could make him dance on his head if I liked.

Why don't you? said Paulette tartly. He looks like he needs a lesson or two.

Munia giggled and glanced up again: Maybe I will.

Be careful, Munia, Paulette hissed. Everyone's watching.

And so they were: not just the lascars and mates and maistries, but also Captain Chillingworth, who was standing at the weather end of the quarter-deck, with his arms folded over his chest. As Paulette and Munia approached, the Captain's lips curled into an expression of disgust.

'I tell you, Doughty,' he declared, in the confident voice of a man who knows that his words will be understood only by the person for whom they are intended: 'The sight of these miserable creatures makes me long for the good old days, on the Guinea Coast. Look at these hags, treading five over five to Rotten Row.'

'Theek you are,' boomed the pilot, who was standing beside the wheelhouse. 'About as sorry a lot of pootlies as I ever did see.'

'This old crone here, for instance,' said the Captain, looking directly at Paulette's hooded face. 'A virgin-pullet if ever I saw one – often trod and never laid! What conceivable purpose is served by transporting her across the sea? What will she do there – a bag of bones that can neither bear a burden nor warm a bed?'

'Damned shame,' agreed Mr Doughty. 'Probably ridden with disease too. Shouldn't be surprised if she spreads it through the herd.'

'If you ask me, Doughty, it'd be a mercy to have her put down; at least she'd be spared the pains of the journey – why tow a frigate on fire?'

'Save on provisions too: I'll wager she eats like a luckerbaug. The scrawny ones always do.'

And, at this very moment, who should appear before Paulette but Zachary? And he too was looking directly into her ghungta, so that she could see his eyes fill with pity as they took in the bent shape of the ageless hag in front of him. 'A ship's no place for a woman,' she remembered him saying: how smug he had looked then, just as he did now, doling out his sympathy from on high; it was as if he'd forgotten that he owed his mate's berth to nothing more than the colour of his skin and a few misbegotten muscles. Paulette's fingers quivered in indignation, loosening her hold on her load. Suddenly the bundle slipped from her grasp and landed heavily on the deck, so close to Zachary's feet that he leant over instinctively to help her pick it up.

The gesture drew a shout from the quarter-deck. 'Leave her be, Reid!' Mr Doughty called out. 'You'll get no thanks for your bawhawdery.'

But the warning came too late: Zachary's hand was almost on the bundle when Paulette slapped it smartly away: her father's manuscript was concealed inside, along with two of her most beloved novels – and she could not take the risk of letting him feel the bindings through the cloth.

A look of injured surprise appeared on Zachary's face as he dropped his reprimanded hand. As for Paulette, her only thought was of escaping to the 'tween-deck. Picking up her bundle, she hurried over to the booby-hatch and took hold of the ladder.

Halfway down, she remembered her last visit to the dabusa: how quickly she had skipped down that ladder then – but now, with her sari wrapped around her calves, and her bundle on her head, it was another matter altogether. Nor was the 'tween-deck immediately recognizable as the same dabusa she'd been in before: its dark, unlit interior was now illuminated by several lamps and candles, and she saw, by their light, that dozens of mats had been laid out in concentric circles, covering most of the floor space. Strangely, the dabusa seemed to have shrunk in the meanwhile, and she discovered why when she glanced ahead: its forward end had been cut short by a new wooden bulwark.

There was a maistry inside, directing operations, and he pointed Munia and Paulette towards the newly made partition. The women's section's over there, he said, right next to the chokey.

You mean there's a chokey behind that wall? cried Munia, in fright. Then why have you put us right next to it?

Nothing to worry about, said the maistry. The entrance is on the other side. There's no way the qaidis can get at you. You'll be safe over there, and you won't have the men stepping all over you to get to the heads.

There was no arguing with this: as she was making her way to the women's enclosure, Paulette noticed a small air duct, in the chokey's bulwark; if she stood on tiptoe it was on a level with her eye. She could not resist peeking in as she went past, and having stolen one glimpse, she returned quickly for another: she saw that there were two men inside the chokey, as curious a pair as ever she had laid eyes on. One had a shaven head, a skeletal face, and looked as if he might be Nepali; the other had a sinister tattoo on his forehead and appeared to have been dragged in from the Calcutta waterfront. Stranger still, the darker one was weeping while the other one had an arm around his shoulder, as if in consolation: despite their chains and bindings, there was a tenderness in their attitudes that seemed scarcely conceivable in a couple of criminal transportees. After yet another stolen glance, she saw that the two men were now speaking to each other, and this further excited her curiosity: what could they be saying – and with such absorption as not to notice the commotion in the adjoining compartment? What language might they share, this skeletal Easterner and this tattooed criminal? Paulette moved her mat around, so that it was placed right beside the bulwark: when she put her ear to a seam in the wood, she found, to her astonishment, that she could not only hear what was being said, but understand it too – for, amazingly, the two convicts were conversing in English.

Moments after Zachary's hand had been slapped, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander appeared at his side. Although the gomusta was wearing his accustomed dhoti and kurta, his shape, Zachary noticed, had acquired a curious, matronly fullness, and when he swept his shoulder-length hair off his face, it was with the practised gesture of a stout dowager. The expression on his face was at once indulgent and admonitory as he wagged a finger in Zachary's face: 'Tch! Tch! Despite beehive activities you still cannot suspend your mischiefs?'

'There you go again, Pander,' said Zachary. 'What the hell you talkin bout now?'

The gomusta lowered his voice: 'It is all right. No formalities. Everything is known to me.'

'What's that mean?'

'Here,' said Baboo Nob Kissin, helpfully. 'I will show what is hidden in the bosom.'

The gomusta thrust a hand through the neckline of his kurta, reaching so deep inside that Zachary would not have been surprised to see a plump breast laid bare. But instead, the hand emerged holding a cylindrical copper locket. 'See how nicely I have hidden? This way maximum securities can be maintained. However, one warning I must give.'

'What?'

'I regret to inform that this place is not apt.'

'Apt for what?'

Leaning towards Zachary's ear, the gomusta hissed: 'For mischiefs with cowgirls.'

'What the hell you talkin bout, Pander?' cried Zachary in exasperation. 'I was just tryin to help the woman pick up her stuff.'

'Better to leave ladies alone,' said the gomusta. 'Flute also better not show. They may get too much excited.'

'Show my flute?' Not for the first time, Zachary wondered whether the gomusta was not merely eccentric but actually mad. 'Oh hie off, Pander; leave me alone!'

Zachary turned on his heel and took himself off to the deck rail. The back of his hand was still red from the woman's slap; Zachary frowned as he looked at it – it disturbed him in a way that he could not quite understand. He had noticed the woman in the red sari well before she dropped her baggage: she had been the first to come up the gangplank, and something about the tilt of her head had given him the impression that she was watching him, from the shelter of her headcloth. Her tread had seemed to grow slower and heavier as she came on deck. Even when her sorry little bundle was giving her such a hard time, she would not allow herself to use more than one of her gnarled, henna-veined hands in wrestling with her burden; the other claw, similarly disfigured, was employed solely in holding her shroud in place. There was a fervour in her concealment which seemed to suggest that a man's glance was as much to be feared as a tongue of fire – the thought made him smile, and a twinge of memory reminded him suddenly of the burning scowl that Paulette had directed at him, at the end of their last meeting. This notion, in turn, made him look towards the shore, wondering if she might be somewhere nearby, keeping watch on the Ibis. He had heard, from Jodu, that she had recovered from her illness: surely she wouldn't allow the ship to leave without saying goodbye – if not to him, then at least to Jodu? Surely she would see that both he and Jodu had acted in her own best interest?

Suddenly, as if conjured up by some rite of divination, Serang Ali appeared at his elbow. 'No hab heard?' he whispered. 'Lambert-missy hab run way to marry nother-piece man. More better Malum Zikri forgetting she. Anyway she too muchi thin. China-side can catch one nice piece wife-o. Topside, backside same-same. Make Malum Zikri too muchi happy inside.'

Zachary banged a despairing fist on the deck rail: 'Oh, by all the hoaky, Serang Ali! Will you stop it? You with your damned wife-o and Pander with his cowgirls! To listen to you two anyone'd think I was some crazy crannyhunter on the prowl…'

He was cut short by Serang Ali, who pushed him suddenly to one side, with a shout: 'Mich'man! 'Ware! 'Ware.' Zachary looked over his shoulder just in time to see Crabbie, the ship's cat, racing along the deck rail as though she were fleeing from some unseen predator. Launching into a flying leap, the cat touched down once upon the side-ladder, and then bounced off to land on a boat that was moored alongside the schooner. Then, without so much as a glance at the vessel that had carried her halfway around the world, the tabby disappeared.

On deck the lascars and migrants stared aghast after the vanished animal, and even Zachary experienced a touch of apprehension: he had heard superstitious old sailors speaking of misgivings that 'made buttons in the belly', but had never before known what it meant to have his own stomach serve up such a tremor.

Up above, Mamdoo-tindal's knuckles had turned white on the yard.

Did you see that? he said to Jodu. Did you see?

What?

That cat jumped ship: now there's a sign if ever I saw one.

The last woman to come on board was Deeti, and she was climbing up the side-ladder when the cat leapt across her path. She would gladly have fallen in the water rather than be the first to cross the line of its flight, but Kalua was right behind her, holding her steady. At his back there were so many others, crowding on to the ladder, that there was no resisting their collective weight. Driven on by the maistries, the migrants surged forward and Deeti was carried across the invisible mark, to be deposited on the schooner's deck.

Through the veil of her sari, Deeti looked up at the masts, towering above. The sight made her a little giddy, so she kept her head bent and her eyes lowered. A number of maistries and silahdars were positioned along the deck, ushering the migrants along with their lathis, shoving them in the direction of the booby-hatch. Chal! Chal! Despite their shouts, progress was slow because of all the clutter on deck; everywhere you looked there were ropes, casks, pipas, bimbas, and even the occasional runaway chicken and bleating goat.

Deeti was almost abreast of the foremast when she became aware of a voice that sounded strangely familiar: it was shouting obscenities in Bhojpuri: Toré mái ké bur chodo!

Looking ahead, through a tangle of ropes and spars, she caught sight of a bull-necked, heavy-bellied man with luxuriant white moustaches; her feet froze and a cold hand took hold of her heart. Even though she knew who it was, there was a voice in her ear telling her that it was not a mortal man at all, but Saturn himself: It's him, Shani, he's been hunting you all your life and now he has you in his grasp. Her knees buckled under her, sending her crashing to the planks, at her husband's feet.

By this time a great press of people had poured on to the deck, and they were being herded steadily aft by the guards and overseers, with their swishing lathis. Had the person behind Deeti been someone of lesser size and strength than Kalua, she might well have been trampled where she lay. But on seeing her fall, Kalua braced himself against the deck and was able to bring the flow of people to a sudden halt.

What's happening there?

The disturbance had caught Bhyro Singh's attention and he began to advance upon Kalua, lathi in hand. Deeti lay where she was and pulled her sari tight over her face: but what was the point of hiding when Kalua was standing right above her, in full view and sure to be recognized? She shut her eyes and began to mutter prayers: Hé Rám, hé Rám...

But the next thing she heard was Bhyro Singh's voice, saying to Kalua: What's your name?

Was it possible that the subedar would not recognize Kalua? Yes, of course: he had been away from the village these many years and had probably never seen him, except as a child – and what interest would he have had in a leather-tanner's child anyway? But the name, Kalua – that he was sure to know because of the scandal of Deeti's escape from her husband's funeral pyre. Oh, fortunate the kismat that had prompted her to be careful with their real names; if only Kalua did not mention it now. To give him warning, she dug a fingernail into his toe: Beware! Beware!

What's your name? the subedar asked again.

Her prayer was answered. After a moment's hesitation, Kalua said: Malik, my name is Madhu.

And is that your wife, lying there?

Yes, malik.

Pick her up, said Bhyro Singh, and carry her to the dabusa. Don't let me see either of you making trouble again.

Yes, malik.

Kalua slung Deeti across his shoulder and carried her down the ladder, leaving their bundles on deck. After he had laid her on a mat, he would have gone back to fetch the bundles, but Deeti would not let him: No, listen to me first: do you know who that man was? He's Bhyro Singh, my husband's uncle; it's he who arranged my marriage, and it's he who sent people out to look for us. If he knows we're here…

'Are you ready, ho?' The pilot's call was answered promptly by Serang Ali: Sab taiyár, sáhib.

The sun was at its zenith now, and the booby-hatch that led to the dabusa had long since been battened down. Along with every other lascar, Jodu had been set to work on clearing the main deck – stowing pipas of drinking water, tirkaoing hamars, and hauling zanjirs through the hansil-holes. Now, with the chickens and goats safely stowed in the ship's boats, nothing else remained to be cleared and Jodu was impatient to be up on the trikat-yard again, for it was from aloft that he envisioned himself taking a last look at his native city: his were the first hands on the iskat when at last the command came – 'Foretopmen aloft!' – Trikatwalé úpar chal!

From Calcutta to Diamond Harbour, some twenty miles to the south, the Ibis was to be towed by the Forbes, one of several steam-tugs that had recently been put into commission on the Hooghly River. Jodu had seen these diminutive boats from afar, puffing consequentially along the river, towing mighty barques and brigantines as if they weighed no more than his own frail dinghy: not the least part of his eagerness to be under way lay in the prospect of a tow from one of these amazing vessels. Looking upriver, he saw that the round-nosed tug was already approaching, tolling its bell to clear a path through the traffic on the river.

On the far bank lay the Botanical Gardens and Jodu's perch was high enough that he could see the familiar trees and pathways. The sight made him think, for one fleeting and wistful instant, of what it would have been like to have Putli balancing on the trikat-yard beside him: that it would be sport, there was no denying, and she could have done it too, had it been possible. Of course, such a thing could not be permitted under any circumstances – but still, he couldn't help wishing that he had parted from her on some better, less contentious note: there was no telling when, if ever, he would see her again.

His attention had strayed so far that he was taken by surprise when Sunker said: Look, over there…

The heads of a pair of divers could be seen bobbing around the anchor buoys as they loosed the schooner's cables. It was almost time now: in a matter of moments they would be pulling away. Mamdoo-tindal tossed back his hair, and closed his long-lashed eyes. Then his lips began to move in prayer, murmuring the first words of the Fatiha. Jodu and Sunker were quick to join in: B'ism'illáh ar-rahmán ar-rahím, hamdu'l'illáh al-rabb al-'alamín… In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Praise to the Lord of all Creation…

'All hands to quarters, ahoy!' The pilot's shout was followed by a cry from the serang: Sab ádmi apna jagah!

As the tug drew closer, the hammering of its engine grew louder and louder, and in the enclosed, airless gloom of the dabusa, it sounded as if some enraged demon were trying to rip apart the wooden planks of the hull in order to devour the people who sat huddled within. It was very dark inside, for the maistries had extinguished the candles and lamps on their way out: there was no need for them, they'd said, now that the migrants were all nicely packed in – to keep them burning would only increase the risk of fire. No one had disputed this but everyone understood that the overseers were merely saving themselves an extra expense. With no flame lit and the hatch secured, such light as there was came from cracks in the timber and the openings of the piss-dales. The leaden gloom, combined with the midday heat and the fetid stench of hundreds of enclosed bodies, gave the unstirred air a weight like that of sewage: it took an effort even to draw breath.

Already now, the girmitiyas had moved their mats about to their liking: everyone knew, from the first, that the maistries cared very little about what actually happened below: their chief concern was to escape the heat and stench of the dabusa so that they could settle into their own bunks, in the midships-cabin. No sooner had the overseers departed, shutting the hatch behind them, than the migrants began to disrupt the careful circle of their mats, scuffling and shouting as they fought for space.

As the noise of the tugboat mounted, Munia began to tremble, and Paulette, guessing that she was on the verge of hysteria, drew her closer. Despite her pretence of self-possession, even Paulette was beginning to feel the onset of panic when she heard a voice she knew to be Zachary's: he was right above her, on the main deck, so close that she could almost hear the shuffle of his feet.

'Pay out the cable!' – Hamár tirkao!

'Haul together!' – Lag sab barábar!

The hawsers that connected the Ibis to the steam-tug drew tight and a tremor ran through the schooner as if she were waking suddenly to life, like a bird startled out of a long night's sleep. From below the waterline, the spasms ran upwards, through the dabusa and into the deckhouse, where Steward Pinto crossed himself and dropped to his knees. As his lips began to move, the mess-boys, in all their many faiths, knelt beside him and bowed their heads: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum… Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

On the main deck, Mr Doughty's hands were on the wheel as he shouted: 'Heave, you dogs, heave!'

Habés – habés kutté, habés! habés!

The schooner lurched to its jamna side and down in the darkness of the dabusa, people slipped and slid and tumbled upon each other like crumbs on a tilted tray. Neel put his eye to the air duct, and saw that a riot had broken out in the adjacent dabusa, with dozens of terrified migrants hurling themselves at the ladder, pounding on the fastened hatch, in a belated attempt at escape: Chhoro, chhoro – let us out, let us off…

There was no response from above, except for a series of hookums, ringing across the deck: 'Haul you bastards! Haul!' – Sab barábar! Habés salé, habés!

Exasperated by the futile thrashings of the girmitiyas, Neel shouted through the air duct: Be quiet you fools! There's no escape; no turning back…

Slowly, as the vessel's motion made itself felt in the pit of every stomach, the noise yielded to a pregnant, fearful stillness. Now the migrants began to absorb the finality of what was under way: yes, they were moving, they were afloat, heading towards the void of the Black Water; neither death nor birth was as fearsome a passage as this, neither being experienced in full consciousness. Slowly, the rioters backed away from the ladder and returned to their mats. Somewhere in the darkness, a voice, trembling in awe, uttered the first syllables of the Gayatri Mantra – and Neel, who had been made to learn the words almost as soon as he could speak, now found himself saying them, as if for the first time: Om, bhur bhuvah swah, tat savitur varenyam… O giver of life, remover of pain and sorrow…

'Ready about!' – Taiyár jagáh jagáh!

Up on the foremast, as the shudder of the Ibis's awakening ran from a-low to aloft, Jodu felt a tremor in the trikat-yard and knew that he had arrived at the moment his life had been building towards through many a long year; now, at last, he was leaving behind these muddy shores to meet the waters that led to Basra and Chin-kalan, Martaban and Zinjibar. As the mast began to sway, his chest swelled with pride to see how fine a figure the Ibis cut amongst the craft that clogged the river – the caramoussals and perikoes and budgerows. At this lofty elevation, it seemed as if the schooner had given him a pair of wings to soar above his past. Giddy with exhilaration, he hooked an arm around the shrouds and tore off his headcloth.

My salams to all of you, he shouted, waving to the unheeding shore: Jodu is on his way… oh you whores of Watgunge… you crimps of Bhutghat… Jodu's turned a lascar and he is gone… Gone!

Seventeen

Twilight brought the Ibis back to the Narrows, at Hooghly Point, and there, in the river's broad curve, she dropped anchor to wait out the night. Not till darkness had swallowed the surrounding banks were the girmitiyas allowed on deck; until then the gratings of the hatchway were kept firmly closed. The subedar and the overseers were agreed that the migrants' first taste of shipboard conditions had probably increased the likelihood of attempted break-outs: seen in daylight, the shore might present an irresistible temptation. Even after nightfall, when the attractions of land had been diminished by the howls of foraging jackal-packs, the maistries did not relax their vigilance: past experience had taught them that in every group of indentured migrants there were always a few who were desperate – or suicidal – enough to throw themselves into the water. When it came time to prepare the evening meal, they kept every migrant under watch. Even those who had been designated to serve as bhandaris were kept under guard while they stirred the chattas in the deckhouse chuldan. As for the rest, they were allowed up only in small groups, and were herded back into the dabusa as soon as they had finished their rice, dal and lime-pickle.

While the bhandaris and maistries were seeing to the feeding of the migrants, Steward Pinto and his mess-boys were serving roast lamb, mint sauce and boiled potatoes in the officers' cuddy. The portions were generous, for the steward had laid in two whole sides of fresh mutton before leaving Calcutta, and the meat was not likely to last long in the unseasonable heat. But in spite of the plenitude of food and drink, there was less conviviality in the cuddy than there was around the chuldan, where, from time to time, the migrants could even be heard singing a few snatches of song.

Májha dhára mé hai bera merá

Kripá kará ásrai hai tera

My raft's adrift in the current

Your mercy is my only refuge…

'Damned coolies,' muttered the Captain, through a mouthful of lamb. 'Bloody Doomsday couldn't put a stop to their caterwauling.'

A ship could take as long as three days, depending on the weather and the winds, to sail downriver from Calcutta to the Bay of Bengal. Between the river's estuary and the open sea lay the island of Ganga-Sagar, the last of the holy waterway's many pilgrimages. One of Neel's ancestors had endowed a temple on the island, and he had visited it several times himself. The erstwhile Halder zemindary lay about halfway between Calcutta and Ganga-Sagar, and Neel knew that the Ibis would pass his estate towards the end of the second day. This was a journey that he had made so often that he could feel the zemindary's approach in the river's bends and turns. As it drew near, his head filled with shards of recollection, some of them as bright and sharp as bits of broken glass. When the time came, almost as if to mock him, he heard the lookout cry out, above: Raskhali, we're passing Raskhali!

He could see it now: it couldn't have been clearer if the schooner's hull had turned into glass. There it was: the palace and its colonnaded verandas; the terrace where he had taught Raj Rattan to fly kites; the avenue of palash trees his father had planted; the window of the bedroom to which he had taken Elokeshi.

'What is it, eh?' said Ah Fatt. 'Why you hitting your head, eh?' When Neel made no answer, Ah Fatt shook him by the shoulders till his teeth rattled.

'The place we pass now – you know it, not know it?'

'I know it.'

'Your village, eh?'

'Yes.'

'Home? Family? Tell everything.'

Neel shook his head: 'No. Maybe some other time.'

'Achha. Other time.'

Raskhali was so close that Neel could almost hear the bells of its temple. What he needed now, was to be elsewhere, in a place where he could be free of his memories. 'Where's your home, Ah Fatt? Tell me about it. Is it in a village?'

'Not village.' Ah Fatt scratched his chin. 'My home very big place: Guangzhou. English call Canton.'

'Tell me. Tell me everything.'

Hou-hou…

Thus it happened that while the Ibis was still on the Hooghly, Neel was being transported across the continent, to Canton – and it was this other journey, more vivid than his own, that kept his sanity intact through the first part of the voyage: no one but Ah Fatt, no one he had ever known, could have provided him with the escape he needed, into a realm that was wholly unfamiliar, utterly unlike his own.

It was not because of Ah Fatt's fluency that Neel's vision of Canton became so vivid as to make it real: in fact, the opposite was true, for the genius of Ah Fatt's descriptions lay in their elisions, so that to listen to him was a venture of collaboration, in which the things that were spoken of came gradually to be transformed into artefacts of a shared imagining. So did Neel come to accept that Canton was to his own city as Calcutta was to the villages around it – a place of fearful splendour and unbearable squalor, as generous with its pleasures as it was unforgiving in the imposition of hardship. In listening and prompting, Neel began to feel that he could almost see with Ah Fatt's eyes: there it was, the city that had conceived and nurtured this new half of himself – a seaport that lay far inland, in the recesses of a nook-shotten coast, separated from the ocean by an intricate tangle of swamps, sands, creeks, marshes and inlets. It was shaped like a ship, this river port, its hull outlined by a continuous bulwark of towering, grey walls. Between the water and the city's walls lay a shoulder of land that was as turbulent as a ship's wake: although it fell outside the city limits, this stretch of shore was so thickly settled that nobody could tell where the land stopped and the water began. Sampans, junks, lorchas and smug-boats were moored here in such numbers as to form a wide, floating shelf that reached almost halfway across the river's width: everything was jumbled, water and mud, boats and godowns – but the confusion was deceptive, for even in this teeming, bustling length of silt and water, there were distinct little communities and neighbourhoods. And of these, the strangest, without a doubt, was the small enclave allotted to the foreigners who came to trade with China: the extra-Celestials who were known to the Cantonese as Fanquis – Aliens.

It was on this spit of land, just beyond the south-western gates of the walled city, that the Aliens had been permitted to build a row of so-called factories, which were nothing but narrow, red-tiled buildings, part warehouse, part residence and part accounts office for the shroffing of cash. For the few months of the year during which they were allowed to reside at Canton, the Aliens had perforce to confine their devilry to this one narrow enclave. The precincts of the walled city were forbidden to them, as to all foreigners – or so at least the authorities declared, claiming that such had been the case for almost a hundred years. Yet anyone who had been inside could tell you that of certain kinds of Alien there was no lack within the city walls: why, you had only to walk past the Hao-Lin temple, on the Chang-shou Road, to see monks from dark, westerly places; and if you stepped inside the precincts, you could even see a statue of the Buddhist preacher who had founded the temple: nobody could dispute that this proselyte was as foreign as the Sakyamuni himself. Or else, if you ventured still further into the city, walking up the Guang-li Road to the Huai-shang temple, you would know at once, from the shape of the minaret, that this was not, despite the outward resemblance, a temple at all, but a mosque; you would see too that the people who lived in and around this edifice were not all Uighurs, from the western reaches of the Empire, but included, besides, a rich display of devilry – Javanese, Malays, Malayalis and Black-Hat Arabs.

Why, then, were some Aliens allowed in and some kept out? Was it the case that only a certain kind of Alien was truly an extra-Celestial being, to be kept under careful confinement, in the enclave of the factories? So it had to be, for the Fanquis of the factories were undeniably of a certain cast of face and character: there were 'Red-faced' Aliens from England, 'Flowery-flag' Aliens from America, and a good sprinkling of others, from France, Holland, Denmark and so on.

But of these many kinds of creature, the most easily recognizable, without a doubt, was the small but flourishing tribe of White-hatted Aliens – Parsis from Bombay. How was it that the White-hatted ones came to be counted as Fanquis, of the same breed as the Red-faces and Flowery-flags? No one knew, since a matter of appearance it surely could not be – for while it was true that some of the white-hatted faces were no less florid than those of the Flowery-flags, it was true also that there were many among them who were as dark as any of the lascars who sat imp-like upon the mastheads of the Pearl River. As for their clothes, the White-hats' garments were in no whit the same as those of the Fanquis: they wore robes and turbans, not unlike those of Black-hatted Arabs, presenting an aspect utterly unlike that of the other factory-dwellers – whose wont it was to strut about in absurdly tight leggings and jerkins, their pockets stuffed with the kerchiefs in which they liked to store their snot. No less was it plain for all to see that the other Fanquis looked somewhat askance upon the White-hats, for they were often excluded from the councils and revelries of the rest, just as their factory was the smallest and narrowest. But they too were merchants, after all, and profits were their business, for the sake of which they seemed perfectly willing to live the Fanqui life, migrating like birds between their homes in Bombay, their summer chummeries in Macao, and their cold-weather quarters in Canton, where the vistas of the walled city were not the least of the pleasures forbidden them – for while in China, they had to live, as did the other Fanquis, not just without women, but in the strictest celibacy. On no measure did the city's authorities so firmly insist as on the chop, issued annually, that forbade the people of Guangzhou to provide the Aliens with 'women or boys'. But could such an edict really be enforced? As in so many things, what was said and what transpired were by no means the same. It was impossible, surely, for those self-same authorities to be unaware of the women on the flower-boats that trolled the Pearl River, importuning lascars, merchants, linkisters, shroffs and whoever else was of a mind for some diversion; impossible, equally, that they should not know that in the very centre of the Fanqui enclave there lay a filth-clogged mews called Hog Lane, which boasted of any number of shebeens serving not just shamshoo, hocksaw and other liberty-liquors, but all manner of intoxicants of which the embrace of women was not the least. The authorities were certainly aware that the Dan boat-people, who manned many of the sampans and lanteas and chop-boats of the Pearl River, also performed many small but essential services for the Fanquis, including taking in their washing – of which there was always a great deal, not just by way of clothing, but also of bed- and table-linen (the latter particularly, since food and drink did not fall within the purview of the luxuries denied to the poor devils). Such being the case, the business of laundering could not be transacted without frequent visits and outcalls – which was how it happened that a young White-hat of devilish charm, Bahramji Naurozji Moddie, came to cross paths with a fresh-faced Dan girl, Lei Chi Mei.

It began as a prosaic matter of handing over tablecloths soaked in Sunday dhansak, and napkins wetted with kid-nu-gosht, all of which young Barry – as he was known among the Fanquis – had to enter and account for in a laundry-book, this duty being assigned to him by right of his status as the junior-most of the White-hatted tribe. And it was nothing other than a white hat that led to the pair's first coupling – or rather, it was one of those long spools of cloth which held the headgear in place: for it so happened that one of the great seths of the factory, Jamshedji Sohrabji Nusserwanji Batliwala, discovered a rent in his turban cloth one day and subjected young Barry to such a dumbcowing that when it came time to display the sundered object to Chi Mei, the young man burst into tears, weeping so artfully that the turban wound itself around and around the couple till they were sealed inside a snug cocoon.

A few years of loving and laundering were still to pass before a child was born to Chi Mei, but when at last the infant made his appearance, the event inspired a great fever of optimism in his father, who bestowed upon him the impressive name of Framjee Pestonjee Moddie, in the hope that it would ease his acceptance into the world of the White-hats. But Chi Mei, who knew far better the probable fate of children who were neither Dan nor Fanqui, took the precaution of naming the boy Leong Fatt.

The maistries quickly let it be known that the female migrants would be expected to perform certain menial duties for the officers, guards and overseers. Washing their clothes was one such; sewing buttons, repairing torn seams and so on, was another. Eager for exercise of any sort, Paulette elected to share the washing with Heeru and Ratna, while Deeti, Champa and Sarju opted to do the sewing. Munia, on the other hand, managed to snag the only job on board that could be considered remotely glamorous: this was the task of looking after the livestock, which was housed in the ship's boats and consumed almost exclusively by the officers, guards and overseers.

The Ibis was equipped with six boats: two small, clinker-built jollyboats, two mid-size cutters, and two carvel-built longboats, each a full twenty feet in length. The jollyboats and cutters were stowed on the roof of the deckhouse, one of each kind being nested in the other, with the whole ensemble held in place by chocks. The longboats, on the other hand, were amidships, swung up on davits. The longboats' crane-like davits were known to the lascars as 'devis', and not without reason, for their ropes and guys intersected with the mainshrouds in such a way as to create small niches of semi-concealment, as might be found in the sheltering lap of a goddess: in these recesses it was not impossible for one or two people to elude the unceasing bustle of the main deck for several minutes at a time. The scuppers, where the washing was done, lay under the devis, and Paulette quickly learnt to take her time over the task, so she could linger in the open air. The Ibis was now deep in the watery labyrinth of the Sundarbans, and she was glad to seize every opportunity to gaze at the river's mangrove-cloaked shores. The waterways here were strewn with mudbanks and other hazards, so the navigable channel followed a twisting, looping course, occasionally drawing close enough to the banks to provide clear views of the jungle. Some of Paulette's happiest memories were of helping her father catalogue the flora of this forest, during weeks-long collecting trips in Jodu's boat: now, as she watched the banks through the screen of her ghungta, her eyes sifted through the greenery as if by habit: there, beneath the upthrust elbow-roots of a mangrove, was a little shrub of wild basil, Ocimum adscendens; it was Mr Voight, the Danish curator of the Gardens at Serampore – and her father's best friend – who had confirmed that this plant was indeed to be found in these forests. And here, growing thick along the banks, was Ceriops roxburgiana, identified by the horrible Mr Roxburgh, who'd been so unkind to her father that the very sound of his name would make him blanch; and there, on the grassy verge, just visible above the mangroves, was a spiky-leafed shrub she knew all too well: Acanthus lambertii. It was at her own insistence that her father had given it this name – because she had literally stumbled upon it, having been poked in the leg by one of its spiny leaves. Now, watching the familiar foliage slip by, Paulette's eyes filled with tears: these were more than plants to her, they were the companions of her earliest childhood and their shoots seemed almost to be her own, plunged deep into this soil; no matter where she went or for how long, she knew that nothing would ever tie her to a place as did these childhood roots.

For Munia, on the other hand, the forest was a place of dread. One afternoon, as Paulette was gazing at the mangroves, under the pretence of scrubbing clothes, Munia appeared beside her and uttered a horrified gasp. Clutching at Paulette's arm, she pointed to a sinuous form, hanging from the branch of a mangrove. Is that a snake? she whispered.

Paulette laughed. No, you ullu; it's just a creeping plant that grows on the bark. Its flowers are very beautiful…

It was, in fact, an epiphytic orchid; she'd first encountered this species three years ago when Jodu brought one back home. Her father had taken it for Dendrobium pierardii at first, but on examination had decided that it wasn't. What would you like to call it? he had asked Jodu with a smile, and Jodu had glanced at Paulette before replying, with a sly grin: Call it Putli-phool. She knew he was teasing, that it was his way of making fun of her for being so thin, flat-chested and weedy. But her father was much taken by the idea, and sure enough the epiphyte became Dendrobium pauletii.

Munia shuddered: I'm glad I'm not down here. It's much nicer where I work, on the roof of the deckhouse. The lascars pass right by when they're climbing up to fix the sails.

Do they ever say anything? Paulette asked.

Only him. Munia glanced over her shoulder at the trikat-yard, where Jodu could be seen standing on the footropes, at full stretch, reefing the foretopsail. Look at him! Always showing off. But he's a sweet boy, no denying that, and nice-looking too.

The terms of their siblingship being what they were, Paulette had given little thought to Jodu's appearance: now, as she looked up at his boyishly mobile face, his upturned lips, and the coppery glint in his raven's-wing hair, she could see why Munia might be attracted to him. Vaguely embarrassed by this, she said: What did you talk about?

Munia giggled: He's like a fox, that one: made up a story about how a hakim in Basra had taught him to tell people's fortunes. How? I said, and do you know what his answer was?

What?

He said: let me put my ear on your heart, and I'll tell you what the future holds. Better still, if I can use my lips.

That Jodu might have a strong amatory streak had never occurred to Paulette: she was shocked to hear of his boldness. But Munia! weren't there people around?

No, it was dark; no one could see us.

And did you let him? said Paulette. Listen to your heart?

What do you think?

Paulette slipped her head under Munia's ghungta, so she could look into her eyes. No! Munia, you didn't!

Oh Pugli! Munia gave a teasing laugh and pulled her ghungta away. You may be a devi, but I'm a shaitan.

Suddenly, over Munia's shoulder, Paulette saw Zachary stepping down from the quarter-deck. He seemed to be heading forward, on a course that would take him right past the devis. As he approached, Paulette's limbs tensed involuntarily and she pulled away from Munia to flatten herself against the bulwark. As it happened, she had one of his shirts in her hands, and she tucked it quickly out of sight.

Surprised by Paulette's fidgeting, Munia said: What's the matter?

Although Paulette's face was buried in her knees, and her ghungta was drawn almost to her ankles, Munia had no difficulty in following the direction of her gaze. Just as Zachary was walking past, she gave a hiccup of laughter.

Munia, be quiet, Paulette hissed. That's no way to behave.

For who? said Munia, tittering in delight. Look at you, acting the devi. But you're no different from me. I saw who you had your eye on. He's got two arms and a flute just like any other man.

Right from the start, it was made clear to the convicts that their days would be spent largely in picking and rolling istup – or oakum, as Neel insisted on calling it, giving the fibre its English name. At the start of each day, a large basket of the stuff was brought to them, and they were expected to turn it into usable pickings by nightfall. They were told also that, unlike the migrants, they would not be allowed on deck at mealtimes: their food would be sent to them below, in taporis. But once each day, they would be released from the chokey and given time to empty their shared toilet bucket and to wash their bodies with a few mugfuls of water. Afterwards, they would be taken above and given a few minutes' exercise, consisting, usually, of a turn or two around the main deck.

This last part of the convicts' routine, Bhyro Singh was quick to appropriate: the pretence that they were a pair of plough-oxen and he a farmer, tilling a field, seemed to give him endless delight; he would loop their chains around their necks, in such a way that they were forced to stoop as they walked; then, shaking their fetters like reins, he would make a clicking, tongue-rolling noise as he drove them along, occasionally slicing at their legs with his lathi. It wasn't just that the infliction of pain gave him pleasure (though this was no small part of it): the blows and insults were also intended to show everyone that he, Bhyro Singh, was uncontaminated by the degraded creatures who had been placed in his power. Neel had only to look into his eyes to know that the disgust that he and Ah Fatt inspired in the subedar far surpassed anything he might have felt for more commonplace criminals. Thugs and dacoits, he would probably have regarded as kindred spirits and treated with some respect, but Neel and Ah Fatt did not fit that mould of man: for him they were misbegotten, befouled creatures – one because he was a filthy foreigner and the other because he was a fallen outcaste. And even worse, if possible, was the fact that the two convicts appeared to be friends and that neither seemed to want to overmaster the other: to Bhyro Singh this was a sign that they were not men at all, but castrated, impotent creatures – oxen, in other words. While driving them around the deck, he would shout, for the amusement of the maistries and silahdars:… Ahó, keep going… don't weep for your balls now… tears won't bring them back.

Or else he would rap them on the genitals and laugh when they doubled up: What's the matter? Aren't you hijras, you two? There's no pleasure or pain between your legs.

In order to turn the convicts against each other, the subedar would sometimes give one an extra helping of food, or make the other take a double turn at cleaning the toilet buckets: Come, let's see if you have a taste for your sweetheart's dung.

In the failure of these stratagems, he evidently perceived a subtle undermining of his own position, for if ever he saw Neel and Ah Fatt coming to each other's assistance on deck, he would vent his anger with furious lashings of his lathi. What with the swaying of the schooner, the unsteadiness of their legs, and the weight of their fetters, it was difficult for Ah Fatt and Neel to take more than a few steps at a time without falling or faltering. Any attempt by either to help the other would result in kicks and swipes of the lathi.

It was in the midst of one such flurry of blows that Neel heard the subedar say: Sala, get up. The Chhota Malum's heading this way: on your feet now – don't dirty his shoes.

Neel was struggling to his feet when he found himself looking into a face that he remembered well. Before he could stop himself, he said aloud: 'Good afternoon, Mr Reid.'

That a convict should have the spleen to address an officer was so incredible to Bhyro Singh that he slammed his lathi on Neel's shoulder, knocking him to his knees: B'henchod! You dare look the sahib in the eye?

'Wait!' Zachary stepped forward to stop the subedar's hand. 'Wait a minute there.'

The mate's intervention so inflamed the subedar that for a moment he glowered as if he were about to hit Zachary next. But then, thinking the better of it, he stepped back.

In the meanwhile, Neel had risen to his feet and was dusting his hands. 'Thank you, Mr Reid,' he said. Then, unable to think of anything else, he added: 'I trust you are well?'

Zachary peered into his face, frowning. 'Who are you?' he said. 'I know the voice, but I confess I can't place…'

'My name is Neel Rattan Halder. You may remember, Mr Reid, that you dined with me some six months ago, on – on what was then – my budgerow.' This was the first time in many months that Neel had spoken to anyone on the outside, and the experience was so strangely exhilarating that he could almost have imagined himself back in his own sheeshmahal. 'You were served, if my memory does not fail me, some duck soup and a roast of Sudden-Death. Forgive me for mentioning these details. Food has been much on my mind of late.'

'Gollation!' cried Zachary suddenly, in astonished recognition. 'You're the Roger, aren't you? The Raja of…?'

'Your memory does not mislead you, sir,' said Neel, bowing his head. 'Yes, I was indeed once the Raja of Raskhali. My circumstances are very different now, as you can see.'

'I had no idea you were aboard this vessel.'

'No more was I aware of your presence on board,' said Neel, with an ironic smile. 'Or I would certainly have tried to send up my card. I had imagined somehow that you had already returned to your estates.'

'My estates?'

'Yes. Did you not say you were related to Lord Baltimore? Or am I imagining it?' Neel was amazed by how easy it was, and how strangely pleasurable, to fall back into the snobberies and small talk of his past life. Those gratifications had seemed insignificant when they were freely available, but now it was as if they were life's very essence.

Zachary smiled. 'I think you may be misremembering. I'm no lordling and possess no estates.'

'In that at least,' said Neel, 'our lot is shared. My present zemindary consists of no more than a toilet bucket and a set of rusty chains.'

Zachary made a wondering gesture as he looked Neel over, from his tattooed head to his unshod feet: 'But what happened to you?'

'It is a tale that cannot be briefly told, Mr Reid,' said Neel. 'Suffice it to say that my estate has passed into the possession of your master, Mr Burnham: it was awarded to him by a decision of the Supreme Court of Judicature.'

Zachary whistled in surprise: 'I'm sorry…'

'I am but another of Fortune's fools, Mr Reid.' Now, with a guilty start, Neel remembered Ah Fatt, standing mutely beside him. 'Forgive me, Mr Reid. I have not introduced my friend and colleague, Mr Framjee Pestonjee Moddie.'

'How do you do?' Zachary was about to stick out his hand when the subedar, provoked beyond endurance, shoved his lathi into the small of Ah Fatt's back: Chal! Hatt! Move on, you two.

'It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr Reid,' said Neel, wincing under the subedar's blows.

'For me too…'

As it turned out, the encounter produced nothing to be glad of, either for Zachary or the convicts. For Neel it earned a slap across the face from the subedar: You think you can impress me with two words of angrezi? I'll show you how this ingi-lis is spoken…

For Zachary, it earned a summons from Mr Crowle: 'What's this I hear about you jawin with the quoddies?'

'I'd met one of them before,' said Zachary. 'What was I to do? Pretend he doesn't exist?'

'Exactly,' said Mr Crowle. 'Pretend he don't exist. 'S not yer place to be talkin with the quoddies and coolies. Subby-dar don like it. He don't like you too much neither, to be honest. There'll be trouble if'n you try it agin. Warnin you I am, Mannikin.'

The encounter between Zachary and the convicts had another witness – one on whom it produced a more momentous effect than on anyone else. This was Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, who had woken that morning to a powerful and prophetic rumbling in his bowels. As was his wont, he had paid close attention to these symptoms and had been led to conclude that the spasms were too forceful to be ascribed entirely to the motion of the schooner: they seemed more akin to the tremors that betoken the coming of a great earthquake or upheaval.

With the progress of the day, this sense of foreboding and expectation had grown steadily stronger, driving the gomusta finally to make his way agil, to the fo'c'sle-deck, where he positioned himself between the bows, allowing the wind to fill out his loose-flowing robes. As he peered ahead, at the silvery waters of the ever-broadening river, the mounting suspense made his stomach go pit-a-pat and he was forced to cross his legs, to hold back the threatened eruption. It was in the process of squirming and twisting that he caught sight of the two convicts being marched around the deck by Subedar Bhyro Singh.

The countenance of the former Raja was not unknown to Baboo Nob Kissin: he had glimpsed it several times, in Calcutta, through the window of the Raskhali phaeton. Once, when the carriage was thundering past, the gomusta had lost his footing and toppled backwards in fright: he remembered well the smile of disdainful amusement with which Neel had regarded him, as he wallowed haplessly in a pool of mud. But the pale, refined countenance of his memory, with its rosebud mouth and world-weary eyes, bore no resemblance to the gaunt, swarthy face that he saw before him now. Had Baboo Nob Kissin not known that the disgraced Raja was one of the two convicts on the Ibis, he would not have imagined this to be the same man, so striking was the change, not just in his appearance but also in his demeanour, which was just as alert and watchful now as it had been bored and languid then. It was somehow thrilling to imagine that he, Baboo Nob Kissin Pander, had played a part in humbling this proud and arrogant aristocrat, in subjecting this effete, self-indulgent sensualist to privations that he could not have envisioned in his worst nightmares. In a way it was like midwiving the birth of a new existence – and no sooner had this thought crossed his mind than the gomusta experienced the upwelling of a sensation that was so intense and so unfamiliar that he knew that Taramony had to be its source. What other provenance could there be for the tumult of pity and protectiveness that seized him at the sight of Neel's begrimed face and chained extremities? Who else could be responsible for the upsurge of maternal tenderness in his bosom, as he watched the convict being driven around the deck like a draught animal? He had always harboured the suspicion that the great regret of Taramony's life was that she had no child of her own. This was confirmed now by the welter of emotions emanating from the presence inside him, the instinct that made him yearn to wrap his arms around the convict to shield him from pain: it was as if Taramony had recognized, in Neel, the son, now grown, whom she had been unable to bear for her husband, Baboo Nob Kissin's uncle.

So powerful indeed were the gomusta's maternal stirrings that had not the fear of an embarrassing accident compelled him to keep his legs knotted, he might well have gone racing down the deck to interpose himself between Neel and the subedar's flailing lathi. And could it be a coincidence that it was exactly then that Zachary stepped forward to stop the subedar's hand and anoint the convict with his recognition? It was as if two aspects of Taramony's capacity for womanly love had been brought into conjunction: that of the mother, longing to nurture a wayward son, and that of the seeker, yearning to transcend the things of this world.

The sight of the encounter between these two beings, both of whom concealed inner truths known only to him, was so moving as to actually set in motion the long-threatened earthquake: the gurgling in the gomusta's interior was now like that of molten lava, and even the fear of embarrassment could not prevent him from racing aft, in search of the heads.

During the day, when the schooner's movement could be felt in the pit of every stomach, the heat and stench of the dabusa were made bearable only by the knowledge that every moment of it brought the end of the voyage a little closer. But there was no such consolation when the schooner anchored at night in the bends of the jungle: with tigers roaring and leopards coughing nearby, even the least excitable of the migrants were seized by wild imaginings. Nor was there any lack of people to stoke rumours and set people against each other. The worst of these was Jhugroo, who had been bundled out of his own village because of his propensity for making trouble: his face was as ugly as his disposition, with a jutting, twisted lower jaw, and tiny bloodshot eyes, yet his tongue and his wits were quick enough to earn him a certain kind of authority among the younger and more credulous girmitiyas.

On the first night, when no one could sleep, Jhugroo began to tell a story about the jungles of Mareech and how the younger and weaker migrants were destined to be used as bait for the wild animals that lived in those forests. His voice could be heard through the whole dabusa, and it terrorized the women, especially Munia, who broke down in tears.

In the suffocating heat, her fear had the virulence of a fever and soon infected those around her: as the women collapsed, one after another, Paulette realized that she would have to act quickly if she was to stem their panic. Khamosh! Quiet! she cried out. Listen to me, listen: what this man is telling you is all bakwás and nonsense. Don't believe these stories – they aren't true. There are no wild animals in Mareech, except for birds and frogs and a few goats, pigs and deer – most of them brought there by human beings. As for snakes, there's not one on the whole island.

No snakes!

This pronouncement was so remarkable that the crying stopped and many heads, including Jhugroo's, turned to stare at Paulette. It fell to Deeti to ask the question that was foremost in every mind: No snakes? Can there really be such a jungle?

Yes, there are such jungles, said Paulette. Mainly on islands.

Jhugroo would not let this pass unchallenged. How would you know? he demanded. You're just a woman: who can take your word for it?

Paulette answered calmly: I know because I've read it in a book. It was written by a man who knew about such things and had lived a long time in Mareech.

A book? Jhugroo gave a satirical laugh. The bitch is lying. How would a woman know what's written in a book?

This stung Deeti, who retorted: Why shouldn't she be able to read a book? She's the daughter of a pandit – she's been taught her letters by her father.

Lying rundees, Jhugroo cried. You should clean your mouths with dung.

What? Kalua rose slowly to his feet, stooping low to keep his head clear of the ceiling. What was that you said to my wife?

Confronted with Kalua's massive frame, Jhugroo retreated into a sulky, vengeful silence, while his followers edged away to join those who had gathered around Paulette: Is it true? There are no snakes there? What trees do they have? Is there rice? Really?

On the other side of the bulwark, Neel too was listening intently to Paulette. Although he had spent a fair amount of time peering at the migrants, through the air duct, he had not paid her much attention till then: like the other women, she was always ghungta'd, and he had not set eyes on her face, nor indeed on any other part of her, apart from her henna-darkened hands and alta-reddened feet. From the intonations of her voice, he had surmised that she differed from the other migrants in that her language was Bengali rather than Bhojpuri, and it had struck him once that her head was sometimes inclined in such a way as to listen in on his conversations with Ah Fatt – but this seemed absurd. It was impossible surely, that a coolie-woman would understand English?

It was Deeti who brought Neel's attention to bear on Paulette anew: if what she'd said was true – that this female was educated – then it seemed to Neel that he would almost certainly know her parents or relatives: small indeed was the number of Bengali families who encouraged their daughters to read, and few among them were unrelated to his own. The names of the handful of Calcutta women who could claim any kind of punditry were well known in his circle, and there was not, to his knowledge, one among them who would publicly admit to knowing English – that was a threshold that even the most liberal families had yet to cross. And here was another puzzle: the educated women of the city were almost all from well-to-do families; it was inconceivable that any of them would allow a daughter of theirs to sail off with a boatload of indentured labourers and convicts. Yet here, apparently, was one such: or was she?

Only when the general interest in the girl had waned did Neel put his lips to the air duct. Then, addressing her ghungta-draped head, he said, in Bengali: One who has been so courteous in dealing with her interlocutors will have no objection, surely, to answering yet another query?

The silky phrasing and refined accent put Paulette instantly on her guard: although her back was turned towards the chokey, she knew exactly who had spoken and she understood immediately that she was being put to some kind of test. Paulette was well aware that her Bengali tended to have a raffish, riverfront edge to it, much of it having been acquired from Jodu; she was careful now in choosing her words. Matching her tone to the convict's, she said: There is no harm in a question; should the answer be known it will certainly be provided.

The accent was neutral enough to deny Neel any further clues to the speaker's origins.

Would it be possible then, he continued, to inquire after the title of the book that was referred to earlier: this volume that is said to have contained such a rich trove of information about the island of Mareech?

Paulette, playing for time, said: The name eludes me – it is of no consequence.

But indeed it is, said Neel. I have searched my memory for a book in our language that might contain these facts and I can think of none.

There are many books in the world, parried Paulette, and surely no one can know all their names?

Not of all the books in the world, Neel conceded, that is certainly true. But in Bengali the number of books in print is yet to exceed a few hundred, and I once prided myself on possessing every single one of them. Thus my concern – is it possible that I had missed a volume?

Thinking quickly, Paulette said: But the book of which I speak has yet to see print. It is a translation from the French.

From the French! Indeed? And would it be too much to ask the name of the translator?

Paulette, thoroughly rattled, uttered the first name to come to mind, which was that of the munshi who had taught her Sanskrit and helped her father with the cataloguing of his collection: His name was Collynaut-baboo.

Neel recognized the name at once: Really? Do you mean Munshi Collynaut Burrell?

Yes, that is he.

But I know him well, said Neel. He was my uncle's munshi for many years. I can assure you he speaks not a syllable of French.

Of course not, said Paulette, parrying quickly. He was collaborating with a Frenchman – Lambert-sahib of the Botanical Gardens. Since I was Collynaut-baboo's pupil, he sometimes gave me pages to transcribe. That is how I read them.

Not a word of this was convincing to Neel, but he could think of no way to shake the story. May I presume to ask, he said at last, what the good-name of the lady's family might be?

Paulette was ready with her riposte. Would it not be intolerably forward, she answered politely, to speak of so intimate a matter upon such a brief acquaintance?

As you please, said Neel. I will say no more except that you are wasting your time in trying to educate these oafs and bumpkins. They might as well be left to rot in ignorance, since rot they surely will.

All this while, Paulette had been sitting so that she would not have to look at the convict. But now, nettled by the arrogance of his tone, she turned her ghungta-covered face in his direction and allowed her eyes to travel slowly up to the air duct. All she could see, in the dimness of the dabusa, was a pair of eyes, glowing crazily in the depths of a stubbled face. Her anger turned to a kind of pity and she said, softly: If you are so clever, then what are you doing here with us? If there was to be a panic or a riot in here, do you think your learning would save you? Haven't you ever heard of the saying: we're all in the same boat? – amra shob-i ek naukoye bháshchhi?

Neel burst into laughter. Yes, he said, triumphantly: I have heard it said – but never in Bengali. It's an English saying that you've just translated – very prettily, if I may say so – but it begs the question of where and how you learnt the English language.

Paulette turned away without answering, but he persisted: Who are you, my good lady? You may as well tell me. You can be sure I'll find out.

I'm not of your kind, said Paulette. That is all you need to know.

Yes, indeed it is, he said, in a tone of mockery – for in uttering her final retort, Paulette's tongue had betrayed just enough of the waterfront's sibilance for the mystery to be solved. Neel had heard Elokeshi speak of a new class of prostitute who had learnt English from their white clients – no doubt this was one such, on her way to join some island brothel.

The space which Deeti and Kalua had chosen for themselves lay under one of the massive beams that arched over the 'tween deck. Deeti's mat was pushed right up to the side, so that the hull provided a backrest when she sat up. But when she lay down, the wooden ridge was no more than an arm's length from her head, so that a moment's inattention could mean a nasty blow to the head. After cracking her brow against the edge a few times, she learnt to slip out safely, and after that, she quickly came to be grateful for the shelter of the beam: it was like a parental arm, holding her in place when everything else was becoming more and more unsteady.

Never was Deeti more grateful for the beam's proximity than during the first days of the voyage, when she was still unaccustomed to the vessel's motion: it gave her something to hold on to, and she found that she could lessen the whirling sensation in her head by focusing her eyes on the wood. In this way, despite the half-light of the dabusa, she became intimately familiar with that length of timber, learning to recognize its grain, its whorls and even the little scratches that had been carved into its surface by the nails of others who had lain where she lay. When Kalua told her that the best remedy for queasiness was to look up at the open sky, she told him tartly to look where he pleased, but for herself, she had all the sky she could deal with in the wood above her head.

For Deeti, the stars and constellations of the night sky had always recalled the faces and likenesses of the people she remembered, in love or in dread. Was it this, or was it the shelter afforded by the arched limb that reminded her of the shrine she had left behind? It happened anyway that on the morning of the third day she dipped the tip of her index finger into the vermilion-filled parting of her hair and raised it to the wood to draw a tiny face with two pigtails.

Kalua understood at once: It's Kabutri, isn't it? he whispered – and Deeti had to jab him in the ribs, to remind him that her daughter's existence was a secret.

Later that day, at noon, when the migrants were making their way out of the dabusa, a strange affliction took hold of everyone who climbed up the ladder: when they set foot on the last rung, they became immobile and had to be shoved up bodily by those who were following at their heels. No matter how loud or impatient the voices below, everyone was stricken in turn as they stepped on the main deck, even those who had but a moment before been cursing the clumsy clodhoppers who were weighing down the line. When it was her turn to emerge from the hatch, Deeti too was seized by the malady: for there it was, dead ahead of the schooner's bows, the Black Water.

The wind had fallen off, so there was not a fleck of white visible on the surface, and with the afternoon sun glaring down, the water was as dark and still as the cloak of shadows that covers the opening of an abyss. Like the others around her, Deeti stared in stupefaction: it was impossible to think of this as water at all – for water surely needed a boundary, a rim, a shore, to give it shape and hold it in place? This was a firmament, like the night sky, holding the vessel aloft as if it were a planet or a star. When she was back on her mat, Deeti's hand rose of itself and drew the figure she had drawn for Kabutri, many months ago – of a winged vessel flying over the water. Thus it happened that the Ibis became the second figure to enter Deeti's seaborne shrine.

Eighteen

At sundown, the Ibis cast anchor at the last place from which the migrants would be able to view their native shore: this was Saugor Roads, a much-trafficked anchorage in the lee of Ganga-Sagar, the island that stands between the sea and the holy river. Except for some mudbanks and the pennants of a few temples, there was little to be seen of the island from the Ibis, and none of it was visible in the unlit gloom of the dabusa: yet the very name Ganga-Sagar, joining, as it did, river and sea, clear and dark, known and hidden, served to remind the migrants of the yawning chasm ahead; it was as if they were sitting balanced on the edge of a precipice, and the island were an outstretched limb of sacred Jambudvipa, their homeland, reaching out to keep them from tumbling into the void.

The maistries too were jitterily aware of the proximity of this last spit of land, and that evening they were even more vigilant than usual when the migrants came on deck for their meal; lathis in hand, they positioned themselves warily around the bulwarks and any migrant who looked too closely at the distant lights was hustled quickly below: What're you staring at, sala? Get back down there, where you belong…

But even when removed from view, the island could not be put out of mind: although none of them had set eyes on it before, it was still intimately familiar to most – was it not, after all, the spot where the Ganga rested her feet? Like many other parts of Jambudvipa, it was a place they had visited and revisited time and again, through the epics and Puranas, through myth, song and legend. The knowledge that this was the last they would see of their homeland, created an atmosphere of truculence and uncertainty in which no provocation seemed too slight for a quarrel. Once fights broke out, they escalated at a pace that was bewildering to everyone, including the participants: in their villages they would have had relatives, friends, and neighbours to step between them, but here there were no elders to settle disputes, and no tribes of kinsfolk to hold a man back from going for another's throat. Instead, there were trouble-makers like Jhugroo, always eager to set one man against another, friend against friend, caste against caste.

Among the women, the talk was of the past, and the little things that they would never see, nor hear, nor smell again: the colour of poppies, spilling across the fields like ábír on a rain-drenched Holi; the haunting smell of cooking-fires drifting across the river, bearing news of a wedding in a distant village; the sunset sounds of temple bells and the evening azan; late nights in the courtyard, listening to the tales of the elderly. No matter how hard the times at home may have been, in the ashes of every past there were a few cinders of memory that glowed with warmth – and now, those embers of recollection took on a new life, in the light of which their presence here, in the belly of a ship that was about to be cast into an abyss, seemed incomprehensible, a thing that could not be explained except as a lapse from sanity.

Deeti fell silent as the other women spoke, for the recollections of the others served only to remind her of Kabutri and the memories from which she would be forever excluded: the years of growing she would not see; the secrets she would never share; the bridegroom she would not receive. How was it possible that she would not be present at her child's wedding to sing the laments that mothers sang when the palanquins came to carry their daughters away?

Talwa jharáilé

Kãwal kumhláile

Hansé royé

Birahá biyog

The pond is dry

The lotus withered

The swan weeps

For its absent love

In the escalating din, Deeti's song was almost inaudible at first, but when the other women grew aware of it they joined their voices to hers, one by one, all except Paulette, who held back shyly, until Deeti whispered: It doesn't matter whether you know the words. Sing anyway – or the night will be unbearable.

Slowly, as the women's voices grew in strength and confidence, the men forgot their quarrels: at home too, during village weddings, it was always the women who sang when the bride was torn from her parents' embrace – it was as if they were acknowledging, through their silence, that they, as men, had no words to describe the pain of the child who is exiled from home.

Kaisé katé ab

Birahá ki ratiyã?

How will it pass

This night of parting?

Through the opening of the air duct, Neel too was listening to the women's songs, and neither then nor afterwards was he able to explain why it happened that the language he had been surrounded by for the last two days, now poured suddenly into his head, like flood water cascading over a breached bund. It was either Deeti's voice, or some fragment of her songs, that made him remember that hers was the language, Bhojpuri, in which Parimal had been accustomed to speak to him, in his infancy and childhood – until the day when his father put a stop to it. The fortunes of the Halders were built, the old Raja had said, on their ability to communicate with those who held the reins of power; Parimal's rustic tongue was the speech of those who bore the yoke, and Neel ought never to use it again for it would ruin his accent when it came time for him to learn Hindusthani and Persian, as was necessary for the heir to a zemindary.

Neel, ever the obedient son, had allowed the language to wither in his head, yet, unbeknownst to him, it had been kept alive – and it was only now, in listening to Deeti's songs, that he recognized that the secret source of its nourishment was music: he had always had a great love of dadras, chaitis, barahmasas, horis, kajris – songs such as Deeti was singing. Listening to her now, he knew why Bhojpuri was the language of this music: because of all the tongues spoken between the Ganges and the Indus, there was none that was its equal in the expression of the nuances of love, longing and separation – of the plight of those who leave and those who stay at home.

How had it happened that when choosing the men and women who were to be torn from this subjugated plain, the hand of destiny had strayed so far inland, away from the busy coastlines, to alight on the people who were, of all, the most stubbornly rooted in the silt of the Ganga, in a soil that had to be sown with suffering to yield its crop of story and song? It was as if fate had thrust its fist through the living flesh of the land in order to tear away a piece of its stricken heart.

The urge to use his remembered words was strong upon Neel that night and he could not sleep. Much later, after the women had sung themselves hoarse, and a fitful quiet had descended upon the dabusa, he heard a few of the migrants trying to recall the story of Ganga-Sagar Island. He could not keep himself from telling the tale: speaking through the air duct, he reminded his listeners that if not for this island neither the Ganga nor the sea would exist; for according to the myths, it was here that Lord Vishnu, in his avatar as the sage Kapila, was sitting in meditation, when he was disturbed by the sixty thousand sons of King Sagar who were marching through the land to claim it for the Ikshvaku dynasty. It was here too, exactly where they were now, that those sixty thousand princes were punished for their impudence, being incinerated by a single glance from one of the sage's burning eyes; it was here that their unhallowed ashes had lain until another scion of their dynasty, the good king Bhagiratha, was able to persuade the Ganga to pour down from the heavens and fill the seas: this was how the ashes of the sixty thousand Ikshvaku princes were redeemed from the underworld.

The listeners were dumbfounded – not by the tale so much as by Neel himself. Who would have thought that this filthy qaidi would show himself to be possessed of so much telling and so many tongues? To think that he could even speak an approximation of their own Bhojpuri! Why, if a crow had begun to sing a kajri they could not have been more amazed.

Deeti too was awake and listening, but she found little assurance in the story. I'll be glad when we're gone from this place, she whispered to Kalua. There's nothing worse than to sit here and feel the land pulling us back.

At dawn, with much greater regret than he had anticipated, Zachary said goodbye to Mr Doughty, who was now headed back to shore with his team. Once the pilot was gone it remained only to refresh a few supplies before weighing anchor and standing out to sea. The re-provisioning was quickly done, for the schooner was soon beseiged by a flotilla of bumboats: cabbage-carrying coracles, fruit-laden dhonies, and machhwas that were filled with goats, chickens and ducks. In this floating bazar there was everything a ship or a lascar might need: canvas by the gudge, spare jugboolaks and zambooras, coils of istingis and rup-yan, stacks of seetulpatty mats, tobacco by the batti, rolls of neem-twigs for the teeth, martabans of isabgol for constipation, and jars of columbo-root for dysentery: one ungainly gordower even had a choola going with a halwai frying up fresh jalebis. With so many vendors to set against each other, it took Steward Pinto and the mess-boys very little time to acquire everything that was needed by way of provisions.

By noon the schooner's anchors were a-trip and the trikat-wale were ready to haul on her hanjes – but the wind, which had been faltering all morning, chose just this time, or so the tindals said, to trap the vessel in a kalmariya. With her rigging taut, and her crew set to make sail, the Ibis lay becalmed in a looking-glass sea. At every change of watch, a man was sent aloft with instructions to sound the alert if any breath of wind should be felt to stir. But hour after hour went by, and the serang's shouted queries -Hawá? – met with nothing but denial: Kuchho nahi.

Sitting in the full glare of the sun, without a breeze to cool her, the schooner's hull trapped the heat so that down below, in the dabusa, it was as if the migrants' flesh were melting on their bones. To let in some air, the maistries removed the wooden hatch, leaving only the grating in place. But it was so still outside that scarcely a breath of air trickled through: instead, the perforations of the iron screen allowed the stench of the hold to rise slowly into the sky, summoning kites, vultures and sea-mews. Some circled lazily above, as if waiting for carrion, while others settled on the yards and shrouds, screeching like witches and peppering the decks with their droppings.

The rules for the rationing of drinking water were still new and unfamiliar to the girmitiyas: the system had not been put to any kind of test before, and now, as it began to break down, the patterns of order that had ruled the dabusa thus far broke down with it. By early afternoon, the day's allowance of drinking water had dwindled to a point where men were fighting for possession of those gharas that still contained a few sips. Egged on by Jhugroo, some half-dozen migrants climbed the ladder and began to beat on the gratings of the hatch: Water! Listen, up there! Our gharas need to be filled.

When the maistries came to remove the gratings there was a near riot: dozens of men scrambled up the ladder in a desperate effort to force their way out on deck. But the hatch was only wide enough for a single man to pass through at a time and every head that was thrust out of it presented an easy target to the maistries. Their lathis came crashing down on the girmitiyas' skulls and shoulders, knocking them back inside, one after another. Within minutes both the grating and the hatch were slammed shut again.

Haramzadas! – the voice belonged to Bhyro Singh – I swear I'm going to straighten you out; you're the unruliest mob of coolies I've ever seen…

The disturbance, however, was not entirely unexpected, for it was rare for a contingent of girmitiyas to adapt themselves to the shipboard regimen without some resistance. The overseers had dealt with this kind of trouble before and knew exactly what to do: they shouted through the gratings to let the girmitiyas know that the Kaptan had ordered them to muster on the main deck; they were to come up the ladder in orderly fashion, one by one.

The maistries directed the women to come out of the hold first, but some of them were in such a bad way that they couldn't climb the ladder and had to be carried up. Paulette was the last woman to leave the hold and she did not realize how unsteady she was till she stepped on deck. Her knees shook, as if about to buckle, and she had to hold on to the deck rail to keep her balance.

A pipa of fresh water had been placed in the shade of the deckhouse and a mess-boy was dipping into it to pour a couple of ladlefuls into each woman's lota. The jamna longboat was hanging a few steps aft of it and Paulette saw that several women had taken shelter beneath it, some squatting on their haunches and some lying prostrate: she pulled herself along the rails and squatted beside them, in the last remaining patch of shade. Like the others, Paulette drank deeply from her vessel before pouring the last trickle of moisture on her head, allowing it to seep slowly down the sweat-drenched ghungta that was draped over her face. With the water percolating through her parched innards, she began to feel the first tremors of life returning, not just to her body but also to her mind, which seemed to wake to consciousness after having lain long-dormant beneath her thirst.

Till this moment, defiance and determination had made Paulette wilfully blind to the possible privations of the voyage: she had told herself that she was younger and stronger than many of the others and had nothing to fear. But it was clear now that the weeks ahead would be hard beyond anything she had imagined; it was even possible that she would not live to see the journey's end. As the awareness of this took hold of her, she turned to look over her shoulder, at Ganga-Sagar Island, and found herself almost unconsciously trying to gauge the distance.

Then Bhyro Singh's voice rang out, signalling the completion of the muster: Sab házir hai! All present!

Turning aft, Paulette saw that Captain Chillingworth had appeared on the quarter-deck and was standing like a statue behind its balustrade of fife-rails. On the main deck, a ring of lascars, maistries and silahdars had been posted around the schooner's bulwarks to keep watch over the assembled girmitiyas.

Facing the assembly, lathi in hand, Bhyro Singh shouted: Khamosh! Silence! The Kaptan is going to speak and you will listen; the first to make a sound will feel my lathi on his head.

Up on the quarter-deck, the Captain was still motionless, with his hands clasped behind his back, calmly surveying the crowd on the deck. Although a light breeze had begun to blow now, it had little or no cooling effect, for the air seemed only to grow hotter under the Captain's gaze: when at last he spoke, his voice carried to the bows with the crackle of a leaping flame: 'Listen carefully to what I say, for none of it will be said again.'

The Captain paused to allow Baboo Nob Kissin to translate, and then, for the first time since he had appeared on the quarter-deck, his right hand came into view and was seen to be holding a tightly coiled whip. Without turning his head, he gestured towards Ganga-Sagar Island, pointing with the weapon's tip.

… In that direction lies the coast from which you came. In the other lies the sea, known to you as the Black Water. You may think that the difference between the one and the other can be seen clearly with the naked eye. But that is not so. The greatest and most important difference between land and sea is not visible to the eye. It is this – and note it well…

Now, as Baboo Nob Kissin was translating, the Captain leant forward and put his whip and his white-knuckled hands on the fife-rails.

… The difference is that the laws of the land have no hold on the water. At sea there is another law, and you should know that on this vessel I am its sole maker. While you are on the Ibis and while she is at sea, I am your fate, your providence, your lawgiver. This chabuk you see in my hands is just one of the keepers of my law. But it is not the only one – there is another…

Here, the Captain held up his whip and curled the lash around the handle to form a noose.

… This is the other keeper of the law, and do not doubt for a moment that I will use it without hesitation if it should prove necessary. But remember, always, there is no better keeper of the law than submission and obedience. In that respect, this ship is no different from your own homes and villages. While you are on her, you must obey Subedar Bhyro Singh as you would your own zemindars, and as he obeys me. It is he who knows your ways and traditions, and while we are at sea he will be your mái-báp, just as I am his. You should know that it is because of his intercession that no one is being punished today; he has pleaded for mercy on your behalf, since you are new to this ship and her rules. But you should know also that the next time there is any disorder on board, the consequences will be severe, and they will be visited upon everyone who plays a part in it; anyone who thinks to make trouble should know that this is what awaits them…

Now the lash of the whip coiled out to make a crack that split the overheated air like a bolt of lightning.

Despite the heat of the sun the Captain's words had chilled Paulette to the marrow. As she looked around her now, she could see that many of the girmitiyas were in a trance of fear: it was as if they had just woken to the realization that they were not only leaving home and braving the Black Water – they were entering a state of existence in which their waking hours would be ruled by the noose and the whip. She could see their eyes straying to the island nearby; it was so close that its attraction was almost irresistible. When a grizzled, middle-aged man began to babble, she knew by instinct that he was losing his struggle against the pull of land. Although forewarned, she was still among the first to scream when this man made a sudden turn, shoved a lascar aside, and vaulted over the deck rail.

The silahdars raised the alarm by shouting – Admi girah! Man overboard! – and the girimitiyas – most of whom had no idea what was happening – began to mill about in panic. Under cover of the commotion, two more migrants broke through and made the leap, hurling themselves over the bulwark.

This sent the guards into a frenzy and they started to flail their lathis in an effort to herd the men back into the dabusa. To add to the confusion, the lascars were busy ripping the covers off the jamna longboat; when they tilted it sideways a flock of squawking hens and roosters descended upon the deck. The malums too had converged upon the boat, shouting hookums and pulling at the devis, raising clouds of chicken-muck that plastered them in feathers, shit and feed.

Temporarily forgotten, the women were left to huddle around the jamna devis. Craning over the deck rail, Paulette saw that one of the three swimmers had already disappeared below water; the other two were thrashing against a current that was sweeping them towards the open sea. Then a great flock of birds appeared above the swimmers, swooping down from time to time, as if to check whether they were still alive. Within a few minutes the swimmers' heads vanished, but still the birds remained, wheeling patiently above, as they waited for the corpses to float back to the surface. Although the bodies were not seen again, it was clear, from the way the birds were circling in the sky, that the corpses had been seized by the outgoing tide and were being swept towards the horizon.

This was why, when at last the long-awaited wind began to blow, the crew was exceptionally slow in making sail: because, after everything that had happened already, the prospect of crossing wakes with the three mutilated corpses had filled the lascars with an unspeakable dread.

Nineteen

Next morning, under a lamb's-wool sky, the Ibis ran into swells and gusts that set her to a frolicsome pitching. Many of the girmitiyas had begun to experience stirrings of discomfort while the Ibis was still on the Hooghly, for even at her most placid the schooner was a great deal livelier than the slow river-boats to which they were accustomed. Now, with the Ibis tipping all nines in a jabble-sea, many were reduced to a state of infantile helplessness.

Some half-dozen pails and wooden buckets had been distributed through the 'tween-deck, in preparation for the onset of seasickness. For a while, these were put to good use, with the steadier of the migrants helping the others to reach the balties before they spewed. But soon the containers were filled to overflowing, and their contents began to slop over the sides. As the vessel plunged and climbed, more and more of the migrants lost the use of their legs, emptying their stomachs where they lay. The smell of vomit added to the already noxious odours of the enclosed space, multiplying the effects of the vessel's motion. Soon it seemed as if the hold would be swamped by a rising tide of nausea. One night a man drowned in a pool of his own vomit, and such were the conditions that his death went unremarked for the better part of a day. By the time it was noticed, so few migrants could stand upright that the consigning of the corpse to the water was not witnessed by any of them.

Deeti, like many of the others, was oblivious to the fatality that had occurred nearby: even if she had known, she would not have had the strength to look in the dead man's direction. For several days she could not rise to her feet, far less leave the dabusa; it was a near-intolerable effort even to roll off her mat when Kalua wanted to wipe it clean. As for food and water, the very thought of them were enough to bring her gorge rushing to her lips: Ham nahin tál sakelan – I can't bear it, I can't…

Yes you can; you will.

As Deeti began to recover, Sarju grew steadily worse. One night her moaning became so piteous that Deeti, who was feeling none too spry herself, took her head into her own lap, and covered her forehead with a piece of moistened cloth. Suddenly she felt Sarju's body growing tense under her fingers. Sarju? she cried: Are you all right?

Yes, whispered Sarju. Hold still for a moment…

Alerted by Deeti's cry, some of the others turned to ask: What's happened to her? What's the matter?

Sarju raised a wavering finger to silence them, and then lowered her ear to Deeti's belly. The women held their breath until Sarju opened her eyes.

What? said Deeti. What's happened?

God has filled your lap, Sarju whispered. You are with child!

The one time when Captain Chillingworth was unfailingly present on deck was at noon, when he was joined by the two mates in shooting the sun. This was the part of the day that Zachary most looked forward to, and not even Mr Crowle's presence could diminish his pleasure in the ritual. It wasn't just that he enjoyed using his sextant, though that was no small part of it; for him this moment was a reward for the unceasing tedium of watch-on-watch and the constant aggravation of having to be at close quarters with the first mate: to see the schooner changing position on the charts was a reminder that this was not a journey without end. Every day, when Captain Chillingworth produced the schooner's chronometer, Zachary would go to great pains to synchronize his watch with it: the moving of the minute hand was evidence, too, that despite the unchanging horizon ahead, the schooner was steadily altering her place in the universe of time and space.

Mr Crowle did not possess a watch, and it irked him that Zachary had one. Every noon there was some new jibe: 'There he goes again, like a monkey with a nut…' Captain Chillingworth, on the other hand, was impressed by Zachary's exactitude: 'Always good to know where you stand in the world: never does a man any harm to know his place.'

One day, as Zachary was tweaking his watch, the Captain said: 'That's a pretty little gewgaw you've got there, Reid: would you mind if I took a look?'

'No, sir – not in the least.' Zachary snapped the cover shut and handed over his watch.

The Captain's eyebrows rose as he examined the filigreed designs. 'Fine little piece, Reid; Chinese craftsmanship I should think: probably made in Macao.'

'Do they make watches there?'

'Oh yes,' said the Captain. 'Some very good ones too.' He flipped the lid open, and his eye went immediately to the lettering on the inside cover. 'What's this now?' He read the name out loud – Adam T. Danby – and repeated it, as if in disbelief: 'Adam Danby?' He turned to Zachary with a frown. 'May I ask how this came into your possession, Reid?'

'Why, sir…'

Had they been alone, Zachary would have had no hesitation in telling the Captain that Serang Ali had given him the watch: but with Mr Crowle within earshot, Zachary could not bring himself to hand over a fresh load of ammunition to be added to the first mate's armoury of jibes. 'Why, sir,' he said, with a shrug, 'I got it at a pawnshop, in Cape Town.'

'Did you now?' said the Captain. 'Well, that's very interesting. Very interesting indeed.'

'Really, sir? How so?'

The Captain looked up at the sun and mopped his face. 'The tale's a bit of a breezo and will take some telling,' he said. 'Let's go below where we can sit down.'

Leaving the deck to the first mate, Zachary and the Captain went down to the cuddy and seated themselves at the table.

'Did you know this Adam Danby, sir?' said Zachary.

'No,' said the Captain. 'Never met him in person. But there was a time when he was well known in these parts. Long before your day, of course.'

'Who was he, sir, if I might ask?'

'Danby?' the Captain gave Zachary a half-smile. 'Why he was none other than "the White Ladrone".'

' "Ladrone", sir…?'

'Ladrones are the pirates of the South China Sea, Reid; named after a group of islands off the Bocca Tigris. Not much left of them now, but there was a time when they were the most fearsome band of cutthroats on the high seas. When I was a younker they were skippered by a man called Cheng-I – savage brute he was too. Up and down the coast he'd go, as far as Cochin-China, pillaging villages, taking captives, putting people to the sword. Had a wife too – a bit of bobtail from a Canton fancy-house. Madame Cheng we used to call her. But the woman wasn't enough for Mr Cheng-I. Captured a young fisherman on one of his raids and made a mate of him too! Enough to put Madame Cheng's nose out of joint, you'd think? Not a bit of it. When old Cheng-I died, she actually married her rival! Two of them set themselves up as the King and Queen of the Ladrones!'

The Captain shook his head slowly, as if at the memory of an ancient and long-lingering bemusement. 'You might think this pair would be strung up by their own crew, wouldn't you? But no: in China nothing is ever as you expect; just when you think you've made sense of them, they'll send you up Tom Cox's traverse.'

'How do you mean, sir?'

'Well just think of it: not only were Madame Cheng and her rival-turned-husband accepted as the cutthroats' leaders – they went on to build themselves a pirate empire. Ten thousand junks under their command at one time, with over a hundred thousand men! Caused so much trouble the Emperor had to send an army against her. Her fleet was broken up and she surrendered, with her husband.'

'And what became of them?' said Zachary.

The Captain gave a snort of laughter. 'You'd think they'd get the hempen habeas, wouldn't you? But no – that would be too straight a course for the Celestials. They put a mandarin's hat on the boy's head and as for Madame Cheng, she was let off with an earwigging and a fine. Still at large in Canton. Runs a snuggery, I'm told.'

'And Danby, sir?' said Zachary. 'Was he mixed up with Madame Cheng and her crew?'

'No,' said the Captain. 'She'd been beached by the time he came into these waters. Her followers, or what was left of them, had broken up into small bands. You wouldn't know their junks from any other country boat – little floating kampungs they were, with pigs and chickens, fruit trees and vegetable gardens. Had their women and children with them too. Some of their junks were really no better than the usual Canton flower-boat, part gambling-den and part knockingshop. They'd hide in the coves and inlets, raiding coastal vessels and preying on shipwrecks. That's how Danby fell into their hands.'

'Shipwrecked was he, sir?'

'That's right,' said the Captain, scratching his chin. 'Let me see: when did the Lady Duncannon run aground? Must have been '12 or '13 – about twenty-five years ago I'd say. Foundered off Hainan Island. Most of her crew managed to get back to Macao. But one of the ship's boats was lost, with some ten or fifteen hands, Danby among them. What happened to the others I can't say, but this much is for sure, that Danby ended up with a band of Ladrones.'

'Did they capture him?'

'Either that, or found him washed ashore. Probably the latter, if you think about the course he took afterwards.'

'Which was…?'

'Turned into a catspaw for the Ladrones.'

'A catspaw, sir?'

'Yes,' said the Captain. 'Went native, did Danby. Married one of their women. Togged himself up in sheets and dishcloths. Learnt the lingo. Ate snakes with sticks. The lot. Can't blame him in a way. He was just a joskin of a cabin-boy, from Shoreditch or some other London rookery. Packed off to sea as soon as he could walk. No easy thing to be a drudge, you know. Pulley-hauley all day and fighting off the old cadgers all night. Not much to eat but lobscouse and old horse; Gunner's Daughter the only woman in sight. Between the bawdy-baskets and the food, a Ladrone junk must have been a taste of paradise. Shouldn't think it took too much for them to bring him sharp about – probably had him horizontalized under a staff-climber as soon as he was strong enough to stand. But he was no pawk, Danby, had a good head on him. Invented a devilish clever bit of flummery. He'd get togged out in his best go-ashores and hie off to some port like Manila or Anjer. The Ladrones would slip in after him and they'd pick a vessel that was short-handed. Danby'd sign on as a mate, and the Ladrones as lascars. No one'd suspect a thing, of course. White man playing catskin for a kippage of Long-tails? Last thought to enter any shipmaster's head. And Danby was a fine old glib-gabbet too. Bought himself the best clothes and gewgaws to be found in the East. Wouldn't show his hand till the vessel was safe out at sea – and then suddenly there they were, flying their colours, boarding her in the smoke. Danby would disarm the officers and the Ladrones would deal with the rest. They'd pack their captives into the ship's boats and cut them adrift. Then away they'd go, galing off with their prize. It was the most fiendishly clever ruse. Their luck ran out somewhere off Java Head as I remember. Intercepted by an English ship-o'-the-line while trying to sail off with a prize. Danby was killed, along with most of the gang. But a few of the Ladrones got away. I imagine it was one of them who pawned this watch of yours.'

'Do you really think so, sir?'

'Why yes, of course,' said the Captain. 'Do you think you might remember where you got it?'

Zachary began to stutter. 'I think… I think I might, sir.'

'Well,' said the Captain, 'when we get to Port Louis, you must be sure to take your tale to the authorities.'

'Really, sir? Why?'

'Oh I should think they'd be very interested in tracing your watch to its last owner.'

Chewing his lip, Zachary looked at the watch again, remembering the moment when the serang had handed it to him. 'And if they caught the last owner, sir?' he said. 'What do you think they'd do?'

'Oh they'd have a lot of questions for him I don't doubt,' said the Captain. 'And if there was any hint of a connection with Danby I'm sure they'd hang him. Not the least doubt about it: there's a nubbing-chit waiting for any member of the Danby gang who's still on the prowl.'

After a few days the majority of the migrants began to recover from their seasickness. Yet, even as the others were getting better, a few showed no signs of improvement at all, and some grew steadily weaker and more helpless so that their bodies could be seen to be wasting away. Although their number was not large, they had a disproportionate effect on the others: following upon all the other mishaps of the journey, their deteriorating condition created an atmosphere of despondency and demoralization in which many who had recovered began to ail afresh.

Every few days, the maistries would sprinkle vinegar or powdered lime around the edges of the hold, and a few of the patients would be given foul-smelling, gummy potions to drink. Many would spit out the liquid as soon as the guards' backs were turned, for it was rumoured that the so-called medicine had been concocted from the hoofs and horns of pigs, cows and horses. In any case, the medicines seemed to have no effect at all on the worst-affected migrants, of whom there were about a dozen.

The next to die was a thirty-year-old coppersmith from Ballia, a man whose once-robust body had dwindled almost to a skeleton. He had no relatives on board, and only one friend, who was himself too ill to go on deck when the dead man's body was cast into the water.

At that time Deeti was still too weak to sit up or take notice, but by the time the next death occurred, she was well on her way to recovery: in this instance, the deceased was a young Muslim julaha from Pirpainti, who was travelling with two cousins. The dead weaver's companions were even younger than he, and neither of them was in a state to protest when a squad of silahdars came down to the dabusa and ordered them to heave the body up so that it could be tipped overboard.

Deeti was not especially inclined to intervene, but when it became clear that no one else was going to say anything, what could she do but speak up? Wait! she told the two boys. This isn't right, what they're telling you to do.

The three silahdars rounded on her angrily: You stay out of this; it's none of your business.

But of course it is, she retorted. He may be dead but he's still one of us: you can't just throw him away like the skin of a peeled onion.

So what do you expect? said the silahdars. Do you want us to stop and make a big tamasha every time a coolie dies?

Just a little izzat; some respect… it's not right to treat us like this.

And who's going to stop us? came the sneering response. You?

Not me maybe, said Deeti. But there are others here…

By this time, many of the girmitiyas had risen to their feet, not with the intention of confronting the silahdars, but mostly out of curiosity. The guards, however, had noted the stir of movement with no little apprehension. The three silahdars began to edge nervously towards the ladder, where one of them paused to ask, in a voice that was suddenly conciliatory: What's to be done with him, then?

Give his relatives some time to talk things over, said Deeti. They can decide what is necessary.

We'll see what the subedar says.

With that, the guards went back on deck, and after a half-hour or so, one of them shouted through the hatch to let the migrants know that the subedar had agreed to let the dead man's kin sort the matter out for themselves. This concession was met with jubilation below, and more than a dozen men offered their help in carrying the body up to the deck.

Later, the dead man's kin sought Deeti out to let her know that the body had been cleaned as prescribed before being consigned to the sea. Everyone agreed that this was a signal victory, and not even the most quarrelsome or envious men could deny that it was largely Deeti's doing.

Kalua alone was less than completely happy about the outcome. Bhyro Singh may have given in this time, he whispered in Deeti's ear, but he's not glad about it. He's been asking who was behind the trouble and whether it was the same woman as before.

Deeti, elated by her success, shrugged this off. What can he do now? she said. We're at sea – he can't send us back, can he?

'Take in the flying jib!' – Tán fulána-jíb!

Through most of the morning the schooner had been close-hauled to the strengthening wind and the masts had been crowded thesam-thes, with a great press of sail. But now, with the sun overhead, the swells in the heaving sea had mounted to a height where the schooner was being continually pooped by surging waves. Zachary, glorying in the power of the vessel, would have kept all her canvas aloft, but was over-ruled by the Captain, who ordered him to reduce sail.

'Standy by!' – Sab taiyár!

Taking in the flying-jib required only one man to go aloft, usually the quickest and lightest of the trikat-wale. Ascending almost to the truck of the foremast, the lascar would unloose the hinch that secured the sail's head, while the others waited below, between the bows, in order to wrestle the canvas down and stow it on its boom. By rights it should have fallen to Jodu to go up alone, but Mamdootindal hated to work on the jib-boom, especially when the thirty-foot spar was ploughing in and out of the water, drenching all those who were clinging to it. Under the pretext of making sure the job was done right, the tindal followed Jodu up the mast and made himself comfortable on the baopar side of the sabar-purwan, seating himself on the yard while Jodu climbed still further up, to wrestle with the hinch.

'Haul aft the sheet!' – Dáman tán chikár!

Hold on! Mamdoo-tindal's warning came just as the knot sprung loose.

Suddenly, as if seized by panic, the canvas reared up and flung itself against Jodu: it was as if a hunted swan were trying to beat off a pursuer with a frenzied thrashing of its wings. Just in time, Jodu fastened both arms around the mast and clung on, while the men below began to haul on the hanjes, to sheet the sail home. But with the updraughts blowing strong, the sail did not go easily and the canvas kept rearing up, as if to snap at Jodu's heels.

You see, said Mamdoo-tindal, with no little satisfaction. It's not as easy as you launders think.

Easy? Who'd think that?

Slipping down from the masthead, Jodu seated himself astride the sabar yard so that he was sitting with his back to the tindal, with the mast in between. On either side of the schooner, the sea was striped with wide swathes of black shadow, marking the valleys between the swells. Up on the yard, where the ship's motions were exaggerated by the height of the mast, it was if they were sitting on a palm tree that was swaying from side to side. Jodu tightened his hold, weaving his arms through the sawais, knowing full well that with the water heaving as it was, a fall would mean certain death. With the wind gusting like this, it would take at least an hour to bring the schooner about, and the chances of survival were so slight that the afsars were unlikely even to change course: yet, there was no denying that the danger added a dash of mirch to the masala of the masts.

Mamdoo-tindal was of the same mind. He pointed to the outermost tip of the jib-boom, which was known to the lascars as the Shaitán-jíb – the Devil's-tongue – because so many sailors had lost their lives there. We're lucky to be here, he said. Just look at those poor buggers down there – the gandus are getting a bath like they've never had. Chhi! How it would make Ghaseeti's kajal run!

Glancing down at the schooner's bows, Jodu saw that the Devil's-tongue was plunging in and out of the swells, ducking the lascars who were sitting astride it, and tossing plumes of water over the deck, drenching the migrants who were emerging from the hatch for their midday meal. Under Jodu's feet, below the footropes, there was an elliptical opening between the billowing trikat and the bara: this gap afforded a view of the waist of the schooner, and looking through it now, Jodu saw two sari-clad figures sitting crouched under the jamna devis. He knew, from the colour of the sari, that one of them was Munia, and he knew, too, from the incline of her veiled head, that she was looking at him.

This exchange of glances did not elude Mamdoo-tindal, who curled his elbow around the mast to give Jodu a jab in the ribs. Are you staring at that girl again, you fuckwit of a launder?

Surprised by the severity of his tone, Jodu said: What's wrong with looking, Mamdoo-ji?

Listen to me, boy, said Mamdoo-tindal. Can't you see? You're a lascar and she's a coolie; you're a Muslim and she's not. There's nothing for you in this: nothing but a whipping. Do you understand?

Jodu burst into laughter. Arre, Mamdoo-ji, he said, you take things too seriously sometimes. What's wrong with a couple of jokes and a laugh? Doesn't it help the time pass? And wasn't it you said that when Ghaseeti was my age she always got whoever she wanted – no jhula or bunk was safe from her?

Tchhi! Turning away from the wind, the tindal ejected a gob of spittle that sailed away across the length of the yard, landing in the sea on the far side of the schooner. Listen, boy, he muttered darkly, under his breath. If you don't know why this is different, then a dismasting may be just what you need.

Even with fetters on his wrists, Ah Fatt possessed a sureness of hand that was astonishing to Neel. That he should be able to pluck flies out of the air – not swat, but pluck, trapping the insects between the tips of thumb and forefinger – was remarkable enough, but that he should be able to do this in the dark seemed scarcely credible. Often, at night, when Neel was ineffectually flailing his hands at a fly or mosquito, Ah Fatt would catch hold of his arm and tell him to lie still: 'Shh! Let me listen.'

To ask for silence in the chokey was to expect too much: what with the creaking of the ship's timbers, the lapping of the water beneath the hull, the tread of the sailors above, and the voices of the migrants on the far side of the bulwark, it was never quiet within its confines. But Ah Fatt seemed to be able to use his senses in such a way as to block out some noises while focusing on others: when the insect made itself heard again, his hand would come shooting out of the darkness to put an end to its drone. It didn't seem to matter even if the insect settled on Neel's body: Ah Fatt would pluck it out of the darkness in such a way that Neel would feel nothing but a slight pinch on his skin.

But tonight it was neither the hum of an insect nor Neel's flailing that made Ah Fatt say: 'Shh! Listen.'

'What is it?'

'Listen.'

Suddenly Ah Fatt's fetters moved, and their rattle was followed by a frantic, high-pitched squeaking. Then there was a snapping sound, like that of a bone breaking.

'What was it?' said Neel.

'Rat.' An odour of excrement filled the chokey as Ah Fatt removed the cover of the toilet bucket to drop the dead creature inside.

Neel said: 'I don't understand how you can catch it with your bare hands.'

'Learnt.'

'To catch flies and mice?'

Ah Fatt laughed. 'No. Learnt to listen.'

'From whom?'

'Teacher.'

Neel, for all his connoisseurship of teachers and tutors, could think of none who would teach this particular skill. 'What kind of teacher would teach you that?'

'Teacher who teach to box.'

Neel was more than ever mystified. 'A boxing teacher?'

Ah Fatt laughed again. 'Strange no? Father made to learn.'

'But why?'

'He want me be like English Man,' said Ah Fatt. 'Want me learn things that Man must know – rowing, hunting, cricket. But in Guangzhou, there is no hunting and there is no garden for cricket. And rowing is done by servant. So he makes to learn boxing.'

'Your father? Did you live with your father then?'

'No. Live with Grandmother. In junk.'

The vessel was actually a Canton kitchen-boat, with a wide, flat prow, where dishes could be washed and pigs butchered. Aft of the prow was the galley, with a four-fire oven, sheltered by a bamboo roof; the middle section was sunken, and shaded by an awning, with a low table and benches for customers; the stern was square and high, with a double-decked house perched on it: this was where the family lived – Ah Fatt, his mother, his grandmother and whichever cousins or other relatives happened to be passing through.

The kitchen-boat was a gift from Ah Fatt's father, and it was a step up in the world for the family: before the boy was born they had lived in a snail-boat that was half the size. Barry would have liked to do still better by his son, the guilt of whose illegitimacy lay heavy on him: he would gladly have bought Chi Mei and her family a house, in the city or in one of the nearby villages – Chuen-pi, for instance, or Whampoa. But this was a Dan family, bred to the river and unwelcome on land. Barry knew this, and raised no objection, although he did make it clear that he would have liked them to acquire a vessel that did him some credit: a big, colourful pleasure-barge, for instance, of the kind that he could have boasted of to his comprador, Chunqua. But Chi Mei and her mother were of thrifty stock, and a dwelling that provided no income was, to them, as useless a thing as a barren sow. Not only did they insist on buying a kitchen-boat, they moored it within sight of the Fanqui-town, so it happened that when Ah Fatt was put to work, helping with customers – which began almost as soon as he learnt to keep his footing on a tilted deck – he could be seen clearly from the windows of the White-hat factory.

Kyá-ré? the other Parsis would laugh; fine fellow you are, Barry – letting your bastard grow up like a boat-boy. For your daughters you're building mansions on Queensway – nothing for this bugger? True he's not one of us, but there's something there, no? Can't just turn your back on him…

This was unjust, for it was patent for all to see, Parsis and others alike, that Barry was an indulgent and ambitious father, who had every intention of providing his only son with the wherewithal to set himself up as a gentleman of good standing: the boy was to be erudite, active and urbane, as handy with rod and gun as with book and pen; a Man who spouted Manliness like a whale exhales spray. If schools refused to accept the illegitimate son of a boatwoman, then he would hire special tutors, to teach him reading and penmanship, in Chinese and English – that way, he could always make a career for himself as a linkister, translating between the Fanquis and their hosts. There were many such in Canton, but most were utterly incompetent; the boy could easily learn to outdo them all and might even make a name for himself.

To find tutors who were willing to teach in a Dan kitchen-boat was no easy matter, but through Chunqua's good offices, some were found. Ah Fatt took readily to his lessons and every year when his father returned to Canton for the season, the records of his progress grew longer and longer, the calligraphy ever more stylish. Every year, Barry would bring extravagant gifts from Bombay, to thank his comprador for keeping an eye on the progress of the boy's education; every year Chunqua in turn would reciprocate with a present of his own, usually a book for the boy.

In Ah Fatt's thirteenth year, the present was a fine edition of that famous and beloved tale, Journey to the West.

Barry was much enthused when the name was translated for him: 'It'll do him good to read about Europe and America. Some day I will send him on a visit.'

Not without some embarrassment, Chunqua explained that the West in question was somewhat nearer at hand; in fact it was intended to be none other than Mr Moddie's very own homeland – Hindusthan, or Jambudvipa as it was called in the old books.

'Oh?' Although no longer so enthusiastic, Barry gave the boy his present anyway, little knowing that he would soon regret this offhand decision. Later, he came to be convinced that it was this book that was responsible for the fancies that entered Ah Fatt's head: 'Want to go West…'

Every time the boy saw him, he would plead to visit his father's homeland. But this was the one indulgence Barry could not grant: to think of letting the boy sail to Bombay on one of his father-in-law's ships; to imagine him walking down the gangplank, into a crowd of waiting relatives; to conceive of presenting his mother-in-law, his wife, his daughters, with fleshly evidence of his other life, in Canton, which they knew of only as a provenance for finely embroidered silks, pretty fans and torrents of silver – none of these notions could be entertained for more than a moment; why, it would be like unloosing an army of termites on the parqueted floors of his Churchgate mansion. The other Parsis in Canton might know about the boy, but he knew he could trust them to be discreet back home: after all, he, Barry, was not the only one to lapse from bach-elordom during these long months of exile. And even if a whisper or two were to reach his hometown, he knew people would ignore them so long as the evidence was kept safely hidden from view. If, on the other hand, he were to bring the boy back, for people to see with their own eyes, then a great flame of scandal would erupt from the doors of the fire-temple, to light a conflagration that would ultimately consume his lucrative living.

No, Freddy, listen to me, he said to Ah Fatt. This 'West' you've got in your head is just something that was made up in a silly old book. Later, when you're grown up, I'll send you to the real West – to France or America or England, some place where people are civilized. When you get there you'll be able to set yourself up as a prince or a foxhunting man. But don't think of Hindusthan; forget about it. It's the one place that's not good for you.

'And he was right,' said Ah Fatt. 'Was not good for me.'

'Why? What did you do?'

'Robbery. Did robbery.'

'When? Where?'

Ah Fatt rolled away, burying his face. 'Nother time,' he said, in a muffled voice. 'Not now.'

The turbulence of the open sea had a calamitous effect on Baboo Nob Kissin's processes of digestion and many days passed before he was able to make his way from the midships-cabin to the main deck. But when at last he stepped into the open air and felt the moisture of the sea on his face, he understood that all those days of dizziness, diarrhoea and vomiting were the necessary period of suffering that precedes a moment of illumination: for he had only to look at the spindrift that was flying off the schooner's bows to know that the Ibis was not a ship like any other; in her inward reality she was a vehicle of transformation, travelling through the mists of illusion towards the elusive, ever-receding landfall that was Truth.

Nowhere was this transformation more evident than in himself, for the presence of Taramony was so palpable within him now that his outer body felt increasingly like the spent wrappings of a cocoon, destined soon to fall away from the new being that was gestating within. Every day offered some fresh sign of the growing fullness of the womanly presence inside him – for example, his mounting revulsion at the coarseness of the maistries and silahdars with whom he had perforce to live: when he heard them speaking of breasts and buttocks, it was as if his own body were being discussed and derided; at times, his need to veil himself was so intense that he would pull a sheet over his head. His maternal stirrings too had now grown so exigent that he could not walk across the main deck without lingering awhile over that part of it which lay above the convicts' cell.

This proclivity earned him many earfuls of galis from the lascars, and several angry tirades from Serang Ali: 'What for you standi here likee cock-a-roach? Bugger too muchi foolo – nevva hit any use.'

Mr Crowle was even more direct: 'Pander, y'spigot-sucking gobble-prick! With all the wide welkin around us, why d'ye always have to be beating the booby right here? I tell yer, Pander, I see yer here again and I'm going to splice a cuntline to yer arse.'

To these assaults on his dignity the gomusta tried always to respond with queenly self-possession. 'Sir, I must deplore to your fulsome remarks. There is no need to pass dirty-dirty comments. Why all the time you are giving dagger-looks and criticizing? Only I have come to take air and refresh. If you are busy you need not bestow undue attention.'

But the semi-proximity of his lingering presence on deck was galling not just to the sailors, but also to Taramony, whose voice was now often in Baboo Nob Kissin's head, urging him to enter the very precincts of the chokey, to bring her closer to her adopted son. These promptings precipitated a raging conflict between the emergent mother, seeking to comfort her child, and that part of Baboo Nob Kissin which continued to be a worldly gomusta, bound by all manner of everyday proprieties.

But I can't go down there! he would protest. What will people think?

How does it matter? she would respond. You can do what you like: aren't you the ship's supercargo?

There was no denying that Baboo Nob Kissin was one of the few people on the Ibis who had the right of access to every part of the ship. As the supercargo, he often had business with the Captain and was regularly to be seen making his way into the officers' part of the ship, where he would sometimes lurk at Zachary's door, in the hope of hearing his flute once again. In his official capacity, he had also been empowered, by Mr Burnham, to inspect the other parts of the vessel, and he even had in his possession a set of spare keys for the chokey.

None of this was a secret from Taramony, and as the days passed it became clear to Baboo Nob Kissin that if she was ever to manifest herself in him, then he would have to embrace every aspect of her being, including her capacity for maternal love. There was no getting out of it: he would have to find a way to the chokey.

Like an animal returning to its natural element, the Ibis seemed to grow ever more exuberant as she went lasking along on the open sea. The schooner had been on the Bay of Bengal for exactly a week when Paulette looked up from her washing one afternoon, and noticed that the sky above was a luminous, radiant blue, its colour deepened by flecks of cloud that mirrored the crests on the water below. The wind was blowing strong and hard, and the waves and clouds seemed to be racing each other across a single, vast firmament, with the schooner straining in pursuit, her timbers groaning with the effort of the chase. It was as if the alchemy of the open water had endowed her with her own will, her own life.

Leaning over the rail, Paulette gingerly lowered her balty to draw some water. As she was pulling the bucket up again a flying fish came rocketing out but only to leap back into the waves. The flutter of its wings drew a squeal of laughter from Paulette and startled her into tipping her balty over, spilling the water partly on herself and partly on the deck. Alarmed at the mess, she fell to her knees and was busily pushing the water down the scuppers when she heard a peremptory shout: 'You there – yes you!'

It was Mr Crowle, and much to Paulette's relief, he was shouting not at her, but at someone else: since his voice was pitched to the tone he commonly employed with the lowest of the lascars, Paulette assumed that he was shouting at some unfortunate launder or topas. But such was not the case; looking aft, she saw that it was Zachary who had been thus addressed. He was on the quarter-deck, heading back to his cabin after the end of his watch. His face went red as he came to the fife-rails. 'Were you speaking to me, Mr Crowle?'

'That's right.'

'What is it?'

'What's this hugger-mugger business over here? Were y'fuckin asleep on yer watch?'

'Where, Mr Crowle?'

'Come'n see for yer own bleedin self.'

This being a mealtime, the deck was about as noisy as it ever was, with dozens of girmitiyas, overseers, lascars and bhandaris talking, jostling and arguing over the food. The exchange between the mates brought the hubbub to an abrupt end: that there was bad blood between the malums was a secret to no one, and every eye turned to watch as Zachary made his way forward, towards the bows.

'What's wrong, Mr Crowle?' said Zachary, stepping up to the fo'c'sle-deck.

'You tell me.' The first mate pointed at something ahead and Zachary leant over the bows to take a look. 'D'ye have the eyes to see it, Mannikin – or do you need it explained?'

'I see the problem, Mr Crowle,' said Zachary straightening up. 'The traveller is unseized and the jib and martingale are afoul of the dolphin-striker. How it happened I cannot imagine, but I'll fix it.'

Zachary had begun to roll up his sleeves when Mr Crowle stopped him. 'Not yer job, Reid. Not yer place to tell me how it's to be fixed neither. Nor who's to do it.'

Turning aft, the first mate surveyed the deck with a hand over his eyes, squinting hard, as though he were looking for someone in particular. The search ended when he caught sight of Jodu, who was lounging in the kursi of the foremast: 'You there, Sammy!' He curled his finger to summon Jodu to the bows.

'Sir?' Taken by surprise, Jodu pointed to himself, as if to ask for confirmation.

'Yes, you! Get a move on, Sammy.'

'Sir!'

While Jodu was climbing down, Zachary was remonstrating with the first mate: 'He'll only do himself harm, Mr Crowle. He's a raw hand…'

'Not so raw he couldn't pick y'out o'the water,' said the first mate. 'Let's see him try his luck with the jib-boom.'

Alarmed now, Paulette elbowed her way to the forward bulwarks, where many migrants were standing clustered, and found herself a spot from which she could watch Jodu as he climbed out on the schooner's bowsprit, over the heaving sea. Till now, Paulette had paid little attention to the vessel's architecture, treating her masts, sails and rigging as a crazed cat's-cradle of canvas and hemp, pulleys and pins. She saw now that the bowsprit, for all that it looked like a mere extension of the schooner's ornamental figurehead, was actually a third mast, a lateral one, that stuck out over the water. Like the other two masts, the bowsprit was equipped with an extension, the jib-boom, so that the whole ensemble, when fitted together, jutted a good thirty feet beyond the schooner's cutwater. Strung out along the boom were three triangular lateen sails: it was the outermost of these that had somehow wrapped itself into a tangle and that was where Jodu was making his way, to the farthest tip of the jib-boom – the Devil's-tongue.

The Ibis was mounting a wave as Jodu began his advance, and the first part of his journey was an ascent, in which he was pulling himself along a pole that was pointing skywards. But when the crest of the wave passed, the climb became a descent, with the Devil's-tongue angled towards the depths. He reached the jib just as the Ibis went nose-first into the trough between two swells. The momentum of the schooner's slide sent her plunging into the water, with Jodu clinging on, like a barnacle to the snout of a sounding whale. Down and down he went, the white of his banyan becoming first a blur, and then disappearing wholly from view as the sea surged over the bowsprit and lapped over the bulwark. Paulette caught her breath as he went under, but he was gone so long that she was forced to breathe again – and yet again – before the Ibis began to raise her nose from the water, riding the next upswell. Now, as the bowsprit rose from the water, Jodu was seen to be lying flat, with his arms and legs wrapped tightly around the wooden tongue. When it reached the end of its trajectory, the jib seemed to flip upwards, as if to send its rider catapulting into the clouds of canvas above. A stream of water came sluicing back, along the bowsprit, drenching many of the spectators who were standing crowded around the bows. Paulette scarcely noticed the water: she wanted only to know that Jodu was alive, and still able to hold on – after a ducking like that, surely he would need whatever strength he had left for the climb back to the deck?

Zachary, in the meanwhile, was stripping off his shirt: 'The hell with you, Mr Crowle; I'm not going to stand by and see a man lost.'

The schooner was mounting a swell when Zachary leapt on the bowsprit, and the Devil's-tongue was still above water when he passed the dolphin-striker. During the next few seconds, with the schooner's head clear of the waves, Jodu and Zachary worked fast, cutting away ropes and cables, thrusting blocks and pulleys into their pockets. Then the schooner began her downwards plunge and both men flattened themselves on the boom – but their hands were now hampered with so many odds and ends of rope and canvas that it seemed impossible that they would be able to find a proper hold.

Hé Rám! A collective cry went up from the migrants as the Devil's-tongue plunged into the water, pushing the sailors below the surface. Suddenly, with the shock of an epiphany, it dawned on Paulette that the sea now had in its grasp the two people who mattered most to her in all the world. She could not bear to watch and her gaze strayed instead to Mr Crowle. He, too, had his eyes fixed on the bowsprit, and she saw, to her astonishment, that his face, usually so hard and glowering, had turned as liquid as the sea, with currents of cross-cutting emotion whirling across it. Then a spirited cheer – Jai Siyá-Rám! – drew her eyes back to the bowsprit, which had emerged from the water with the two men still clinging on.

Tears of relief sprung to her eyes as Zachary and Jodu slid off the bowsprit, to drop safely back on deck. By some quirk of fate, Jodu's feet came to rest within inches of her own. Even if she had wanted to, she could not have stopped herself from saying something: her lips breathed his name as if of their own accord: Jodu!

His eyes widened as he turned to look at her ghungta'd head, and she made only the tiniest motion to caution him – as in childhood, it was enough; he was not one to betray a secret. Bowing her head, she slipped away and went back to her washing.

It was only when she was stepping away from the scuppers, to hang the washing on the after-shrouds, that she saw Jodu again. He was whistling nonchalantly, carrying a pintle in his hands. As he went past, the pintle dropped and he fell to his knees, scrambling about, as if he were chasing it across the tilted deck.

Putli? he hissed as he passed her. Is it really you?

What do you think? Didn't I say I'd be on board?

He gave a muffled laugh: I should have known.

Not to a word to anyone, Jodu.

Done. But only if you put in a word for me.

With who?

Munia, he whispered, as he rose to his feet.

Munia! Stay away from her, Jodu; you'll only get yourself in trouble…

But her warning was wasted for he was already gone.

Twenty

Was it because of the glow of Deeti's pregnancy? Or was it because of her success in dealing with the maistries? Either way, it happened that more and more people took to calling her Bhauji: it was as if she had been appointed the matron of the dabusa by common consent. Deeti gave the matter no thought: there was nothing to be done, after all, if everybody wanted to treat her as if she were their older brother's wife. She might have been less sanguine if she had considered the responsibilities that went with being a Bhauji to the world at large – but not having done so, she was caught unawares when Kalua told her that he had been approached by someone who wanted her advice on a matter of grave importance.

Why me? she said in alarm.

Who else but Bhauji? said Kalua, with a smile.

All right, she said. Tell me: Ká? Káwan? Kethié? What? Who? Why?

The man in question, Kalua told her, was Ecka Nack, the leader of the group of hillsmen who had joined the migrants at Sahibganj. Deeti knew him by sight: a bandy-legged, muscular man, he had the grizzled look and thoughtful mien of a village elder, although he was probably no older than thirty-five.

What does he want? said Deeti.

He wants to know, said Kalua, whether Heeru would be willing to set up house with him when we reach Mareech.

Heeru? This so amazed Deeti that she could not speak for several minutes. She had noticed of course – and who could not? – the hungry glances that came the way of every woman on the ship. Yet, she would never have thought that Heeru – poor, simple-minded Heeru, who had become a girmitiya almost by accident, after being abandoned by her husband at a mela – would be the first to elicit a serious offer.

And here was another puzzle: if this was indeed a serious proposal, then what was it for? Surely it could not be marriage? Heeru was, by her own account, a married woman, whose husband was still alive; and no doubt Ecka Nack himself had a wife or two, back in the hills of Chhota Nagpur. Deeti tried to think of what his village might be like, but such was her plainswoman's horror of the hills that she could only shudder. Had they been at home, the match would have been inconceivable – but over there, on the island, what would it matter whether you were from the plains or the hills? For Heeru to set up house with a hillsman would be no different from what she, Deeti, had done herself. Surely all the old ties were immaterial now that the sea had washed away their past?

If only it were so!

If the Black Water could really drown the past, then why should she, Deeti, still be hearing voices in the recesses of her head, condemning her for running away with Kalua? Why should she know that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to silence the whispers that told her she would suffer for what she had done – not just today or tomorrow, but for kalpas and yugas, through lifetime after lifetime, into eternity. She could hear those murmurs right now, asking: Do you want Heeru to share the same fate?

This thought made her groan in annoyance: what right did anyone have to thrust her into this tangle? Who was Heeru to her after all? Neither aunt nor cousin nor niece. Why should she, Deeti, be made to bear the burden of her fate?

Yet, despite her resentment of the imposition, Deeti could not help but recognize that Ecka Nack was, by his own lights, trying to do what was right and honourable. Now that they were all cut off from home, there was nothing to prevent men and women from pairing off in secret, as beasts, demons and pishaches were said to do: there was no pressing reason for them to seek the sanction of anything other than their own desires. With no parents or elders to decide on these matters, who knew what was the right way to make a marriage? And wasn't it she herself who had said, at the start, that they were all kin now; that their rebirth in the ship's womb had made them into a single family? But true as that might be, it was true also that they were not yet so much a family as to make decisions for one another: Heeru would have to decide for herself.

In the past few days Zachary's mind had returned often to Captain Chillingworth's account of the White Ladrone. In trying to fit the pieces of the story together, Zachary had extended to Serang Ali the benefit of every possible doubt – but no matter how charitably he looked at it, he could not rid himself of the suspicion that the serang had been priming him, Zachary, to step into Danby's shoes. The thought gave him no rest and he longed to discuss the matter with someone. But who? His relationship with the first mate being what it was, there was no question of broaching it with him. Zachary decided instead that he would take the Captain into his confidence.

It was the Ibis's eleventh day on the open sea, and as the sun began to descend the heavens filled with sonder-clouds and mares' tails: soon enough the schooner was beating to windward under what was undeniably a mackerel sky. At sunset the wind changed too, with the schooner being assailed by gusts and squalls that kept turning her sails aback, with thunderous detonations of canvas.

Mr Crowle was on the first watch of the night, and Zachary knew that the cluttery weather would serve to keep him occupied on deck. But just to be sure of having him out of the way, he waited till the second bell of the watch before crossing the cuddy to the Captain's stateroom. He had to knock twice before the Captain answered: 'Jack?'

'No, sir. It's me, Reid. Wondered if I might have a word? In private?'

'Can't it wait?'

'Well…'

There was a pause followed by a snort of annoyance. 'Oh very well then. But you'll have to ship your oars for a minute or two.'

Two minutes went by, and then some more: though the door remained closed, Zachary could hear the Captain padding about and splashing water into a basin. He seated himself at the cuddy table and after a good ten minutes the door swung open and Captain Chillingworth appeared in the gap. A beam from the cuddy's lantern revealed him to be wearing an unexpectedly sumptuous garment, an old-fashioned gentleman's banyan – not a striped sailor's shirt of the kind the word had lately come to designate, but a capacious, ankle-length robe, intricately embroidered, of the sort that English nabobs had made popular a generation ago.

'Come in, Reid!' Although the Captain was careful to keep his face averted from the light, Zachary could tell that he had been at some pains to freshen up, for droplets of water were glistening in the folds of his jowls and on his bushy grey eyebrows. 'And shut the door behind you, if you please.'

Zachary had never been inside the Captain's stateroom before: stepping through the door now, he noticed the signs of a hurried straightening-up, with a spread thrown haphazardly over the bunk and a jug lying upended in the porcelain basin. The stateroom had two portholes, both of which were open, but despite a brisk cross-breeze a smoky odour lingered in the air.

The Captain was standing beside one of the open portholes, breathing deeply as if to clear his lungs. 'You've come to give me an ear-wigging about Crowle, have you, Reid?'

'Well, actually, sir…'

The Captain seemed not to hear him, for he carried on without a break: 'I heard about the business on the jib-boom, Reid. I wouldn't make too much of it if I were you. Crowle's a knaggy devil, no doubt about it, but don't be taken in by his ballyragging. Believe me, he fears you more than you do him. And not without reason, either: we may sit at the same table while at sea, but Crowle knows full well that a man like you wouldn't have him for a groom if we were ashore. That kind of thing can eat a fellow up, you know. To fear and be feared is all he's ever known – so how do you think it sits with him, to see that you can conjure loyalty so easily, even in the lascars? In his place would it not seem equally unjust to you? And would you not be tempted to visit your grievance on somebody?'

Here the schooner rolled to leeward, and the Captain had to reach for the bulwark to steady himself. Taking advantage of the pause, Zachary said quickly: 'Well, actually, sir, I'm not here about Mr Crowle. It's about something else.'

'Oh!' This seemed to knock the wind out of Captain Chillingworth, for he began to scratch his balding head. 'Are you sure it can't wait?'

'Since I'm here, sir, maybe we should just get it done with?'

'Very well,' said the Captain. 'I suppose we may as well sit down then. It's too blashy to be on our feet.'

The only source of light in the stateroom was a lamp with a blackened chimney. Dim though it was, the flame seemed too bright for the Captain and he held up a hand to shield his eyes as he crossed the cabin to seat himself at his desk.

'Go on, Reid,' he said, nodding at the armchair on the other side of the desk. 'Sit yourself down.'

'Yes, sir.'

Zachary was about to sit when he glimpsed a long, lacquered object lying on the upholstery. He picked it up and found it warm to the touch: it was a pipe, with a bulb the size of a man's thumbnail, sitting on a stem that was as thin as a finger and as long as an arm. It was beautifully crafted, with carved knuckles that resembled the nodes of a stalk of bamboo.

The Captain too had caught sight of the pipe: half rising to his feet, he thumped his fist on his thigh, as if to chide himself for his absent-mindedness. But when Zachary held the pipe out to him, he accepted with an unaccustomedly gracious gesture, extending both his hands and bowing, in a fashion that seemed more Chinese than European. Then, placing the pipe on the desk, he cradled his jowls in his palm and stared at it in silence, as though he were trying to think of some way of accounting for its presence in his stateroom.

At last, he stirred and cleared his throat. 'You're not a fool on the march, Reid,' he said. 'I'm sure you know what this is and what it's used for. I'll be bail'd if I make any apologies for it, so please don't be expecting any.'

'I wasn't, sir,' said Zachary.

'You were bound to find out sooner or later, so maybe it's for the best. It's scarcely a secret.'

'None of my business, sir.'

'On the contrary,' said the Captain, with a wry smile, 'in these waters it's everyone's business and it'll be yours, too, if you intend to continue as a seaman: you'll be stowing it, packing it, selling it… and I know of no salt who doesn't sample his cargo from time to time, especially when it's of a kind that might help him forget the blores and bottom-winds that are his masters of misrule.'

The Captain's chin had sunk into his jowls now, but his voice had grown steadier and stronger. 'A man's not a sailor, Reid, if he doesn't know what it's like to be becalmed in a dead-lown, and there's this to be said for opium that it works a strange magic with time. To go from one day to another, or even one week to the next, becomes as easy as stepping between decks. You may not credit it – I didn't myself until I had the misfortune of having my vessel detained for many months in a ghastly little port. It was somewhere on the Sula Sea – as ugly a town as I've ever seen; the kind of place where all the giglets are travesties, and you can't step ashore for fear of being becketed by the forelift. Never had I felt as flat aback as I did in those months, and when the steward, a Manila-man, offered me a pipe, I confess I took it with a will. No doubt you expect me to blame myself for my weakness – but no sir, I do not regret what I did. It was a gift like none I've ever known. And like all the gifts that Nature gives us – fire, water and the rest – it demands to be used with the greatest care and caution.'

The Captain looked up to fix his glowing eyes briefly on Zachary. 'There were many years, believe me, when I smoked no more than a single pipe each month – and if you should happen to think that such moderation is not possible, then I would have you know that not only is it possible, it is even the rule. They are fools, sir, who imagine that everyone who touches a pipe is condemned instantly to wither away in a smoke-filled den. The great majority of those who chase the dragon, I'll wager, do so only once or twice a month – not for nip-cheesing reasons at that, but because it is that very restraint that produces the most exquisite, the most refined pleasure. There are some, of course, who know with their first taste that they will never leave that smoky paradise – those are the true addicts and they are born, not made. But for the common run of men – and I include myself in that number – to come unballasted over the black mud takes something else, some turn of fate, some vulnerability of fortune… or perhaps, as was the case with me, reverses of a personal nature, that happened to coincide with a debilitating illness. Certainly, at the time when it happened, I could not have had a better remedy for my ills…'

The Captain broke off to glance at Zachary. 'Tell me, Reid: do you know what the most miraculous property of this substance is?'

'No, sir.'

'I will tell you then: it kills a man's desires. That is what makes it manna for a sailor, balm for the worst of his afflictions. It calms the unceasing torment of the flesh that pursues us across the seas, drives us to sin against Nature…'

The Captain looked down at his hands, which had begun to shake. 'Come, Reid,' he said suddenly. 'We've wasted enough breath. Since we are launched on this tack, let me ask: would you not like to try a whiff? You will not be able to avoid this experiment forever, I assure you – curiosity alone will drive you to it. You would be amazed…' – he broke off with a laugh – 'oh you'd be amazed by the passengers I've known who've wanted to hoist the smoke-sail: Bible-thumping devil-scolders; earnest Empire-builders; corseted matrons, impregnable in their primness. If you're to sail the opium route, there will come a day when you, too, will bleed the monkey. So why not now? Is it not as good a time as any?'

Zachary stared, as if hypnotized, at the pipe and its delicate, polished stem. 'Why yes, sir,' he said. 'I should like that.'

'Good.'

Reaching into a drawer, the Captain brought out a box which was, in the lacquered sheen of its gloss, every bit a match for his pipe. When he opened the lid, several objects were revealed to be lying inside, on a lining of red silk, nested ingeniously together. One by one, like an apothecary at a counter, the Captain picked the objects apart and placed them on the table in front of him: a needle with a metal tip and a bamboo stem; a long-handled spoon of similar design; a tiny silver knife; a small round container, made of ivory and so ornately carved that Zachary would not have been surprised to see a ruby or diamond lying inside. But instead there was a lump of opium, dull in appearance, muddy in colour and texture. Arming himself with the knife, Captain Chillingworth cut off a minuscule piece and placed it in the bowl of the long-handled spoon. Then, removing the chimney from the lamp, he held the spoon directly over the flame, keeping it there until the gum changed consistency and turned liquid. Now, with the ceremonious air of a priest performing a ritual of communion, he handed Zachary the pipe: 'Be sure to work your bellows hard when I put the droplet in: a gulp or two is all you'll get before it's gone.' Now, moving with the greatest care, the Captain dipped the needle's tip into the opium and held it over the flame. As soon as the drop began to sizzle, he thrust it into the pipe's bulb. 'Yes! Now! let not a wisp escape!'

Zachary put the stem to his lips and drew in a breath of rich, oily smoke.

'Work the pump! Hold it in!'

After Zachary had drawn on the stem twice more, the pipe was exhausted of its smoke.

'Sit back in your chair,' said Captain Chillingworth. 'Do you feel it? Has the earth lost its hold on your body yet?'

Zachary nodded: it was true that somehow the pull of gravity seemed to have eased; his body had become as light as a cloud; every trace of tension had drained out of his muscles; they had become so relaxed, so yielding that he could not be sure that his limbs still existed. To sit in a chair now was the last thing he wanted to do; he wanted to be prone, to lie down. He put out a hand to steady himself, and watched his fingers travel, like slow-worms, to the edge of the table. Then he pushed himself up, half expecting his feet to be unusable – but they were perfectly steady and well capable of supporting his weight.

He heard the Captain speaking, as if from a great distance: 'Are you too be-dundered to walk? You are welcome to the use of my cot.'

'My cabin's just a step away, sir.'

'As you please, as you please. The effects will pass in an hour or two and you will wake refreshed.'

'Thank you, sir.' Zachary felt himself to be floating as he moved to the door.

He was almost there when the Captain said: 'Wait a minute, Reid – what was it that you wanted to see me about?'

Zachary came to a stop with his hand on the door; to his surprise he found that the loosening of his muscles and the clouding of his senses had not led to any loss of memory. His mind was, if anything, unnaturally clear: not only did he recall that he had come to speak to the Captain about Serang Ali, he also understood that the opium had saved him from choosing a coward's course. For it was clear to him now that whatever had happened between himself and the serang had to be resolved between the two of them, and them alone. Was it because the fumes had given him a clearer vision of the world? Or was it because they had allowed him to look into parts of himself where he had never ventured before? Whatever the case, he saw now that it was a rare, difficult and improbable thing for two people from worlds apart to find themselves linked by a tie of pure sympathy, a feeling that owed nothing to the rules and expectations of others. He understood also that when such a bond comes into being, its truths and falsehoods, its obligations and privileges, exist only for the people who are linked by it, and then in such a way that only they can judge the honour and dishonour of how they conduct themselves in relation to each other. It was for him, Zachary, to find an honourable resolution to his dealings with Serang Ali; in this would lie his manumission into adulthood, his knowledge of the steadiness of his helm.

'Yes, Reid? What did you want to talk about?'

'It was about our position, sir,' said Zachary. 'When I looked at the charts today, I had the feeling that we had strayed quite a long way eastwards.'

The Captain shook his head. 'No, Reid – we're exactly where we should be. In this season there's a southerly current off the Andamans and I thought to take advantage of it; we'll stay on this tack for a while yet.'

'I see, sir, I'm sorry. If you'll forgive me…'

'Yes go, go.'

Crossing the cuddy, Zachary felt none of the unsteadiness that accompanies inebriation; his movements were slow, but in no wise irregular. Once inside his cabin, he took off his banyan and trowsers and stretched out on his bunk in his underclothing. On closing his eyes he lapsed into a state of rest that was far deeper than sleep, and yet also more awake, for his mind was filled with shapes and colours: although these visions were extraordinarily vivid they were utterly tranquil, being untroubled by sensuality or desire. How long this state lasted he did not know, but his awareness of its waning started when faces and figures entered his visions again. He fell into a state of dreaming, in which a woman kept approaching and receding, keeping her face hidden, eluding him even though he knew her to be tantalizingly close. Just as he was becoming conscious of a distant ringing sound, the veil fell away from her face and he saw that she was Paulette; she was coming towards him, walking into his arms, offering him her lips. He woke to find himself drenched in sweat, dimly conscious that the last chime of the eighth bell had just sounded and that it was his watch next.

A marriage proposal being a sensitive affair, Deeti had to be careful in picking a time and place where she could discuss the matter with Heeru without being overheard. No opportunity arose until early the next morning, when the two women happened to find themselves alone on the main deck. Seizing the moment, Deeti took Heeru's elbow and led her to the jamna devis.

What is it, Bhauji?

It wasn't often that anyone paid Heeru much attention, and she began to stammer in apprehension, thinking she'd done something wrong and was in for a scolding: Ká horahelba? Is something wrong?

Under the cover of her ghungta, Deeti smiled: There's nothing wrong, Heeru – to tell the truth, I am happy today – áj bara khusbáni. I have some news for you.

News? What news? Ká khabarbá? Heeru dug her knuckles into her cheeks and whimpered: Is it good or bad?

That's for you to decide. Listen…

No sooner had Deeti started to explain than she began to wish she'd chosen some other venue for this talk, some place where they could have dropped their ghungtas: with their faces covered, it was impossible to know what Heeru was thinking. But it was too late now, she would have to go through with it.

When the news of the proposal had been conveyed in full, she said: Ká ré, Heeru? What do you think: tell me?

Ká kahatbá bhauji? What can I say?

From the sound of her voice, Deeti knew she was crying, so she put an arm around her, pulling her into a huddle: Heeru, don't be afraid; you can say what you like.

Several minutes passed before Heeru could speak, and even then it was in a sobbing, disjointed rush: Bhauji… I hadn't thought, didn't expect… are you sure? Bhauji, they say in Mareech, a woman on her own will be torn apart… devoured… so many men and so few women… can you think what it would be like, Bhauji, to be alone there… Oh Bhauji… I never thought…

Deeti could not figure out where exactly this was heading. Ágé ke bát kal hoilé, she said sharply. You can talk about the future tomorrow. What's your answer for now?

What else, Bhauji? Yes, I'm ready…

Deeti laughed. Arre Heeru! You're a bold one!

Why do you say that, Bhauji? said Heeru anxiously. Do you think it's a mistake?

No, said Deeti firmly. Now that you've decided, I can tell you: I don't think it's a mistake. I think he's a good man. Besides, he has all those followers and relatives – they'll look after you. You'll be the envy of everyone, Heeru – a real queen!

It was not unusual for Paulette, when going through her washing, to come upon a shirt, banyan, or pair of trowsers that she recognized as Zachary's. Almost unconsciously, she would slip these garments to the bottom of her pile, saving them for the last. When she came to them, depending on her mood, she would sometimes subject them to an angry scrubbing, even beating them upon the deck-planks, with all the vigour of a washerwoman at a dhobi-ghat. But there were times also when she would linger over their collars and cuffs and seams, going to great lengths to scrub them clean. It was in this fashion that she was cleaning a shirt of his one day when Baboo Nob Kissin Pander appeared at her side. Goggling at the garment in her hands, he said, in a furtive whisper: 'I do not wish to trespass into your preserves, Miss, but kindly may I inquire if that shirt belongs to Mr Reid?'

Paulette answered with a nod, whereupon he said, even more furtively: 'Just for one minute can I feel?'

'The shirt?' she asked in astonishment, and without another word, the gomusta snatched the damp twist of cloth from her and pulled it this way and that before handing it back. 'Seems he has been wearing from times-immemorial,' he said with a puzzled frown. 'Cloth feels extremely aged. Strange, no?'

Although Paulette was by now well-accustomed to the gomusta's oddities, she was puzzled by this cryptic statement. 'But why is it strange that Mr Reid should have old clothes?'

'Tch!' The gomusta clicked his tongue, as if mildly irritated by her ignorance. 'If avatar is new, how clothes can be old? Height, weight, privates, all must be changing, no, when there is alteration in externalities? Myself, I have had to buy many new clothings. Heavy financial outlay was required.'

'I don't understand, Nob Kissin Baboo,' said Paulette. 'Why was that necessary?'

'You cannot see?' The gomusta's eyes grew even rounder and more protuberant. 'You are blind or what? Bosoms are burgeoning, hair is lengthening. New modalities are definitely coming to the fore. How old clothes will accommodate?'

Paulette smiled to herself and lowered her head. 'But Baboo Nob Kissin,' she said, 'Mr Reid has not undergone such a change; his old clothes will surely suffice for a while yet?'

To Paulette's astonishment, the gomusta responded with startling vehemence: his face seemed to swell in outrage, and when he spoke again, it was as if he were defending some deeply cherished belief. 'How you can make such sweeping-statements? At once I will clear this point.' Thrusting a hand through the neckline of his flowing tunic, he pulled out an amulet and unrolled a yellowing piece of paper. 'Come here and see.'

Rising to her feet, Paulette took the list from him and began to examine it under the glowing, sunlit penumbra of her ghungta.

'It is crew-list for Ibis from two years ago. Look at Mr Reid's good-name and you will see. Cent-per-cent change is there.'

As if mesmerized, Paulette's eyes ran back and forth along the line until they came to the word 'Black' scribbled beside Zachary's name. Suddenly so much that had seemed odd, or inexplicable, made perfect sense – his apparently intuitive sympathy for her circumstances, his unquestioning acceptance of her sisterly relationship with Jodu…

'It is a miracle, no? Nobody can deny.'

'Indeed, Baboo Nob Kissin. You are right.'

She saw now how miraculously wrong she had been in some of her judgements of him: if there was anyone on the Ibis who could match her in the multiplicity of her selves, then it was none other than Zachary. It was as if some divine authority had sent a messenger to let her know that her soul was twinned with his.

There was nothing now to stop her from revealing herself to him – and yet the mere thought of it made her cringe in fear. What if he assumed that she had chased him on to the Ibis? What else indeed could he assume? What would she do if he laughed at her for humiliating herself? She could not bear to think of it.

She lifted her head to look at the sea, rushing by, and a glimmer of memory flashed through her head: she remembered a day, several years ago, when Jodu had found her crying over a novel. Taking the book out of her hands, he had flipped through it in puzzlement, even shaking it by the spine, almost as if he were expecting to dislodge a needle or a thorn – some sharp object that might account for her tears. Finding nothing, he said at last – it's the story, is it, that's turned on the flow? – and on this being confirmed, he had demanded a full recounting of the tale. So she'd told him the story of Paul and Virginie, growing up in exile on an island, where an innocent childhood attachment had grown into an abiding passion, but only to be sundered when Virginie was sent back to France. The last part of the book was Paulette's favourite, and she'd described at length the novel's tragic conclusion, in which Virginie is killed in a shipwreck, just as she is about to be reunited with her beloved. To her outrage, Jodu had greeted the melancholy tale with guffaws of laughter, telling her that only a fool would cry over this skein of weepy nonsense. She had shouted at him, telling him that it was he who was the fool, and a weakling too, because he would never have the courage to follow the dictates of his heart.

How was it that no one had ever told her that it was not love itself, but its treacherous gatekeepers which made the greatest demands on your courage: the panic of acknowledging it; the terror of declaring it; the fear of being rebuffed? Why had no one told her that love's twin was not hate but cowardice? If she had learnt this earlier she would have known the truth of why she had gone to such lengths to stay hidden from Zachary. And yet, even knowing this, she could not summon the courage to do what she knew she must – at least not yet.

It was late in the night, shortly after the fifth bell of the midnight watch, that Zachary spotted Serang Ali on the fo'c'sle-deck: he was alone and he seemed to be deep in thought, looking eastwards, at the moonlit horizon. All through the day, Zachary had had the feeling that the serang was avoiding him, so he lost no time now in stepping up to stand beside him at the rail.

Serang Ali was clearly startled to see him: 'Malum Zikri!'

'Can you spare a moment, Serang Ali?'

'Can, can. Malum, what-thing wanchi?'

Zachary took out the watch Serang Ali had given him and held it in his palm. 'Listen, Serang Ali, it's time you told me the truth about this timmyknocky here.'

Serang Ali gave the ends of his drooping moustache a puzzled tug. 'What Malum Zikri mean? No sabbi.'

Zachary opened the watch's cover. 'Time's come to cut playing the fool, Serang Ali. I know you been putting me on about Adam Danby. I know who he was.'

Serang Ali's eyes went from the watch to Zachary's face and he gave a shrug, as if to indicate that he was weary of pretence and dissimulation. 'How? Who tell?'

'That don matter none: what counts is I know. What I don't know is what you had in mind for me. Were you planning on teaching me Danby's tricks?'

Serang Ali shook his head and spat a mouthful of betel-juice over the deck rail. 'No true, Malum Zikri,' he said in a low, insistent voice. 'You cannot believe all what the buggers say. Malum Aadam, he blongi like son for Serang Ali – he my daughter husband. Now he hab makee die. Also daughter and all they chilo. Serang Ali 'lone now. When I look-see Malum Zikri, my eyes hab done see Malum Aadam. Both two same-same for me. Zikri Malum like son also.'

'Son?' said Zachary. 'Is that what you'd do for your son? Turn him to crime? Piracy?'

'Crime, Malum Zikri?' Serang Ali's eyes flashed. 'Smuggling opium not blongi crime? Running slave-ship blongi better'n pi-ra-cy?'

'So you admit it then?' said Zachary. 'That's what you had in mind for me – to do a Danby for you?'

'No!' said Serang Ali, slapping the deck rail. 'Want only Zikri Malum do good for he-self. 'Come officer. Maybe Cap'ting. All thing Malum Aadam can not 'come.'

The Serang's body seemed to wilt as he was speaking, so that he looked suddenly older, and somehow strangely forlorn. Despite himself, Zachary's voice softened. 'Lookit, Serang Ali,' he said. 'You been plenty freehanded with me, can't deny it. Last thing I want is to turn you in. So let's just settle this between us. Let's agree that when we put into Port Louis, you'll light out. That way we can just forget any of this happened.'

Serang Ali's shoulders sagged as he answered. 'Can do – Serang Ali so can do.'

Zachary took a last look at the watch before handing it over. 'Here – this belongs in your poke, not mine. You better keep it.'

Serang Ali sketched a salam as he knotted the watch into the waist of his lungi.

Zachary stepped away but only to come back again. 'Look, Serang Ali,' he said. 'Believe me, I'm cut down 'bout it ending like this between us. Sometimes I just wish you'd'a left me alone and never come anigh. Maybe things would'a been different then. But it was you as showed me that what I do counts for more than where I was born. And if I'm to care bout my work, then I need to live by its rules. Else it wouldn't be worth doing. You see the sense of that?'

'See.' Serang Ali nodded. 'Can see.'

Zachary was about to step away again when Serang Ali stopped him. 'Malum Zikri – one thing.'

'What?' Zachary turned to find Serang Ali pointing ahead, in a south-easterly direction.

'Look-see. There.'

Zachary could see nothing in the dark. 'What'd you want me to look at?'

'Over there blongi Sumatra channel. From here maybe forty-fifty mile. From there Sing'pore very close. Six-seven day sail.'

'What're you getting at, Serang Ali?'

'Malum Zikri wanchi Serang Ali go, no? Can do. Can go very soon, that way.'

'How?' said Zachary in bemusement.

Serang Ali turned to point to one of the longboats. 'In that boat can go. Little food, little water. Can go Sing'pore seven days. Then China.'

Now Zachary understood. In disbelief he said: 'Are you talking of jumping ship?'

'Why not?' said Serang Ali. 'Malum Zikri wanchi me go, no? Better go now, much better. Only cause of Malum Zikri, Serang Ali come on Ibis. Or else not come.' Serang Ali broke off to dump a mouthful of paan in the sea. 'Burra Malum, he no-good bugger. See what he trouble he make with Shaitan-jib? Bugger make plenty bad joss.'

'But the Ibis?' Zachary slapped the schooner's deck rail. 'What about her? What about the passengers? Don't you owe them anything? Who's going to get them where they're going?'

'Plenty lascar hab got. Can reach Ibis to Por'Lwee. No problem.'

Zachary began to shake his head even before the serang had finished. 'No. I can't allow it.'

'Malum Zikri not hab do nothing. Only must sleep on watch one night. Just twenty minute.'

'I can't allow it, Serang Ali.' Zachary was absolutely sure of himself now, confident that this was where he had to stake out the lines of his own sovereignty. 'I can't let you make off with one of the longboats. What if something goes wrong later and we have to abandon ship? We can't afford to be a boat short, with so many people on board.'

'Other boats hab got. Will be enough.'

'I'm sorry, Serang Ali,' said Zachary. 'I just can't let it happen, not on my watch. I offered you a reasonable deal – that you wait till Port Louis before lighting out. That's as far as I'm going to go; no farther.'

The serang was about to say something but Zachary stopped him. 'And don't push me, cause if you do I'll have no choice but to go to the Captain. Do you understand?'

Serang Ali gave a deep sigh and a nod. 'Yes, Zikri Malum.'

'Good.'

Stepping off the fo'c'sle, Zachary turned around for one last word. 'And don't think of pulling anything smart, Serang Ali. Cause I'm goin to be watching you.'

Serang Ali smiled and stroked his moustache. 'Malum Zikri too muchi smart bugger, no? What Serang Ali can do?'

The news of Heeru's wedding broke upon the dabusa like a wave, creating eddies and whirlpools of excitement: after all the unfortunate things that had happened, here at last was something, as Deeti said, to make everyone laugh in their sorrow – dukhwá me sabke hasáweli.

As everybody's Bhauji, it fell, as if by right, to Deeti to think of all the organizing and bandobast that lay ahead. Should there be a tilak ceremony? Deeti allowed her voice to rise to the querulous pitch that was appropriate for someone who had been burdened, yet again, with the tiresome business of making all the arrangements for a family event: And what about a haldi, with a proper smearing of turmeric?

These were exactly the questions that arose when the other women heard the news: Was there to be a kohbar? Could a wedding be real without a marriage chamber? Surely it would be no great matter to set one up, with a few sheets and mats? And what about the fire, for the seven sacramental circlings? Would it be enough to have a candle, or a lamp instead?

We're all talking too much, scolded Deeti. We can't decide this on our own! We don't even know what the customs are like on the boy's side.

Boy? Larika? – this raised gales of laughter – he's no boy, that man!

At a wedding everyone's a boy: what's to stop him from being one again?

And what about a dowry? gifts?

Tell him, we'll give him a goat when we get to Mareech.

… Be serious… hasé ka ká bátba ré…? What's to laugh at?

The one thing everyone agreed about was that no purpose was to be served by dragging things out: best to get everything done with the greatest possible dispatch. Between the two sides, it was decided that the next day would be devoted entirely to the wedding.

Among the women, the only one who was less than enthused was Munia. Can you imagine living your life with any of these men? she said to Paulette. Wouldn't do it for anything.

So who're you aiming for then?

I need someone who'll show me a bit of the world.

Oh? said Paulette, teasing. A lascar, for example?

Munia giggled. Why not?

Among the women Sarju, the midwife, was the only one who still showed no signs of recovering from her seasickness: unable to keep down any food or water, she had dwindled away until it seemed that the last sparks of life in her body had retreated into her dark, fiery eyes. Since she was unable to go up to the main deck for her meals, the women took it in turns to bring a little food and water down to the dabusa, in the hope of coaxing some nourishment between her lips.

That evening, it was Deeti's turn to fetch Sarju's food. She came down the ladder while most of the girmitiyas were still on deck, eating their meal: the dabusa was lit only by a couple of lamps, and in that dim, near-empty space, Sarju's worn, withered figure seemed even more forlorn than usual.

Deeti tried to sound cheerful as she seated herself beside her: How are you, Sarju-didi? Feeling better today?

Sarju made no answer; instead she raised her head and looked quickly around the dabusa. When she saw that there was no one within earshot, she caught hold of Deeti's wrist and pulled her close. Listen, she said, listen to me; there's something I have to tell you.

Yes, didi?

Hamra sé chalal nã jálé, Sarju whispered. I can't take this any more; I can't go on…

Why are you talking like that? Deeti protested. You'll be fine once you start eating properly.

Sarju dismissed this impatiently. Listen to me, she said, there's no time to waste. I'm telling you the truth; I will not live to see the end of this journey.

How do you know? said Deeti. You may get better.

It's too late for that. Sarju fixed her feverishly bright eyes on Deeti and whispered: I've dealt with these things all my life. I know, and before I go I want to show you something.

Moving her head off the cloth bundle that served as her pillow, Sarju pushed it towards Deeti: Here. Take this; open it.

Open it? Deeti was amazed, for Sarju had never before been known to open her bojha in anyone's sight: indeed her furtiveness about her baggage was so extreme that the others had often joked and speculated about the contents. Deeti had never joined in the teasing because Sarju's protectiveness seemed to her to be merely the fixation of a middle-aged woman who had precious few possessions to boast of. But she knew also that such manias were not easily overcome, so it was with some caution that she asked Sarju: Are you sure you want me to look inside?

Yes, said Sarju. Quickly. Before the others come.

Deeti had assumed that the bundle contained not much more than a few old clothes, maybe some masalas, and perhaps a couple of copper utensils: when she peeled away the first flaps of cloth she found more or less what she had expected – some old clothes and a few wooden spoons.

Here. Give it to me. Sarju thrust a twig-like hand into the bundle and pulled out a small pouch, not much bigger than her fist. She put it to her nose, took a deep breath and handed it to Deeti: Do you know what this is?

From the feel of the pouch, Deeti knew that it was filled with tiny seeds. When she raised it to her nose, she recognized the smell at once: Ganja, she said. These are seeds of ganja.

Sarju acknowledged this with a nod and handed over another pouch. And this?

This time it took Deeti several whiffs before she recognized what it was: Datura.

Do you know what datura can do? whispered Sarju.

Yes, said Deeti.

Sarju gave her a thin smile. I knew that you, and you alone, would know the value of these things. This most of all…

Sarju pushed yet another pouch into Deeti's hands. In this, she whispered, there is wealth beyond imagining; guard it like your life – it contains seeds of the best Benares poppy.

Deeti thrust her fingers into the pouch and rubbed the tiny, speck-like seeds between her fingertips. The familiar grainy feel transported her back to the environs of Ghazipur; suddenly it was as if she were in her own courtyard, with Kabutri beside her, making posth out of a handful of poppy seeds. How was it possible that after spending so much of her life with these seeds she had not had the foresight or wisdom to bring some with her – as a keepsake if nothing else?

Deeti extended her hand to Sarju, as if to give back the pouch, but the midwife pushed it back towards her. It's yours; take it, keep it. This, the ganja, the datura: make of them the best use you can. Don't let the others know. Don't let them see these seeds. They'll keep for many years. Keep them hidden till you can use them; they are worth more than any treasure. Inside my bojha, there are some spices, ordinary ones. When I'm gone, you can distribute them to the rest. But these seeds – these are for you alone.

Why? Why me?

Sarju raised a trembling hand to point to the images on the beam above Deeti's head. Because I want to be there too, she said. I want to be remembered in your shrine.

You will be, Sarju-didi, said Deeti, squeezing her hand. You will be.

Now put the seeds away quickly, before the others come.

Yes, didi, yes…

Afterwards, when Deeti took Sarju's untouched food back to the main deck, she found Kalua squatting under the devis and sat down beside him. As she was listening to the sighing of the sails, she became aware that there was a grain lodged under her thumbnail. It was a single poppy seed: prising it out, she rolled it between her fingers and raised her eyes, past the straining sails, to the star-filled vault above. On any other night she would have scanned the sky for the planet she had always thought to be the arbiter of her fate – but tonight her eyes dropped instead to the tiny sphere she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at the seed as if she had never seen one before, and suddenly she knew that it was not the planet above that governed her life: it was this minuscule orb – at once bountiful and all-devouring, merciful and destructive, sustaining and vengeful. This was her Shani, her Saturn.

When Kalua asked what she was looking at she raised her fingers to his lips and slipped the seed into his mouth.

Here, she said, taste it. It is the star that took us from our homes and put us on this ship. It is the planet that rules our destiny.

The first mate was one of those men who like to boost their sense of their own worth by coining nicknames for others. As always with those who play this trick, he was careful to thrust his epithets only on those who could not refuse his coin. Thus Captain Chillingworth's cognomen – 'Skipper Nabbs' – was used only behind his back, while Zachary's – 'Mannikin' – was said to his face, but usually out of earshot of others (this being a concession to the collective prestige of sahibs, and thus malums). As for the rest, only a few were notable enough to merit names of their own. Serang Ali – 'Sniplouse' – was one such, but the migrants were indifferently 'sukies' and 'slavies'; the silahdars and maistries were either 'Achhas' or 'Rum-Johnnies'; and the lascars were either 'Bub-dool' or 'Rammer-Sammy' – or just 'Sammy' for short.

Of all the people on the schooner, there was only one whose nickname denoted some measure of camaraderie on the part of the first mate: this was Subedar Bhyro Singh, whom he called 'Muffin-mug'. Unbeknownst to the mate, the subedar too had a name for him, which he used only in his absence: it was Malum na-Malum (Officer Don't-Know). This symmetry was not accidental, for between these two men there was a natural affinity that extended even to their appearance: although the subedar was much older and darker – heavier in the belly and whiter in the head – both were tall, barrel-chested men. Their mutuality of disposition, too, was such as to transcend the barriers of language and circumstance, allowing them to communicate almost without benefit of words, so that between them there could be said to exist, if not exactly a friendship, then certainly a joining of interests, and a mutual ease that made possible certain familiarities that would otherwise have been unthinkable in men of their respective stations – for example, the occasional sharing of grog.

One of the many matters in which the subedar and the first mate were perfectly in accord was their attitude towards Neel and Ah Fatt – or the 'Two Jacks' as Mr Crowle liked to call them (Neel being Jack-gagger and Ah Fatt, Jackin-ape). Often, of an afternoon, when Bhyro Singh led the two convicts around the deck on their daily Rogues' March, the first mate would join in the entertainment, urging Bhyro Singh on, as he prodded the convicts with his lathi: 'With a will there, Muffin-mug! Lay about cheerily now! Rattle their ruffles!'

Occasionally the mate would even step in to take the subedar's place. Flicking a length of rope like a whiplash, he would slash at the convicts' ankles, making them skip and jump, to the tune of:

Handy-spandy, Jack o'dandy

Loved plum cake and sugar candy

Bought some at a grocer's shop

And off he went with a hop-hop-hop.

These encounters invariably occurred during the day, when the convicts were up on deck: this being so, both Neel and Ah Fatt were taken unawares when a couple of guards came to the chokey, late one night, to tell them that the Burra Malum had ordered that they be brought above.

What for? said Neel.

Who knows? said one of the silahdars, grumbling. The two of them are up there, drinking grag.

The bandobast for taking the convicts on deck required that their wrists and ankles be bound and chained, which took some doing, and it was soon clear that the silahdars were none too pleased to be called upon to go through the procedures at this late hour.

So what do they want with us? said Neel.

They're must with sharab, said the guard. Out for maza.

Fun? said Neel. What fun can we provide?

What do I know? Keep your hands steady, b'henchod.

It was a time of night when the fana was crowded with lascars, sleeping in their jhulis, and to walk through it was like trying to negotiate a thicket of low-hanging beehives. Because of their long confinement Neel and Ah Fatt were already unsteady on their feet and their clumsiness was now compounded by the motion of the ship and by their chains. Every roll sent them carroming into the hammocks, butting butts and ramming heads, provoking kicks, shoves and outbursts of angry galis.

… B'henchod slipgibbet qaidis…

… Your balls aren't meant for walking…

… Try using your feet…

Clanking and clattering, the two convicts were led out of the fana and taken up to the fo'c'sle deck, where they found Mr Crowle enthroned on the capstan. The subedar was waiting attendance on him, standing between the bows.

'Where's ye'been, quoddies? It's low hours for the likes of you.'

Neel saw now that both the first mate and the subedar had tin mugs in their hands, and it was clear from the slurred sound of Mr Crowle's voice that this was not his first drink of the night: even when sober, these two men were cause enough for trouble so it was hard to imagine what they might, or might not, do now. Yet, despite a tightening in his guts, Neel did not fail to take notice of the singular spectacle of the moonlit sea.

The schooner was on the starboard tack, and the deck was aslant, dipping and rising as the sails strained in the wind. From time to time, as the tilt lessened, waves would break on the port beam and wash across the deck, dripping out of the starboard scuppers when the schooner leant sidewise again before the wind. The phosphorescent glow of these whirling runnels of water seemed to add footlights to the masts, illuminating the soaring wings of canvas overhead.

'Where're ye'lookin, Jack-gagger?'

The sting of a rope-end, biting into his calves, brought Neel suddenly back to the moment. 'I'm sorry, Mr Crowle.'

'Sir to you, pillicock.'

'Yes, sir.' Neel pronounced the words slowly, cautioning himself to keep a hold on his tongue.

Draining his mug, the mate held it out to the subedar, who filled it from a bottle. The mate took another sip, watching the convicts over the rim of the mug. 'Jack-gagger – ye're a ready one with the red-rag. Let's hear it: do y'know why we called yer up on deck?'

'No, sir,' said Neel.

'Here's the gaff then,' said Mr Crowle. 'Me and my good friend Subby-dar Muffin-mug, we was coguing our noses with a nipperkin of the boosey and he says to me: Jackin-ape and Jack-gagger are as topping a pair of pals as I'se ever seen. So I says to him, I says, never saw a brace of jail-birds who wouldn't turn on each other. And he says to me: not these two. So I says: Muffin-mug, what'll you bet me that I can talk one o'em into pumping ship on t'other? And blow me if he doesn't show me a quartereen! So there's the nub of it, Jack: ye're here to settle our bet.'

'What's the wager, sir?' said Neel.

'That one o'yer is a-going to empty the Jordan on t'other.'

'The Jordan, sir?'

'Jordan's greek for piss-dale, Jack,' said the mate impatiently. 'I'm betting one o'yer is going to squeeze his taters on t'other's phizz. So there y'have it. No blows or beating, mind: nothing but suasion. Yer a-going to do it o'yer own will or not at all.'

'I see, sir.'

'So what do y'make of me chances, Jack-gagger?'

Neel tried to think of himself urinating on Ah Fatt, for the entertainment of these two men, and his stomach turned. But he knew he would have to pick his words carefully if he was not to provoke the mate. He produced an inoffensive mumble: 'I'd say the odds are not good, sir.'

'Cocky, in'e?' The mate turned to flash a smile at the subedar. 'Won't do it, Jack?'

'Don't want to, sir.'

'Sure o'y'self, are ye, quoddie?'

'Yes, sir,' said Neel.

'What if you go first?' said the mate. 'Spray his clock with yer pecnoster and ye're done and dry. How's tha'for a bargain? Give yer pal a wetting and that's that. What'd y'say, Jack-gagger? Roll the dibbs?'

Short of having a knife held to his throat, Neel knew that he would not be able to do it. 'Not me, sir, no.'

'Won't do it?'

'Not of my will, sir, no.'

'And yer pal here?' said the mate. 'What o'him?'

Suddenly the deck tilted, and Ah Fatt, always the steadier of the two, grabbed hold of Neel's elbow to keep him from falling. On other days, this might well have earned them swipes of Bhyro Singh's lathi, but today, as if in deference to some grander design, the subedar let it pass.

'Sure yer pal won't neither?' said the mate.

Neel glanced at Ah Fatt, who was looking stoically at his feet: strange to think, that having known each other for only a few weeks, the two of them – pitiful pair of convicts and transportees that they were – already possessed something that could excite the envy of men whose power over them was absolute. Could it be that there was something genuinely rare in such a bond as theirs, something that could provoke others to exert their ingenuity in order to test its limits? If that were so, then he, Neel, was no less curious on that score than they.

'If y'won't play along, Jack-gagger, I'll have to take my chances with yer pal.'

'Yes, sir. Go ahead.'

Mr Crowle laughed, and just then a foaming mop of spindrift washed over the fo'c'sle-deck, so that for an instant his teeth sparkled in the phosphorescent glow. 'Let's hear it, Jack-gagger, do y'know why yer pal was quodded?'

'Robbery, sir, as far as I know.'

'That's all he's told yer?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Di'n't tell you he was a gull-choker, did'e now?'

'Don't follow, sir.'

'Robbed a nest of devil-scolders, he did.' The first mate shot a glance at Ah Fatt. 'In'it true, Jackin-apes? Cabbaged the Mission House that took you in and fed you?'

Now, as Neel turned to look at him, Ah Fatt mumbled: 'Sir. Is true I join Mission House in Canton. But was not for rice. Is because I want to travel West.'

'West?'

'To India, sir,' said Ah Fatt, shifting his feet. 'I want to travel and I hear Mission House send Chinese churchmen to college, in Bengal. So I join and they send to Mission College in Serampore. But I did not like. Could see nothing, could not leave. Only study and pray. Like prison.'

The mate guffawed: 'Is't true then? Y'stole the print off their machines? Beat a round dozen of them Amen-curlers half to death? While they were printing Bibles at that? And all for a penn'orth of elevation?'

Ah Fatt hung his head and made no answer, so Mr Crowle prompted him again: 'Go on then – let's hear it. Is it true or not that ye'did it 'cause of yer yinyan for the black mud?'

'For opium, sir,' said Ah Fatt hoarsely, 'man can do anything.'

'Anything?' The mate reached inside his shirt and produced a paper-wrapped ball of black gum, no larger than a thumbnail. 'So what'd ye' do for this then, Jackin-ape?'

Ah Fatt was standing so close that Neel could feel his friend's body going suddenly rigid. He turned to look and saw that his jaw muscles had seized up and his eyes had turned feverishly bright.

'Let's hear it then, Jackin-ape,' said the mate, twirling the ball between his fingertips. 'What would y'give for this?'

Ah Fatt's chains began to rattle softly, as if in response to the trembling of his body. 'What you want, sir? I have nothing.'

'Oh ye've got something right enough,' said the mate cheerfully. 'Ye've got a bellyful of the pale ale. Just a matter of where y'want to pu'it.'

Neel nudged Ah Fatt with his elbow: 'Don't listen – it's just a trick…'

'Stow yer jawin tackle, Jack-gagger.'

With a swipe of his boots, the mate kicked Neel's feet out from under, so that he fell heavily on the tilted deck, rolling headfirst against the bulwark. With his hands and feet bound, he could not do much more than flop around like an upturned beetle. With a great effort he managed to turn away from the bulwark, towards Ah Fatt, and was just in time to see his friend fumbling with the strings of his pyjamas.

'Ah Fatt, no!'

'Don't y'mind him, Jackin-ape,' said the mate. 'Y'do what ye're doin and don't be in no bleedin hurry. He's yer pal, in'e? He can wait for a taste o'yer brew.'

Ah Fatt was swallowing convulsively now and his fingers were trembling so much that he could not pick apart the knot in his drawstrings. In a fury of impatience, he sucked in his stomach and pushed his pyjamas down to his knees. Then, with shaking, unsteady hands he took hold of his penis and pointed it at Neel, who was lying curled at his feet.

'Go on then!' urged the mate. 'Do it, Jackin-ape. Never let yer prick or yer purse fail ye, as the cockqueans say.'

Closing his eyes, Ah Fatt turned his face to the sky and squeezed out a thin trickle of urine over Neel.

'That's the barber, Jackin-ape!' cried the mate, slapping his thigh triumphantly. 'Won me my wager, y'did.' He extended his hand towards the subedar, who duly placed a coin in it while muttering a word of congratulation: 'Mubarak malum-sahib!'

In the meanwhile, with his pyjamas still undone, Ah Fatt had fallen to his knees and was inching towards the mate, his hands cupped like a begging-bowl: 'Sir? For me?'

The mate gave him a nod. 'Ye've earned yer reward, Jackin-ape, no doubt about it, and ye're going to get it too. This here mud is good akbarry: has to be eaten whole. Open yer gobbler and I'll chise it to yer.'

Leaning forwards, Ah Fatt opened his mouth, trembling in anticipation, and the mate flicked the ball of gum out of the paper so that it dropped straight on to his tongue. Ah Fatt's mouth closed and he chewed once. Then suddenly he began to spit and cough, shaking his head as if to rid it of something unspeakably vile.

The sight raised howls of laughter from the mate and the subedar.

'Good day's work, Jackin-ape! There's a lesson in how to use a sprat to catch a mackerel. Gave yer mate a taste o'yer piss and earned y'self a gobful of goatshit to boot!'

Twenty-one

The wedding began in the morning, after the first meal of the day. The hold was divided in two, one part being designated the groom's and the other being allotted to the bride. Everybody chose a side and Kalua was picked to be the head of the bridal family: it was he who led the team that went over to the groom's half of the dabusa for the tilak ceremony, where the engagement was solemnly sealed with a reddening of foreheads.

The women had thought that they'd easily outdo the men in the matter of music, but a rude shock awaited them: it turned out that the groom's team included a group of Ahir singers, and when they began to perform, it became clear that the women would be hard put to compete.

… uthlé há chháti ke jobanwá

piyá ké khélawna ré hoi…

… her budding breasts are ready

to be her lover's toys…

Worse still, it turned out that one of the Ahirs was also a dancer, and knew how to do women's parts, having been trained as a dancing-launda back home. Despite the lack of proper costumes, make-up and accompaniment, he was persuaded to rise to his feet. A small space was cleared for him, in the centre of the deck, and even though he could scarcely stand without hitting his head, he performed so well that the women knew they would have to come up with something special if they were not to be put to shame.

Deeti, as the Bhauji who had organized the wedding, could not allow herself to be bested. When it was time for the midday meal, she gathered the women together and made them hang back in the dabusa. Come now, she said. What are we going to do? We have to think of something, or Heeru won't be able to hold up her head.

It was a withered piece of turmeric, from Sarju's bundle, that gave the bride's side a means of saving face: this root, so common on land, seemed as precious as ambergris now that they were at sea. Fortunately there was just about enough of it to produce a sufficient quantity of paste for the anointing of both bride and groom. But how was the turmeric to be ground, with neither stone nor mortar available? A way was found, eventually, involving the rear ends of two lotas. The effort and ingenuity that went into the grinding added an extra touch of brightness to the ceremony of yellowing, drawing chuckles even from the gloomiest of the girmitiyas.

What with the laughter and the singing, time went by so fast that everyone was amazed when the hatch was thrown open again, for the evening meal: it was hard to believe that it was already dark. The sight of the full moon, hanging upon the horizon with a great red halo around it, produced an awed hush among the migrants when they came on deck. No one had ever seen a moon so large or so strangely coloured: it was almost as if this were some other lunar body than that which lit the plains of Bihar. Even the wind, which had been blowing strongly through the day, seemed to be refreshed by the brightness of the light, for it picked up another knot or two, deepening the swells that were rolling towards the schooner from the eastern horizon. With the light and the waves coming from the same direction, the sea took on a furrowed appearance that reminded Deeti of the fields around Ghazipur at the time of year when the winter's crop was budding into bloom: then, too, if you looked out at night, you would see deep, dark channels in the fields, separating the endless rows of bright, moonlit blossoms – just like the red-flecked lines of foam that sat gleaming upon the dark troughs of the waves.

The schooner's masts were thesam-thes and the vessel was yawing steeply, with sharp saccades of her sails, leaning to leeward as she rode up the swells, and then easing off as she plunged into the troughs: it was as if she were dancing to the music of the wind, which rose in pitch as the vessel leant to leeward, and fell when she righted her keel.

Even though Deeti had grown accustomed to the motion of the ship, today she could not stay on her feet. For fear of tumbling overboard, she pulled Kalua down to squat on the deck-planks, and wedged herself between him and the solid bulwark beneath the deck rail. Whether it was because of the excitement of the wedding, or the moonlight, or the motion of the ship, she was never to know, but it was just then that she felt, for the first time, an unmistakable movement in her womb. Here! Under cover of the bulwark's shadow, she took Kalua's hand and placed it on her belly: Do you feel it?

She saw the flash of his teeth in the darkness and knew he was smiling: Yes, yes, it's the little one, kicking.

No, she said, not kicking – rolling, like the ship.

How strange it was to feel the presence of a body inside her, lurching in time to her own movements: it was as if her belly were the sea, and the child a vessel, sailing towards its own destiny.

Deeti turned to Kalua and whispered: Tonight it's like we too are being married again.

Why? said Kalua. Wasn't the first time good enough? When you found the flowers for the garlands and strung them together with your own hair?

But we didn't do the seven circles, she answered. There was no wood and no fire.

No fire? he said. But didn't we make our own?

Deeti blushed and pulled him to his feet: Chall, na. It's time to get back to Heeru's wedding.

The two convicts were sitting in the gloom of the chokey, silently picking oakum, when the door opened to admit the large, lamp-lit face of Baboo Nob Kissin.

The long-contemplated visit had not been easy to organize: only with the greatest reluctance had Subedar Bhyro Singh agreed to Baboo Nob Kissin's proposed 'tour of inspection', and on giving his assent, had imposed the condition that two of his silahdars would accompany the gomusta to the chokey and be present at the entrance all the while that he was inside. Having agreed to the arrangement, Baboo Nob Kissin had gone to great pains to prepare for the occasion. For his costume, he had chosen a saffron-coloured alkhalla, a robe voluminous enough to be suitable for male and female devotees alike. Hidden under the flowing folds of this garment, in a strip of cloth that was tied around his chest, was the small hoard of edible treats that he had gathered over the last few days – a couple of pomegranates, four hard-boiled eggs, a few crusty parathas and a lump of jaggery.

This contrivance served its purpose well enough at the start, and Baboo Nob Kissin was able to cross the main deck at a stately pace, walking in a manner that was not undignified, although perhaps a little top-heavy. But when he came to the entrance of the chokey, the matter took quite another turn: it was not easy for a man of his girth to pass through a low, narrow doorway, and in the process of bending and wriggling, some of the gifts seemed to acquire a life of their own, with the result that the gomusta had to use both his hands to hold his heaving bosom in place. Since the two silahdars were waiting at the door, he could not let go of his burden even after he had made his way in: sitting cross-legged in the tiny cell, he was forced into a posture like that of a wet-nurse cupping a pair of sore and milk-heavy breasts.

Neel and Ah Fatt stared at this weighty apparition in astonished silence. The convicts had yet to recover from their run-in with Mr Crowle: although the incident on the fo'c'sle deck had lasted no more than a few minutes, it had hit them with the force of a flash flood, sweeping away the fragile scaffolding of their friendship and leaving a residue that consisted not just of shame and humiliation, but also of a profound dejection. Once again, as through their time at Alipore Jail, they had fallen into an uncommunicative silence. The habit had taken hold so quickly that Neel could not now think of a word to say as he sat staring at Baboo Nob Kissin across a heap of unpicked oakum.

'To check up the premises, I have come.'

Baboo Nob Kissin made this announcement very loudly, and in English, so as to cast the visit in a properly official light. 'As such, all irregularities will be spotted out.'

The speechless convicts made no reply, so the gomusta seized the opportunity to subject their foul-smelling surroundings to a close scrutiny by the flickering light of his lamp. His attention was immediately arrested by the toilet balty and for a few moments his spiritual quest was interrupted by a more earthly interest.

'In this utensil you are passing urine and doing latrine?'

For the first time in a long while, Neel and Ah Fatt exchanged glances. 'Yes,' said Neel. 'That is correct.'

The gomusta's protuberant eyes grew still larger as he contemplated the implications of this. 'So both are present during purging?'

'Alas,' said Neel, 'we have no choice in the matter.'

The gomusta shuddered to think of what this would do to bowels as sensitive as his own. 'So stoppages must be extremely rigorous and frequent?'

Neel shrugged. 'We endure our lot as best we can.'

The gomusta frowned as he looked around the chokey. 'By Jove!' he said. 'Spaces are so scanty here, I do not know how you can refrain to make your ends meet.'

This met with no response and nor did the gomusta require any. He realized now, as he sniffed the air, that Ma Taramony's presence was struggling to reassert itself – for only the nose of a mother, surely, could transform the odour of her child's ordure to an almost-pleasing fragrance? As if to confirm the urgency of his inner being's claim for attention, a pomegranate leapt from its hiding-place and came to rest atop the pile of oakum. The gomusta peered outside in alarm, and was relieved to see that the two silahdars were chatting with each other and had not noticed the fruit's sudden jump.

'Here, quickly, take,' said the gomusta, rapidly disbursing his trove of fruit, eggs, parathas and jaggery into Neel's hands. 'All is for you – extremely tasteful and beneficial to health. Motions may also be enhanced.'

Taken by surprise, Neel switched to Bengali: You are too generous…

The gomusta cut him abruptly short. Gesturing conspiratorially in the direction of the silahdars, he said: 'Kindly eschew native vernaculars. Guards are big trouble-shooters – always making mischiefs. Better they do not listen. Chaste English will suffice.'

'As you please.'

'It is advisable also that concealment of edibles is expedited.'

'Yes of course.'

Neel quickly slipped the food behind him – and just in time too, for the hoard was no sooner hidden than one of the silahdars poked his head through the door, urging the gomusta to be done with whatever he was doing.

Seeing that their time was short, Neel said quickly: 'I am most grateful to you for these gifts. But may I inquire as to the reason for your generosity?'

'You cannot connect it up?' cried the gomusta in evident disappointment.

'What?'

'That Ma Taramony has sent? Recognition is not there?'

'Ma Taramony!' Neel was perfectly familiar with the name, having often heard it on Elokeshi's lips – but the mention of it, now, took him by surprise. 'But has she not passed away?'

Here, after shaking his head vigorously in denial, Baboo Nob Kissin opened his mouth to issue an explanation. But then, faced with the task of finding words that were adequate to the enormous complexity of the matter, he changed his mind and chose instead to make a movement of the hands, a sweeping, fluttering gesture that ended with his forefinger pressed against his bosom, pointing to the presence that was blossoming within.

It was never clear whether it was because of the eloquence of this signal, or merely out of gratitude for the food the gomusta had brought – but it happened anyway that the gesture succeeded in disclosing something of more than trivial importance to Neel. He was left with the impression of having understood a little of what Baboo Nob Kissin was trying to convey; and he understood also that there was something at work within this strange man that was somehow out of the ordinary. What exactly it was he could not say, and nor was there time to think about the matter, for the silahdars had now begun to hammer on the door, to speed the gomusta's departure.

'Further discussions must wait for rainy day,' said Baboo Nob Kissin. 'I will try to prepone to earliest opportunity. Until then, please note that Ma Taramony has asked to bestow blessings-message.' With that, the gomusta patted both convicts lightly on their foreheads and plunged headfirst out of the chokey's door.

After he was gone, the chokey seemed even dimmer than usual. Without quite knowing what he was doing, Neel divided the hoard of food into two parts and held one out to his cell-mate: 'Here.'

Ah Fatt's hand stole out of the darkness to receive his share. Then, for the first time since their encounter with the first mate, he spoke: 'Neel…'

'What?'

'Was bad, what happen…'

'Don't say that to me. You should say it to yourself.'

There was a brief silence before Ah Fatt spoke again. 'I going to kill that bastard.'

'Who?'

'Crowle.'

'With what?' Neel was tempted to laugh. 'Your hands?'

'You wait. See.'

The matter of a sacramental flame was much on Deeti's mind. A proper fire, even a small one, was not to be thought of, given all the hazards. Something safe would have to be provided instead. But what? The wedding being a special occasion, the migrants had pooled their resources and gathered a few lamps and candles to light the dabusa for the last part of the nuptials. But a shuttered lamp or lantern, like those that were commonly used on the ship, would rob the ceremony of all meaning: who could take seriously a wedding in which the bride and groom performed their 'seven circles' around a single, sooty flame? Candles would have to serve the purpose, Deeti decided, as many as could safely be stuck on a single thali. The candles were found and duly lit, but when they were carried to the centre of the dabusa, the fiery thali was found to have developed a mind of its own: with the ship rolling and pitching, it went shooting around the deck, threatening to set the whole dabusa alight. It was clear that someone would have to be stationed beside it, to hold it in place – but who? There were so many volunteers that a half-dozen men had to be assigned to the task, so as not to give anyone cause for offence. Then, when the bridal couple attempted to stand up, it was only to underscore, yet again, that this ritual had not been conceived with the Black Water in mind: for no sooner had they risen than their feet were knocked out from under them by the heaving of the ship. They both flopped belly-first on the deck-planks and went tobogganing towards the jamna side of the hull. Just when a head-cracking collision seemed inevitable the schooner tilted again, to send them shooting off in the other direction, feet first. The hilarity created by this spectacle ended only when the most agile young men came forward to surround the bride and groom with a webbing of shoulders and arms, holding them upright. But soon the young men began to slip and slide too, so that many others had to join in: in her eagerness to circle the flames, Deeti made sure that she and Kalua were among the first to leap into the scrum. Soon it was as if the whole dabusa were being united in a sacramental circle of matrimony: such was the enthusiasm that when it came time for the newlyweds to enter the improvised bridal chamber, it was with some difficulty that other revellers were prevented from accompanying them as they went in.

With the bride and groom closeted in the kohbar, the ribaldry and singing mounted to a crescendo. There was so much noise that no one in the dabusa had the faintest awareness that events of an entirely different order were transpiring elsewhere. Their first inkling of it came when something fell on the deck, above their heads, with a huge thud, shaking the vessel. The sound produced a moment of startled calm, and this was when they heard a scream, in a woman's voice, echoing down from somewhere high above: Bacháo! They're killing him! They've thrown him down…

Who's that? said Deeti.

Paulette was the first to think of Munia: Where's she gone? Is she here? Munia, where are you?

There was no answer and Deeti cried: Where could she be?

Bhauji, I think in all the confusion of the wedding, she must have sneaked out somehow, to meet…

A lascar?

Yes. I think she hid herself on deck and stayed on after we came down. They must have got caught.

From the roof of the deckhouse to the main deck was a drop of a little more than five feet. Jodu had made the jump many times of his own accord, never with any ill effect. But to be slung down by a silahdar was a different matter: he had fallen headfirst and had been lucky to hit the deck with his shoulder rather than his crown. Now, in trying to rise to his feet, he was conscious of a searing pain in his upper arm and when pushing himself up, he found that his shoulder would not bear his weight. As he was trying to find his footing on the slick, slippery deck, a hand took hold of his banyan and pulled him upright.

Sala! Kutta! You lascar dog…

Jodu tried to twist his head around to look the subedar in the face. I didn't do anything, he managed to say. We were only talking, just a few words – that's all.

You dare look me in the eye, you son of a pig?

Raising his arm, the subedar winched Jodu bodily off the deck, holding him suspended in the air, legs and arms flailing helplessly. Then he drew his other hand back and drove his clenched fist into the side of Jodu's face. Jodu felt a spurt of blood, leaking on to his tongue from a newly opened fissure between his teeth. His vision was suddenly blurry, so that Munia, who was now crouching under a longboat, looked like a heap of canvas pickings.

He began again – I didn't do anything – but the ringing in his head was so loud he could hardly hear his own voice. Then the back of the subedar's hand slammed into the other side of his face, knocking the air from his lungs, blowing his cheek out, like a stu'n-sail caught by a thod of wind. The force of the blow wrenched him out of the subedar's grip, sending him sprawling on the deck.

You cut-prick lascar – where did you get the balls to go sniffing after our girls?

Jodu's eyes were half-closed now, and the ringing in his head made him insensible to the pain in his shoulder. He managed to struggle to his feet, swaying drunkenly as he tried to find his balance on the tilted deck. By the light of the binnacle-lamp he saw that the fana-wale had crowded around to watch: they were all there, Mamdoo-tindal, Sunker, Rajoo, looking over the shoulders of the silahdars, waiting to see what he, Jodu, would do next. His awareness of his shipmates' presence made him doubly conscious of his hard-earned standing among them, and in a rush of bravado, he spat the blood from his mouth and snarled at the subedar: B'henchod – who do you think you are? You think we're your slaves?

Kyá? Sheer astonishment at this piece of effrontery slowed the subedar's reactions by an instant. In that moment Mr Crowle stepped up to take his place, in front of Jodu.

'Why, in't it Reid's little scumsucker, again?'

The first mate had a length of rope in his hands, which he was holding by its bight. Now, drawing his arm back, he lashed the knotted end of the rope across Jodu's shoulders, forcing him to his hands and knees: 'Down, y'little claw-buttock.'

The rope came down again, hitting Jodu so hard that he was propelled forwards on all fours. 'That's right. Crawl, y'dog, crawl – I'll see yer crawling like an animal afore I'm done with yer.'

When next the rope came down, Jodu's arms were knocked out from under him and he fell flat on the deck-planks. The mate took hold of his Osnaburg banyan and pulled Jodu back on all fours, tearing the garment down the middle. 'Din't I say crawl? Don't lie there grindin yer gutstick on the deck – crawl like the dog that y'are.'

A kick sent Jodu tottering forward on his hands and knees, but his shoulder could not long take the weight and after a few more paces, he collapsed on his stomach again. His banyan was torn down the middle now, hanging in shreds under his armpits. There was no handhold to be found on those ragged strips of cloth, so instead the mate reached for his trowsers. Seizing the waistband, he gave it a jerk that ripped the frayed canvas apart at the seams. It was on the bare skin of Jodu's buttocks that the rope slammed down now, and the pain forced a cry from his lips.

Allah! Bacháo!

'Don't y'waste yer breath now,' said the mate grimly. 'Jack Crowle's the one to call on; no one else can save yer bacon here.'

Again the rope descended on the small of Jodu's back, and the pain was so intense, so numbing, that he no longer had the strength even to fall on his face. He went a couple more paces on all fours, and then, with his head hanging down, he saw, framed in the triangular gap between his naked thighs, the faces of the trikat-wale, watching him in pity and shame.

'Crawl, y'sonky dog!'

He lurched another couple of paces, and then two more, while in his head a voice was saying – yes, you're an animal now, a dog, they've made a beast out of you: crawl, crawl…

He had crawled far enough to satisfy the first mate. Mr Crowle dropped his rope and gestured to the silahdars: 'Take the shit-heel down to the chokey and lock him in.'

They were done with him now – he was no better than a carcass to be carted away. As the guards were dragging him towards the fana, Jodu heard the subedar's voice, somewhere aft.

And now, you coolie whore – it's your turn; it's time you were taught a lesson too.

The dabusa was now in a state of utter confusion: everyone was milling about trying to make sense of what was happening above. It was as if they were ants, trapped inside a drum, trying to understand what was taking place on the other side of the skin: Was that heavy scraping sound, going agil, an indication that Jodu was being dragged to the fana? Was that tattoo of knocks over there, heading peechil, the sound of Munia kicking her heels as she was dragged away?

Then they heard Munia's voice: Bacháo! Save me, oh you people, they're taking me down to their kamra…

Munia's words were cut suddenly short, as if a hand had been clamped over her lips.

Paulette snatched at Deeti's elbow. Bhauji! We have to do something! Bhauji! There's no telling what they might do to her.

What can we do, Pugli?

It passed through Deeti's mind to say no, this wasn't her burden, she wasn't really everyone's Bhauji and couldn't be expected to fight every battle. But then she thought of Munia, all alone, amongst a roomful of silahdars and maistries, and her body rose as of itself. Come: let's go to the ladder.

With Kalua clearing a path, she went up the ladder and began to bang on the hatch: Ahó! Who's there? Where are you – oh, you great paltans of maistries and silahdars?

Receiving no answer, she turned to face the dabusa: And you? she said to her fellow migrants. Why're you all so quiet now? You were making enough noise a few minutes ago. Come on! Let's see if we can't rattle the masts on this ship; let's see how long they can ignore us.

It began slowly, the noise-making, with the hills-men rising to their feet to stamp on the deck-planks. Then someone began to bang her bangles on a thali and others joined in, beating gharas and pots, or just shouting or singing, and within a few minutes it was as if some uncontainable force had been released inside the dabusa, an energy that was capable of shaking the oakum from the schooner's seams.

Suddenly, the hatch-cover flew open and the voice of an unseen silahdar came echoing through the opening. The gratings were still in place and Deeti could not see who was speaking nor follow his words. She set Kalua and Paulette to the task of silencing the others and raised her ghungta'd face to the hatch: Who are you up there?

What's going on with you coolies? came the answer. What's this noise?

You know very well what's going on, said Deeti. You've taken one of our girls away. We're worried about her.

Worried, are you? – the sneer was audible – why weren't you worried when she was whoring herself to a lascar? A Muslim at that?

Malik, said Deeti. Let her come back to us, and we'll settle the matter amongst us. It's best that we deal with our own.

It's too late for that; the Subedar-ji says she has to be kept in a safe place from now on.

Safe? said Deeti. Amongst all of you? Don't tell me that stuff: I've seen it all – sab dekhchukalbáni. Go: tell your subedar that we want to see our girl and won't rest till we do. Go. Right now.

There was a brief silence, during which they could hear the maistries and silahdars consulting with each other. In a while, one of them said: Keep quiet for now, and we'll see what the subedar says.

All right.

An excited hubbub broke out in the 'tween-deck as the hatch-cover slammed back into place:

… You've done it again, Bhauji…

… They're scared of you…

… What you say, Bhauji, they cannot but do…

These premature comments filled Deeti with dread. Nothing's happened yet, she snapped; let's wait and see…

A good quarter of an hour passed before the hatch-cover opened again. Then a finger came through the gratings to point to Deeti. You there, said the same voice. The subedar says you can go and see the girl; no one else.

Alone? said Deeti. Why alone?

Because we don't want another riot. Remember what happened at Ganga-Sagar?

Deeti felt Kalua's hand slipping into hers, and she raised her voice: I won't go without my jora, my husband.

This led to another whispered consultation and another concession: All right then – let him come up too.

The gratings creaked open and Deeti climbed slowly out of the dabusa, with Kalua following behind her. There were three silahdars on deck, armed with long staves, their faces shadowed by their turbans. As soon as Deeti and Kalua stepped out, the gratings and hatch-cover were slammed shut, with such finality that Deeti began to wonder whether the guards had been waiting all along to separate the two of them from the other migrants: could it be that they had walked into a trap?

Her misgivings deepened when the sirdars produced a length of rope and ordered Kalua to put out his hands.

Why are you binding his wrists? cried Deeti.

Just to keep him quiet while you're gone.

I won't go without him, said Deeti.

Do you want to be dragged then? Like the other one?

Kalua jogged her elbow: Go, he whispered. If there's trouble, just raise your voice. I'm here; I'll be listening and I'll find a way – ham sahára khojat…

Deeti lengthened her ghungta as she followed the silahdar down the ladder that led to the beech-kamra. In comparison with the dabusa, this part of the vessel was brightly lit, with several lamps suspended from the ceiling. The lights were swinging in wide arcs, with the rolling of the ship, and their pendulum-like movement multiplied the shadows of the men inside, so that the cabin seemed to be filled with a crowd of hurtling figures and shapes. Stepping off the last rung, Deeti averted her eyes and clung to the ladder to steady herself. She could tell from the mingled smell of smoke and sweat that there were many men inside the compartment; even with her head lowered she could feel their eyes boring into the shield of her ghungta.

… This is the one…

… Jobhan sabhanké hamré khiláf bhatkáwat rahlé…

… The one who's always inciting the others against us…

Deeti's courage almost failed her now, and her feet would have ceased to move if the silahdar had not muttered: What are you stopping for? Keep moving.

Where are you taking me? said Deeti.

To the girl, said the silahdar. Isn't that what you wanted?

Candle in hand, the silahdar led her down another turn of the ladder, stepping off when they came to a warren of storerooms. The smell of the bilges was so strong now that Deeti had to pinch her nostrils between finger and thumb.

The silahdar came to a halt at a latched door. This is where she is, he said. You'll find her inside.

Deeti glanced fearfully at the door. In there? she said. What is that place?

A bhandar, said the silahdar as he pushed the door open.

The smell of the storeroom was pungently reminiscent of a bazar, with the gummy, oily reek of heeng overpowering even the stink of the schooner's bilges. It was very dark, and Deeti could see nothing, but she heard a sob and cried out: Munia?

Bhauji? Munia's voice rose in relief. Is it really you?

Yes, Munia, where are you? I can't see anything.

The girl rushed into her arms: Bhauji! Bhauji! I knew you would come.

Deeti held her off with extended arms. You fool, Munia, you fool! she cried. What were you doing up there?

Nothing, Bhauji, said Munia. Nothing, believe me – he was just helping me with the chickens. They stole up on us and started beating him. Then they threw him down.

And you? said Deeti. Have they done anything to you?

Just a few slaps and kicks, Bhauji, not much. But it's you they've been waiting for…

Suddenly Deeti became aware that someone else was standing behind her now, with a candle in hand. Then she heard a deep, heavy voice, saying to the silahdar: Take the girl away – it's the other one I want. I'll talk to her alone.

In the flickering light, Deeti could see sacks of grain and dal, piled high on the floor of the storeroom. The shelves along the sides were crammed with jars of spices, bundles of onion and garlic, and huge martabans of pickled limes, chillies and mangoes. The air was befogged with white dust, of the kind that is sweated by bags of grain; as the door of the storeroom slammed shut, a flake of red chilli entered Deeti's eye.

So?

Unhurriedly, Bhyro Singh latched the door of the storeroom and stuck his candle upright, in a sack of rice. Deeti had been facing away from him all this while, but she turned around now, holding her ghungta in place with one hand and rubbing her eye with the other.

What does this mean? she said, in a show of defiance. Why did you want to see me alone?

Bhyro Singh was wearing a langot and a banyan, and now, as Deeti turned towards him, the mound of his belly surged out of the confinement of the two flimsy garments. The subedar made no attempt to pull his vest down: instead, he cupped his hands under his belly and moved it tenderly up and down, as though he were weighing it. Then, he picked a bit of lint out of the gaping mouth of his belly-button and examined it closely.

So? he said again. How long did you think you could hide from me, Kabutri-ki-ma?

Deeti felt herself choke and stuffed a fistful of her ghungta into her mouth, to keep from crying out loud.

Why so quiet? Nothing to say to me? Bhyro Singh reached for her ghungta: No need to cover up any more. It's just you and me here. Just us.

Pulling her veil down, he tipped her head back with a finger and nodded in satisfaction: The grey eyes; I remember them, filled with witchery. The eyes of a chudail, some people thought – but I always said, no, those are the eyes of a whore.

Deeti tried to strike his hand away from her neck, but it stayed where it was. If you knew who I was, she said, still defiant, why didn't you say something earlier?

His lips curled in derision: And bring shame on myself? Acknowledge a tie with a woman like you? A whore who's run away with a filth-sweeper? An overheated bitch who's brought shame on her family, her village, her in-laws? You take me for a fool? Don't you know I have daughters of my own, to marry off?

Deeti narrowed her eyes and spat back: Be careful. My jora is waiting, above.

Your jora? said Bhyro Singh. You can forget about that scavenging piece of filth. He'll be dead before the year's out.

I ká káhat ho? she gasped. What's this you're saying?

He ran a finger up her neck and tweaked her ear-lobe: Don't you know, he said, that I'm the one who's in charge of your allotments? Don't you know it's me who decides who your master will be in Mareech? I've already set your jora's name down for a plantation up north. He'll never come out from there alive. You can take my word for it: that shit-shoveller you call a husband is as good as dead.

And me? said Deeti.

You? He smiled and stroked her neck again. For you I have other plans.

What?

The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips and there was a rasp in his voice as he said: What does anyone want from a whore? His hand slipped through the neck of her choli and began to fumble for a handhold.

For shame, said Deeti, pushing his hand away. For shame…

There's nothing here that's new to me, he said, smiling. I've seen the grain-bag and I know it's full – dekhlé tobra, janlé bharalba.

Áp pe thuki! cried Deeti. I spit on you and your filth.

He leant forward so that his belly was against her breasts. He smiled again: Who do you think it was who held your legs open on your wedding night? Did you think that green twig of a launda, your brother-in-law, could have done it on his own?

Have you no shame? said Deeti, choking. Is there nothing you won't say? Do you know I'm with child?

Child? Bhyro Singh laughed. A child from that scavenger? By the time I'm done with you, his spawn will be dribbling out of you like an egg-yolk.

Tightening his hold on her neck, he reached up to a shelf with his other hand. His fist came back to brandish a foot-long roti-rolling belan under her nose.

So what do you say, Kabutri-ki-ma? he said. Are you whore enough for this?

It wasn't Deeti's cry for help but Munia's echo of it that was audible on the main deck, where Kalua was squatting between two silahdars with his hands bound by a length of rope. He had stayed quietly in place since Deeti was led away, giving careful thought to what he would have to do if it came to the worst. The silahdars were lightly armed, with knives and lathis, and it would be no great matter, Kalua knew, to break away from them. But after that, what? If he were to storm into the guard's kamra, he would run into many more men, and more armaments too: they would kill him before he could do Deeti any good. Far better to sound an alarm that would be heard in every quarter of the ship – and the perfect instrument for that was no more than a few paces away, the deckhouse ghanta. If he could but set the bell ringing, the migrants would be alerted and the officers and lascars would come on deck in force.

Back at home, in his ox-cart, it had been a habit with Kalua to count the squeaks of his wheel to keep an accurate measure of time and distance. Now, he found that the same purpose was served by counting the swells that were advancing towards the vessel, lifting her bows and setting them down, as they passed. After ten such had gone by, he knew something must be wrong, and it was exactly then that he caught the sound of Munia's voice, shouting: Bhauji? What're they doing…?

The schooner was in a steep roll, so that Kalua could feel the tilted bulwark lying aslant against the soles of his feet. Ahead of him, the deck was like a hillside, sloping upwards. Using the bulwark as a springboard, he jumped forwards, frog-like, covering half the distance to the bell in one leap. His move was so sudden the silahdars had yet to stir when he reached the lanyard that was attached to the bell's clapper. But the line had to be unwound from its eyebolt before it could be tugged, and this pause gave the guards the time they needed to fall upon him; one of them brought a lathi crashing down on his hands, while the other threw himself on his back, trying to wrestle him to the deck.

Kalua made a double fist out of his bound hands and swung out at the lathi-wielding silahdar, knocking him off his feet. Turning with the momentum of the swing, he took hold of the other man's arm and pulled him off his back, headfirst, slamming him down on the deck. Then he caught hold of the bell's lanyard, tore it free, and set the clapper swinging.

As the first, furious chimes were ringing out, another swell took hold of the vessel, tipping her sharply on her side. One of the guards was knocked down as he tried to rise to his feet, and the other, who had been working his way towards Kalua, slipped sideways so that the bulwark caught him in the belly. He lingered on the deck rail for a moment, with half his body hanging overboard, clutching wildly at the slippery stanchions. Then, almost as if to shake him off, the Ibis dipped her flank still further, and a lapping crest of turbulence reached up to claim him for the deep.

Once again, the ringing of the bell transformed the dabusa into a drum. The migrants gathered together in uncomprehending huddles, as the sound of the feet above them rose to a crescendo. Through the percussive tattoo an even more bewildering sound could be heard – a chorus of alarms and hookums: Admi giráh! Man overboard! Look out aft! Peechil dekho! Dekho peechil! Yet despite the shouts and the noise, there was no change in the schooner's movement: she went ploughing on as before.

Suddenly the dabusa's hatch cover flew open and Deeti and Munia came tumbling through. Paulette lost no time in elbowing through the milling crowd that collected around them: What happened? What happened? Are you all right?

Deeti was shaking so much she could hardly speak: Yes, we're all right, Munia and I. It was the ghanta that saved us.

Who rang it?

My husband… there was a fight and one of the silahdars fell… it was an accident, but they're calling it murder… they've tied him to the mast, my jora…

What're they going to do, Bhauji?

I don't know, sobbed Deeti, wringing her hands. I don't know, Pugli: the subedar's gone to speak to the afsars. It's up to the Kaptan now. Maybe he'll have mercy… we can only hope…

In the darkness Munia slipped over to Paulette and took hold of her arm: Pugli, tell me: Azad? How is he?

Paulette glared at her: Munia, after all the trouble you've caused how can you even dare to ask?

Munia began to sob: We weren't doing anything, Pugli, believe me – just talking. Is that so bad?

Bad or not Munia, he's the one who's paying the price. He's so badly hurt he's barely conscious. The best thing now, Munia, is for you to stay well away from him.

For Zachary, the single most disorienting aspect of life at sea was the peculiar cycle of sleep that resulted from the unvarying rhythm of watch-on-watch. With four hours on and four hours off – except for the dogwatches of dawn and dusk – he often found that he had to rouse himself exactly when he was sleeping most soundly. The result of this was that he slept in the way that a glutton eats, gorging greedily when possible, and resenting every minute subtracted from the feast. While asleep, his hearing would shut out any noise that might disturb or distract – shouts and hookums, the sea and the wind. Yet, his ears would still keep count of the chimes of the ship's bell, so that even in his deepest slumber, he was never unaware of how much time was left before his next spell on deck.

That night, being off-watch till midnight, Zachary had taken to his bunk soon after dinner and had drowsed off almost at once, remaining fast asleep until the deckhouse bell began to clang. Waking instantly, he pulled on a pair of trowsers, and went racing to the stern to look for signs of the man who had fallen overboard. The vigil was a short one, for everyone knew that the silahdar's chances of survival in that choppy sea were too slim to warrant taking in the sails or bringing the ship about: by the time either manoeuvre was completed he would be long gone. But to turn your back on a drowned man was not easy, and Zachary stayed at the stern well after there was any purpose to be served by lingering.

By the time he went down to his cabin again, the offender had been roped to the mainmast, and the Captain was down in his state-room, closeted with Bhyro Singh and his translator, Baboo Nob Kissin. An hour later, as Zachary was preparing to go on deck for his watch, Steward Pinto knocked on his door to say that the Captain had sent for him. Zachary stepped out of his cabin to find the Captain and Mr Crowle already seated around the table, with the steward hovering in the background with a tray of brandy.

Once they had all been served, the Captain dismissed Steward Pinto with a nod: 'Off with you now. And don't let me find you lurking about on the quarter-deck.'

'Sahib.'

The Captain waited for the steward to disappear before he spoke again. 'It's a bad business, gentlemen,' he said gloomily, twirling his glass. 'A bad business – worse than I thought.'

'He's a bruiser, that black bastard,' said Mr Crowle. 'I'll sleep easier after I've heard him singing the hempen croak.'

'Oh he'll hang for sure,' said the Captain. 'But be that as it may, it's not my place to sentence him. Case needs to be heard by a judge in Port Louis. And the subedar, in the meanwhile, will have to content himself with a flogging.'

'Flogged and hung, sir?' said Zachary incredulously. 'For the same offence?'

'In the subedar's eyes,' said the Captain, 'the murder is the least of his crimes. He says that if they were at home, this man'd be cut up and fed to the dogs for what he's done.'

'What's he done, sir?' said Zachary.

'This man' – the Captain looked down at a sheet of paper, to remind himself of the name – 'this Maddow Colver; he's a pariah who's run off with a woman of high caste – a relative of the subedar, as it happens. That's why this Colver signed up – so he could carry the woman off to a place where she'd never be found.'

'But sir,' said Zachary, 'surely his choice of wife is not our business? And surely we can't let him be flogged for it while he is in our custody?'

'Indeed?' said the Captain, raising his eyebrows. 'I am amazed, Reid, that you of all people – an American! – should pose these questions. Why, what do you think would happen in Maryland if a white woman were to be violated by a Negro? What would you, or I, or any of us, do with a darkie who'd had his way with our wives or sisters? Why should we expect the subedar and his men to feel any less strongly than we would ourselves? And what right do we have to deny them the vengeance that we would certainly claim as our due? No sir…' The Captain rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the cuddy, as he continued: '… no sir, I will not deny these men, who have served us faithfully, the justice they seek. For this you should know, gentlemen, that there is an unspoken pact between the white man and the natives who sustain his power in Hindoosthan – it is that in matters of marriage and procreation, like must be with like, and each must keep to their own. The day the natives lose faith in us, as the guarantors of the order of castes – that will be the day, gentlemen, that will doom our rule. This is the inviolable principle on which our authority is based – it is what makes our rule different from that of such degenerate and decayed peoples as the Spanish and Portuguese. Why, sir, if you wish to see what comes of miscegenation and mongrelism, you need only visit their possessions…'

Here the Captain came abruptly to a stop and planted himself behind a chair: '… And while I am about this, let me speak plainly with both of you: gentlemen, what you do in port is your affair; I hold no jurisdiction over you onshore; whether you spend your time in bowsing-kens or cunny-warrens is none of my business. Even if you should choose to go a-buttocking in the blackest of shoreside holes, it is none of my concern. But while at sea and under my command, you should know that if any evidence of any kind of intercourse with a native, of any mould, were ever to be brought against one of my officers… well, gentlemen, let me just say that man could expect no mercy from me.'

Neither mate had any response to this and both averted their eyes.

'As for this Maddow Colver,' the Captain continued, 'he will be flogged tomorrow. Sixty strokes, to be administered by the subedar at noon.'

'Did you say sixty, sir?' said Zachary in awed disbelief.

'That's what the subedar's asked for,' said the Captain, 'and I have awarded it to him.'

'But might he not bleed to death, sir, the coolie?'

'That remains to be seen, Reid,' said Captain Chillingworth. 'Certainly the subedar will be none too sorry if he does.'

Shortly after daybreak Paulette heard her name being whispered through the air duct: Putli? Putli?

Jodu? Rising to her feet, Paulette put her eye to the duct. I want to get a good look at you, Jodu; move back.

He stepped away and she gave an involuntary gasp. In the scant light from the cracks in the bulwarks, she saw that his left arm was suspended from his neck by an improvised sling; his eyes were swollen and blackened, the whites barely visible; his wounds were still oozing blood and the fabric of his borrowed banyan was striped with stains.

Oh Jodu, Jodu! she whispered. What did they do to you?

It's only my shoulder that hurts now, he said, with an attempt at a smile. The rest looks bad but it doesn't hurt as much.

Suddenly angry, Paulette said: It's that Munia; she's such a…

No! Jodu broke in. You can't blame her; it's my own fault.

Paulette could not deny the truth of this. Oh Jodu, she said. What a fool you are: why did you do something so stupid?

There was nothing to it, Putli, he said offhandedly. It was just a harmless time-passing thing. That's all.

Didn't I warn you, Jodu?

Yes, you did, Putli, came the answer. And others did too. But let me ask you: didn't I warn you about trying to get on this ship? And did you listen? No – of course not. You and I, we've always been like that, both of us. We've always been able to get away with things. But I suppose some day it stops, doesn't it? And then you have to start all over again.

This alarmed Paulette, not least because introspection had always been utterly foreign to Jodu; never before had she heard him speak in this vein.

And now, Jodu? she said. What's going to happen to you now?

I don't know, he said. Some of my shipmates say the whole tamasha will be forgotten in a day or two. But others think I'll be a target for the silahdars until we get into port.

And you? What do you think?

He took his time in answering, and when he spoke it was with an effort. For myself, Putli, he said, I'm done with the Ibis. After being beaten like a dog in front of everyone, I would rather drown than stay afloat in this cursed ship.

There was something implacable and unfamiliar in his voice and it made her glance at him again, as if to reassure herself that it was indeed Jodu who had spoken. The sight that met her eyes offered no such comfort: with his bruises and his swollen face and bloody clothes, he looked like the chrysalis of a being new and unknown. She was reminded of a tamarind seed that she had once wrapped in layers of damp cloth: after a fortnight of watering, when a tiny shoot had poked its head through, she had undone the wrappings to look for the seed – but in vain, for nothing remained of it but tiny shell-like fragments.

What will you do then, Jodu? she said.

He came closer and put his lips to the duct. Look, Putli, he whispered, I shouldn't be telling you this – but it's possible that some of us may be able to get off this ship.

Who? And how?

In one of the boats – me, the qaidis, some others too. Nothing's certain yet, but if it happens it'll be tonight. And there's something you may have to do for us – I don't know for sure yet, but I'll tell you when I do. In the meanwhile, not a word, to anyone.

Habés-pál!

The hookum to heave-to was called in the middle of the morning. Below, in the dabusa, everyone knew that the ship would take in her sails when it was time for Kalua's flogging, and it was the change in the sound of the canvas, as much as the slowing of the vessel, that told them the moment was imminent: with the masts stripped almost bare, the wind had begun to whistle as it tore through the rigging. The wind had held steady overnight, and the Ibis was still wallowing through heavy, foam-flecked swells. The sky had darkened in the meanwhile, with waves of grey cloud tumbling over each other.

Once the ship had slowed, the maistries and silahdars went about the business of mustering the migrants with a grim, almost salacious relish: the women were told to remain in the dabusa, but of the men, apart from a few who were too unwell to stand, all the rest were made to go above. The men stepped on deck expecting to find Kalua at the mast, in chains, but he was nowhere to be seen: he had been removed to the fana and would not be produced till later, when his entrance would have the greatest possible effect.

The schooner was pitching so hard that the migrants could not be kept on their feet, as at their last muster at Saugor Roads. The guards made them sit in rows, facing the quarter-deck, with their backs to the stern. As if to underline the exemplary nature of what they were about to witness, the guards and overseers were meticulous in ensuring that every man had a clear and unobstructed view of the frame-like contrivance that had been prepared for Kalua's flogging – a rectangular set of gratings that had been set against the centre of the fife-rails, with ropes tied to each corner for the shackling of his ankles and wrists.

Bhyro Singh had placed himself at the head of this assembly and he was wearing his old regimental uniform: a freshly laundered dhoti and a maroon-coloured coattee, with a subedar's stripes on the sleeves. While the guards were organizing the migrants, he sat cross-legged on a pile of ropes, combing the strands of a leather chabuk and pausing, from time to time, to send the lash cracking through the air. He paid no attention to the migrants, but they, on the other hand, could not tear their eyes from the gleaming lash of his whip.

Presently, after administering a last test to the chabuk, the subedar rose and signalled to Steward Pinto to summon the officers to the quarter-deck. The sahibs took a few minutes to appear, the Kaptan coming first and then the two malums. All three men were seen to be armed, for they had left their coats open in such a way that the butts of the pistols in their waistbands were clearly visible. As was the custom, the Kaptan took his stand, not at the centre of the quarter-deck, but rather at the weather end, which happened to be on the schooner's dawa side. The two malums stood guard near the centre, on either side of the frame.

All this had unfolded at a slow, ceremonial pace, to allow the migrants time to absorb every element of it: it was as though they were being primed, not merely to watch the flogging, but actually to share in the experience of the pain. The timing and the gradual accumulation of details created a kind of stupor – not so much of fear, as of collective anticipation – so that when Kalua was led through their midst, it was as if they were all, severally, being tied to the frame for the flogging.

But there was one respect in which none of them could imagine themselves to be Kalua, which was his enormous size. He was brought on deck wearing only a langot, which had been pulled tight between his legs, so as to present the lash with the widest possible expanse of flesh and skin. The white band of the langot seemed to amplify his stature so that even before he had stepped up to the fife-rail, it was clear that his body would not fit within the chosen frame: his head rose well above it, reaching up to the top of the rails, where it was level with the malums' knees. As a result, the bindings that had been prepared for him had to be rearranged: while his ankles remained at the two lower corners of the frame, his wrists had to be tied to the fife-rails, where they were aligned with his face.

When the ropes had been tied and tested, the subedar saluted the Kaptan and announced that all was ready: Sab taiyár sah'b!

The Kaptan answered with a nod and gave him the signal to start: 'Chullo!'

The silence on deck was now so profound that the Kaptan's voice was clearly audible in the dabusa, as were the subedar's footsteps, when he measured out the paces for his run-up. Deeti gasped – Hé Rám, hamré bacháo! Paulette and the other women huddled over her, clamping their hands over their ears, in an effort to deaden the crack of the whip – in vain, as it turned out, for they could spare themselves no part of it, not the whistle of the leather as it curled through the air, nor the sickening crunch with which it bit into Kalua's skin.

Up on the quarter-deck, Zachary was the closest to Kalua, and he felt the impact of the whip through the soles of his feet. A moment later something stung him on his face; he drew the back of his hand across his cheek and saw that it was blood. He felt his gorge rise and took a backwards step.

Beside him, Mr Crowle, who had been watching with a smile, gave a chuckle: 'No goose without gravy, eh, Mannikin?'

The swing of his arm had brought Bhyro Singh close enough that he could watch the weal rising on Kalua's skin. In savage satisfaction, he muttered into his ear: Kuttá! Scavenging dog, see what you've earned for yourself? You'll be dead before I'm done with you.

Kalua heard him clearly, through the buzzing in his head, and he asked, in a whisper: Malik – what have I ever done to you?

The question – as much as the bewildered tone in which it was asked – further enraged Bhyro Singh. Done? he said. Isn't it enough that you are what you are?

These words echoed through Kalua's head as the subedar walked away, to begin his next run: Yes, what I am is enough… through this life and the next, it will be enough… this is what I will live through, again and again and again…

Yet, even as he was listening to the echo of Bhyro Singh's voice, in some other part of his head he was counting the subedar's paces, numbering the seconds till the next blow. When the lash dug in, the pain was so fierce, so blinding, that his head slumped sideways, towards his wrist, so that he could feel the roughness of the rope against his lips. To keep himself from biting his tongue, he clamped his teeth upon the coil, and when the lash struck again, the pain made his jaws lock so that he bit clean through one of the four turns of rope with which his wrist was tied.

Again the subedar's voice was in his ear, speaking in a mocking whisper: Kãptí ke marlá kuchhwó dokh nahin – To kill a deceiver is no sin…

These words, too, echoed through Kalua's head – kãptí… ke… marlá… kuchhwó… dokh…nahin – each of the syllables marking one of the subedar's paces, going away and then turning around to come thundering back, until the lash flamed across his back, and again he bit through another twist of rope: then it began once more, the enumeration of the syllables, the crack of the lash, and the tightening of his teeth – again, and yet again, until the bindings on his wrist were all but gone, except for a few last threads.

By this time, the drumbeat in Kalua's head had attuned itself so accurately to the subedar's paces that he knew exactly when the lash was uncoiling through the air, and he knew, too, exactly when to pull his hand free. As the subedar came rushing forward, he torqued his torso on the fulcrum of his waist and snatched the lash out of the air as it was curling towards him. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it snaking back so that it looped itself around Bhyro Singh's ox-like neck. Then, with a single, flowing sweep of his arm, he pulled the lash tight, jerking it with such force that before anyone could take a step or utter a sound, the subedar was lying dead on the deck, his neck broken.

Twenty-two

Down below, in the dabusa, the women were holding their breath: so far, the charging sound of Bhyro Singh's run-up had been followed always by the flesh-splitting crack of the lash as it bit into Kalua's back. But this time the rhythm was interrupted before reaching its climax: it was as though an unseen hand had snuffed out the peal of thunder that follows upon a bolt of lightning. And when the silence was broken, it was not by a noise of the kind they had expected, but by a concerted roar, as if a wave had come crashing down upon the vessel, swamping it in chaos: screams, shouts and the thudding of feet merged and grew in volume until the individual elements could not be told apart. The dabusa became once again a giant drum, pounded on by panicked feet above and angry waves below. To the women, it sounded as if the vessel were foundering and the menfolk were fighting to get away in the ship's boats, leaving them behind to drown. Running to the ladder the women scrambled up, towards the sealed exit, but just as the first of them reached it, the hatch flew open. Expecting a wave to come crashing down, the women leapt off the ladder – but instead of a torrent of water, there came first one migrant and then another, and still another, each tumbling over the other to escape the silahdars' flailing lathis. The women pounced on them, shaking them out of their shock, demanding to know what had happened and what was going on.

… Kalua's killed Bhyro Singh…

… with his own chabuk…

… broke his neck…

… and now the silahdars are going to take their revenge…

The welter of witnessing made it hard to know what was true and what was not: one man said the silahdars had already killed Kalua, but another denied this, saying he was alive, although badly beaten. Now, as yet more men came pouring down the ladder, everyone had something new to add, something else to report, so that it was almost as if Deeti were on the main deck herself, watching the events unfold: Kalua, cut loose from the frame to which he had been tethered, was being dragged across the deck by the enraged guards. The Kaptan was on the quarter-deck, with the two malums beside him, trying to reason with the silahdars, telling them it was their right to demand justice, and they would have it too, but only through a lawful execution, properly performed, not a lynching.

But this was not enough to satisfy the maddened mob on the main deck, who began to howl: Now! Now! Hang him now!

These cries set off a sudden churning, deep inside Deeti's belly: it was as if her unborn child had taken fright and was trying to shut out the voices that were clamouring for its father's death. Clapping her hands over her ears, Deeti staggered into the arms of the other women, who half dragged and half carried her to their corner of the dabusa and laid her prostrate on the planks.

'Stand back, y'bastards!'

An instant after the roar had erupted from Mr Crowle's lips, the air was split by a report from his pistol. On the Captain's instructions, he had aimed the shot just to the left of the starboard davits, where the silahdars had dragged Kalua's almost-senseless body, with the intention of stringing him up from an improvised noose. The sound of the gun brought them abruptly to a halt and they spun around to find themselves facing not one, but three pairs of handguns. The Captain and the two mates were standing shoulder to shoulder on the quarter-deck, with their guns drawn and cocked.

'Stand back! Stand back, I said.'

No muskets had been issued to the guards that morning, and they were armed only with spears and swords. For a minute or two, the scrape of metal on metal could be clearly heard, as they milled about on deck, fidgeting with their hilts and scabbards, trying to decide what to do next.

Later, Zachary was to remember thinking that if the silahdars had made a concerted rush upon the quarter-deck just then, there was little that they, the three officers, could have done to hold them back: they would have been defenceless after they fired their first volley. Captain Chillingworth and Mr Crowle knew this just as well as he did, but they knew also that there could be no backing down now – for if the silahdars were allowed to get away with a lynching, then there was no telling what they'd do next. That Kalua would have to hang for the killing of Bhyro Singh was clear enough – but it was clear also that the execution could not be the work of a mob. All three officers were in unspoken agreement on this: if the silahdars were of a mind to mutiny, then this was when they would have to be faced down.

It was Mr Crowle who carried the day. Squaring his shoulders, he leant over the fife-rail and wagged his guns, in invitation. 'Come on, y'blackguards; don't stand there showing me yer teeth. Let's see if ye've got a pair of ballocks between the lot o'yer.'

No more than anyone else could Zachary deny that Mr Crowle made an imposing figure as he stood astride the quarter-deck, with a pistol in each hand and a stream of obscenities flowing from his lips – '… pack o'mollyfuckin shagbags, let's see which o'yer is going to be the first to take a bullet in yer bacon-hole…' In his gaze there was such a relish for bloodshed that no one could doubt that he would shoot without hesitation. The silahdars seemed to understand this, for after a minute or two, they dropped their eyes and the fight seemed to seep out of them.

Mr Crowle lost no time in pressing home his advantage. 'Stand back; stand back, I say, step away from the coolie.'

Not without some muttering, the silahdars slowly edged away from Kalua's prostrate body and gathered in the middle of the deck. They were beaten now, and they knew it, so when Mr Crowle told them to drop their armaments they made a show of obeying in proper parade-ground fashion, laying their swords and spears in a tidy heap beneath the fife-rails.

The Captain took charge now, muttering a command to Zachary. 'Reid – take those weapons abaft and see they're properly stowed. Get a couple of the lascars to lend a hand.'

'Yes, sir.'

With the help of three lascars, Zachary gathered the weapons together, carried them below and locked them safely away in the armoury. Some twenty minutes passed before he came back up, and by that time an uneasy calm had descended on the quarter-deck. Zachary stepped out of the after-companionway to find the silahdars listening in subdued silence, as the Captain launched into one of his jobations.

'I know the subedar's death has come as a great shock…' Here, as the gomusta translated his words, the Captain paused to wipe his streaming face. '… Believe me, I fully share your grief. The subedar was a fine man, and I am as determined as any of you to see justice done.' Now that a mutiny had been averted, it was clear that the Captain was disposed to be as generous as possible: 'You have my word that the murderer will be hung – but you will have to wait until tomorrow, for it would be unseemly for a hanging to follow too closely upon a funeral. Till then, you must be patient. Today you must give your attention to your subedar – and after you are finished, you must retire to your quarters.'

The officers watched in silence as the silahdars performed the subedar's last rites. At the end of the ceremony, they joined together to herd the guards and overseers back into the midships-cabin. When the last of them had stepped through, the Captain breathed a sigh of relief. 'Best keep them down there till tomorrow. Give them time to cool off.'

The Captain's strength had been failing visibly through the day, and it was with a noticeable effort that he now mopped his face. 'Must confess I feel none too spry,' he said. 'The deck is yours, Mr Crowle.'

'Y'go ahead and rest as long as y'like,' said the first mate. 'It's all in hand, sir.'

Deeti was among the last to learn of the stay on Kalua's execution, and the knowledge of this – that she had wasted precious time in venting her emotions – made her furious, and with no one so much as herself. She knew full well that if she was to be of any help to her husband, she would have to try to think as he did – and she was aware also that his most valuable resource in moments of crisis was not his strength of limb but rather his coolness of head. As if by instinct, she turned to the one person she knew she could depend on: Pugli – come here, sit beside me.

Bhauji?

Deeti put an arm around Paulette's shoulders and leant towards her ear: Pugli, what's to be done, tell me? Unless there's a miracle, I'm going to be a widow tomorrow.

Paulette took hold of her fingers and gave them a squeeze: Bhauji, don't give up hope. It's not tomorrow yet. A lot could happen between now and then.

Oh? The girl had been frequenting the air duct all morning, Deeti had noticed: she sensed that she knew more than she was willing to say. What is it, Pugli? Is something going on?

Paulette hesitated before giving her a quick nod. Yes, Bhauji, but don't ask me about it. I can't talk.

Deeti gave her a shrewdly appraising glance. All right, Pugli: I won't ask what's going on. But tell me this: you think it's possible that my jora could get away alive? Before tomorrow?

Who can tell, Bhauji? said Paulette. All I can say is that there's a chance.

Hé Rám! Deeti took hold Paulette's cheeks and shook them, in gratitude. Oh Pugli, I knew I could trust you.

Don't say that, Bhauji! Paulette cried. Don't say anything yet. So much could go wrong. Let's not doom it from the start.

There was more to this protest, Deeti guessed, than mere superstition: she could feel the girl's nervousness in the tautness of her cheeks. She brought her head closer to her ear.

Tell me, Pugli, she said, are you going to have a part in it too – whatever it is that's going to happen?

Again Paulette hesitated before blurting out, in a whisper: A very small part, Bhauji. But an essential one, or so I'm told. And I'm worried that things may go wrong.

Deeti rubbed her cheeks to warm them. I'll be praying for you, Pugli…

A little after four, shortly after the start of the first dogwatch of the afternoon, Captain Chillingworth came on deck again, looking pale and feverish, and hugging an old-fashioned boat-cloak to his chest. As he emerged from the companionway, his eyes went straight to the stooped, drooping figure that was tethered to the mainmast. He turned a glance of inquiry on the first mate, who answered with a grim laugh: 'The nigger's alive all right; kill that ziggerboo ten times over and he wouldn't be dead.'

The Captain nodded, and began to shuffle to the windward side of the quarter-deck, with his head lowered and his shoulders bunched. The wind was blowing hard and steady from the east, throwing white-capped combers against the schooner's side. In deference to the weather the Captain headed not to his usual place, at the junction of the bulwark and the fife-rail, but to the protective shelter of the after-shrouds. On reaching the shrouds, he turned to look eastwards where dark scuds of cloud had tumbled together to form a dense, steel-grey mass. 'Storm-breeders if ever I saw them,' muttered the Captain. 'How bad do you think it's going to be, Mr Crowle?'

'Nothing to sweat about, sir,' said the first mate. 'Just a few scurries and sneezers. Blow itself out by dawn.'

The Captain leant back to look up at the masts, which were now bare of all canvas except for the staysails and foresails. 'None the less, gentlemen,' he said, 'we'll have her hove-to and snugged down; best to ride out the weather under a storm-staysail. No need to take any risks.'

Neither of the mates wanted to be the first to give their assent to such an excess of caution. 'Can't see as it's necessary, sir,' said Mr Crowle at last, reluctantly.

'You'll do it all the same,' said the Captain. 'Or do I have to remain on deck to see it done?'

'Don't y'worry sir,' said Mr Crowle quickly. 'I'll see to it.'

'Good,' said the Captain. 'I'll leave it to you then. And as for myself, I'm more than a little a-weather, I must confess. I would be grateful if I could be spared any interruptions tonight.'

That day the girmitiyas were not allowed on deck for their evening meal. The weather being as bad as it was, they were passed balties of dry rations through the hatch – stale rock-hard rotis and parched gram. Few among them cared what they were served, for none but a handful had the stomach to eat. For most of them, the events of the morning had already faded from the forefront of memory: as the weather grew steadily worse, their attention came to be wholly absorbed by the raging elements. Since all flames and lights were forbidden, they had to sit in darkness as they listened to the waves, pounding against the hull, and the wind, shrieking through the bare masts. The din was enough to confirm everything that anyone had ever thought about the Black Water: it was as if all the demons of hell were fighting to get into the dabusa.

'Miss Lambert, Miss Lambert…'

The whisper, barely audible above the noise, was so faint that Paulette's ears would not have picked it up, had the name not been her own. She rose to her feet, balanced herself against a beam, and turned to the air duct: all that could be seen was an eye, gleaming behind the slot, but she knew at once who it belonged to. 'Mr Halder?'

'Yes, Miss Lambert.'

Paulette went closer to the duct. 'Is there something you wish to say?'

'Only that I wish you all success for tonight: for your brother's sake and mine, and indeed for all of us.'

'I will do what I can, Mr Halder.'

'I do not doubt it for a moment, Miss Lambert. If anyone could succeed in this delicate mission it is none other than you. Your brother has told us something of your story and I confess I am amazed. You are a woman of extraordinary talent, Miss Lambert – a genius in a way. Your performance so far has been so fine, so true, as not to be an impersonation at all. I would never have thought my eye, or my ear, could have been thus deceived – and that too, by a firangin, a Frenchwoman.'

'But I am none of those things, Mr Halder,' protested Paulette. 'There is nothing untrue about the person who stands here. Is it forbidden for a human being to manifest themselves in many different aspects?'

'Evidently not. I hope very much, Miss Lambert, that we will meet again somewhere, and in happier circumstances.'

'I hope so too, Mr Halder. And when we do, I trust you will call me Paulette – or Putli, as Jodu does. But should you wish to call me Pugli, that too is not an identity that I would disown.'

'And I, Miss Paulette, would ask you to call me Neel – except that if we do meet again, I suspect I will have had to change my name. But until then, in any event, I wish you farewell. And bon courage.'

And to you too. Bhalo thakben.

Paulette had no sooner sat down than she was summoned to the air duct by Jodu: Putli, it's time; you've got to change and get ready. Mamdoo-tindal's going to let you out in a few minutes.

At midnight, when his watch ended, Zachary changed into a set of dry clothes and fell into his bunk fully dressed – in a blow like this one, there was no knowing when he'd be needed on deck. Apart from the single storm-sail there was not a stitch aloft on the schooner's masts, but the wind was blowing so hard that the sound of this one square of cloth was like that of a massed chorus of sail. From the violence with which his bunk was pitching under him, Zachary knew, too, that the Ibis was being buffeted by waves of a good twenty feet or more. The swells were no longer surging over the bulwarks, but crashing down from above, like breakers pounding a beach, and when the water ran off the decks, it was with a sucking sound, like surf retreating down a slope of sand.

Twice, as he lay on his bunk, Zachary had heard an ominous creak, like that of a spar, or a mast, about to give way, and despite his intentions of getting a good rest, his senses were at a fine pitch of alertness, listening for further signs of damage. This was why the first hint of a knock at his door made him sit up. The cabin was dark, for Zachary had put out his lamp before he lay down; as he was tumbling out of his bunk, the schooner rolled to larboard, throwing him against the door: he would have crashed into it, face first, if he hadn't turned sideways and used his shoulder to soften the impact.

As the schooner was righting itself, he called out: 'Who is it?' Receiving no answer, he pulled the door open.

Steward Pinto had left a single lamp glowing in the cuddy, and by the light of the dim, flickering flame he saw a lascar standing at the door, with his dripping oilskins draped over his arm. He was a wiry, boyish fellow with a bandanna around his head. Zachary didn't recognize him, for his face was in shadow.

'Who're you?' he said. 'What're you doing here?'

Before Zachary could finish, the schooner listed to starboard, sending both of them stumbling into the cabin. As they were wrestling to regain their footing, the door slammed shut and the deck tilted again. All of a sudden, Zachary found himself lying on his bunk, with the lascar beside him. Then, out of the darkness, a whisper made itself heard that all but froze his blood. 'Mr Reid… Mr Reid… please…'

The voice was distantly familiar, but in a way that was profoundly unnerving, in the manner of something so far removed from its proper circumstance that it could only be an unnatural version of itself. Zachary's voice died in his throat and his skin began to prickle as the whispering continued. 'Mr Reid, it is I, Paulette Lambert…'

'What was that?' Zachary would not have been in the least surprised if the presence beside him had disappeared or dematerialized – for what else could it be but a conjuration of his own imaginings? – but this possibility was quickly dismissed, for the voice now repeated its earlier claim: 'Please, Mr Reid… believe me, it is I, Paulette Lambert.'

'Impossible!'

'Believe me, Mr Reid,' the voice continued in the darkness. 'It is true. I pray you will not be angered, but you should know I have been aboard since the commencement of the voyage – in the 'tween-deck, among the women.'

'No!' Zachary pushed himself sideways, moving as far from her as the bunk would allow. 'I was there when the coolies boarded. I'd'a known.'

'But it is true, Mr Reid. I came aboard with the migrants. It was because of my sari that you did not reconnaisse me.'

He knew now, from her voice, that it really was Paulette – and it occurred to him that surely he ought to be glad to have her there, beside him. But no more than any other sailor did he care to be boarded in the smoke: he had never liked to be taken by surprise, and he found himself growing embarrassed as he considered how ridiculous he must have looked a minute or two ago.

'Well, Miss Lambert,' he said, stiffly. 'If it is you, you've certainly succeeded in making quite a dupe of me.'

'Such was not my intention, Mr Reid. I assure you.'

'May I ask,' he said, trying to recover his lost composure, 'which one you were – which of the women, that is?'

'Yes, for sure, Mr Reid,' she said eagerly. 'You have seen me many times, but perhaps without noticing: I was often on deck, doing the washing.' The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she sensed that she'd said too much already – but a mounting nervousness made it impossible for her to stop. 'This very shirt you are wearing now, Mr Reid, I washed it, this and all your…'

'… dirty linen? Is that what you were going to say?' Zachary was mortified now, and his cheeks began to burn. 'Pray tell me, Miss Lambert,' he said, 'what was it for, all this trickery and deceit? Just to show me up for a fool?'

Paulette was stung by the sharpness of his tone. 'You are much mistaken, Mr Reid,' she said, 'if you imagine that you are the cause of my presence on board. Believe me, it was solely for myself that I did what I have done. It was imperatif for me to leave Calcutta – you know full well the reasons. This was my only means of escape and what I did was no different from what my grand-aunt, Madame Commerson, would have done.'

'Your grand-aunt, Miss Lambert?' said Zachary acidly. 'Why, you have outdone her by far! Indeed you have proved yourself the equal of any chameleon. You have so perfected the arts of impersonation that I should not doubt they have become the very core of your soul.'

Paulette could not understand how this encounter, in which she had invested so much hope and emotion, had turned into such an ugly fencing match. But nor was she one to back down in the face of a challenge. Her response sprang from her lips before she could bite it back: 'Oh, Mr Reid! You allow me more credit than is my due. If I have any equal in impersonation, surely it is none other than yourself?'

Despite the howling of the wind and the crash of the waves outside, there was a strange stillness in the cabin now. Zachary swallowed once, and then cleared his throat: 'So you know?' If his imposture had been announced from the truck of the mainmast, he could not have felt more exposed, more completely a charlatan than he did then.

'Oh forgive me!' – he could hear her choking on her words – 'oh, forgive me, I did not mean…'

'Nor did I, Miss Lambert, mean to deceive you in the matter of my race. On the few occasions when we were able to speak to each other, I tried to indicate – no, I tried to tell you, believe me.'

'What does it matter, Mr Reid?' In a belated attempt to make amends, Paulette softened her voice. 'Are not all appearances deceptive, in the end? Whatever there is within us – whether good, or bad, or neither – its existence will continue uninterrupted, will it not, no matter what the drape of our clothes, or the colour of our skin? What if it is the world that is a duperie, Mr Reid, and we the exceptions to its lies?'

Zachary shook his head in scorn at what seemed to be merely a feeble attempt at extenuation. 'I fear, Miss Lambert, that I am too plain a man to understand these subtleties. I must ask you to be more direct. Pray tell me, why have you chosen to reveal yourself now? Why at this time? Surely it was not in order to announce our fellowship in deceit that you sought me out?'

'No, Mr Reid,' said Paulette. 'It was for wholly another purpose. And you should know that I have come on behalf of others, our common friends…'

'Who, may I ask?'

'Serang Ali, for one.'

At the sound of that name, Zachary covered his eyes with his hands: if there was anything at that moment that could have made him feel any more humiliated than he did already, it was this mention of the man he had once thought to be his mentor. 'It is all clear to me now, Miss Lambert,' he said. 'I see how you have gained your intelligence in regard to my origins. But tell me, Miss Lambert, was it Serang Ali's idea, or yours, to use this information for blackmail?'

'Blackmail? Oh for shame, Mr Reid! For shame!'

The wind was blowing so hard, Baboo Nob Kissin dared not stand upright on the rain-lashed deck: fortunate indeed that he had moved his lodgings from the midships-cabin to the deckhouse – or else the summons to the fana would have required him to cross a much greater length of deck. Even this short distance seemed impossibly long, much too far to negotiate on his feet: instead he made his way forward on all fours, cowering in the shelter of the bulwarks as he crawled slowly towards the fana.

The hatch that led below was fastened tight against the water, but it opened at the first tap of his knuckles. There was a lamp swinging inside, illuminating the faces of Serang Ali and the lascars, lying in their jhulis, rolling with the motion of the ship, watching him as he made his way to the chokey.

The gomusta had no eyes for anyone other than the man he was seeking, no thought but for the completion of his errand. Squatting beside the bars, he held the keys out to Neel: here they are, take them, take them; may they help you find your release, your mukti…

But once he had placed the keys in Neel's palm, he would not let go of his hand. Do you see her now? In my eyes? Ma Taramony? Is she here? Within me?

When Neel's head moved, and Baboo Nob Kissin saw that he was nodding, his joy was beyond containment. You're sure? he said. Sure she's there now? It is time?

Yes, said Neel, looking into his eyes, nodding in confirmation. Yes, she is there. I see her – a mother incarnate: her time has come…

The gomusta let go of Neel's hand and wrapped his arms around himself: now that the last shreds of his former being were to be discarded, he was aware of a strange affection, a tenderness for the body that had so long been his. There was no reason for him to remain here any longer: he made his way back to the main deck and took a step towards the deckhouse. His eyes fell on Kalua, and once again, he lowered himself to all fours, and crawled along the bulwarks. Pulling himself level with the drooping figure, he put an arm around him and held on as a wave surged across the deck, almost sweeping his legs out from under him.

Wait, he whispered to Kalua. Wait just a little bit longer, and you too will find your freedom; moksha is at hand for you too…

Now that Taramony's presence was fully manifest in him, it was as if he had become the key that could unlock the cages that imprisoned everyone, all these beings who were ensnared by the illusory differences of this world. It was the fullness of this insight that carried him, drenched and battered, but ecstatic in the possession of his new self, towards the after-cabins. At Zachary's door, he paused as he so often had, to listen for a flute, and caught instead the sound of whispering voices.

It was here, he remembered, in this very place, that the start of his transfiguration had been signalled, by the sound of a flute: everything had come full circle now, everything was as foretold. His hand went to his amulet and he slipped out the piece of paper that lay inside. Hugging it to his chest, he began to turn around and around; the ship was dancing with him too, the deck heaving to the rhythm of his whirling footsteps. Seized by the transcendent, blissful joy of pure ananda, he closed his eyes.

This was how Mr Crowle found him: turning around and around, with arms raised in the air. 'Pander, y'fuckin cunt-pensioner…!' He stopped the gomusta's dance with a slap across the face. Then his eyes went to the sheet of paper which the gomusta, now cowering, was clutching in his hands. 'What's this then? Let's have a look.'

Sweeping a hand across her eyes, Paulette brushed away a flurry of tears. She could never have imagined that her meeting with Zachary would take such a hostile turn, but now that it had, it was best not to make things worse than they were already. 'It is no use, Mr Reid,' she said, rising to her feet. 'It has clearly been a great meprise for us to speak with each other. I came to tell you that your friends are direly in need of you; I came to speak of my own… but it is no use. Everything I say seems only to deepen our misunderstandings. It is best that I leave now.'

'Wait! Miss Lambert!'

The thought of losing her panicked Zachary. Leaping to his feet, he reached blindly towards the sound of her voice, forgetting, in the darkness, how small his cabin was. Almost as soon as he raised his hand, his fingers brushed against her arm; he made as if to pull away, but his palm would not move; instead, his thumb pushed back the fabric of her shirt. She was close enough that he could hear her breathing; he could even feel the warmth of her exhalations misting on his face. His hand went along her shoulder, to the back of her neck, pausing between her collar and bandanna, to explore the patch of bare skin that had been exposed by her upswept hair. Strange how he had once been appalled by the thought of seeing her as a lascar; strange that he had wanted to keep her forever wrapped in velveteen. For even though he could not actually see her now, the very knowledge of her guise made her seem more desirable than ever, a creature so changeable and elusive as to be impossible to resist: his mouth was suddenly fastened on hers, and her lips were pressed against his.

Even though they could see nothing in the darkness of the unlit cabin, their absorption was such that they both slowly closed their eyes. When a knock sounded on the door neither of them noticed. It was only when Mr Crowle shouted – 'Y'in there, Mannikin?' – that they sprang apart.

Paulette flattened herself against the bulwark as Zachary cleared his throat. 'Yes, Mr Crowle: what is it?'

'Could y'step out?'

Prising the door apart a few inches, Zachary saw that Mr Crowle was standing outside. Cowering beside him was Baboo Nob Kissin, whose neck was firmly in the first mate's grip.

'What's going on, Mr Crowle?'

'I've got something y'need to see, Mannikin,' said the first mate, with a grim smile. 'Something I got from our friend Baboon here.'

Zachary stepped quickly outside, pulling his door shut behind him. 'What is it?'

'I'll show yer, but not here. And not while I've got this Baboon on my hands. Best he cools off in yer cabin.' Before Zachary could say anything, Mr Crowle pushed the door open and kneed the gomusta in the small of his back, propelling him past Zachary, into his cabin. Without looking inside, the first mate pulled the door shut. Then he lifted an oar out of a wall-bracket and thrust the shaft through the looped handles. 'That should hold him while we're sorting this out.'

'And where are we going to do that?'

'My cabin's as good a place as any.'

As with a bear in its den, the reassurance of being in his own space lent an extra heft to the first mate's already formidable physique: once he and Zachary were inside, with the door closed behind them, he seemed to swell and expand, leaving Zachary very little room. The vessel was swaying wildly and they had to stretch out their arms to steady themselves against the sides of the cabin. But even then, standing spreadeagled and chest to chest, bumping against each other with the schooner's every lurch, Mr Crowle seemed intent on using his height and bulk to crowd Zachary into sitting down on his bunk. But this, Zachary would not do: there was something in the first mate's demeanour that spoke of an excess of emotion that was even more disturbing than the overt aggression of the past. In order not to yield any ground to the larger man, Zachary forced himself to stay on his feet.

'Well then, Mr Crowle? What did you want to see me about?'

'Somethin ye'll thank me for, Reid.' The first mate reached into his vest and pulled out a yellowing sheet of paper. 'Got this off that gooby – Pander, innit? He was takin it t'the skipper. Ye're lucky I got a-hold o' it, Reid. Thing like this could do a cove a lot o'damage. Could'appen he'd never work on a ship again.'

'What is it?'

'It's the crew-list – for the Ibis, on'er run out from Baltimore.'

'And what of it?' said Zachary, frowning.

'Take a dekko, Reid.' Holding up the lamp, the mate handed him the tattered slip of paper. 'Go on – see fer y'self.'

Back when he first signed on to the Ibis, Zachary had known nothing of ships' papers or crew manifests, or how the filling-in of them might vary from vessel to vessel. He had walked on board the Ibis with his ditty-bag, shouted his name, age and birthplace to the second mate, and that was that. But he saw now that along with a few other members of the crew, there was an extra notation next to his name: he narrowed his eyes, squinting, and suddenly he froze.

'Y'see, Reid?' said Mr Crowle. 'See what I mean?'

Zachary answered by nodding mechanically, without raising his eyes, and the first mate continued. 'Lookat, Reid,' he said, hoarsely, 'it don't mean anythin to me. Don't give a damn, I don't, if ye're a m'latter or not.'

Zachary answered, as if by rote: 'I'm not a mulatto, Mr Crowle. My mother was a quadroon and my father white. That makes me a metif.'

'Don't change nothing, Reid.' Mr Crowle's hand reached up and he brushed a knuckle against Zachary's unshaven cheek. 'Metif or m'latter, it don't change the colour o'this…'

Zachary, still mesmerized by the paper, made no movement, and the hand rose higher still, to flick back a curly forelock with a fingertip. '… And it don't change this neither. Y'are what y'are, Reid, and it don't make no difference to me. If y'ask me, it makes us two of a kind.'

Zachary looked up now, and his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. 'Don't get the gist, Mr Crowle?'

The first mate's voice sank to a low growl. 'Look'ere, Reid, we di'n't get off to a good start, there's no denyin'it. Y'made a fool o'me with yer tofficky trolly-wags and yer buncomising tongue: thought y'was way above my touch. But this'ere paper, it changes everything – I'd never'a thought I could've been so far off course.'

'What do you mean, Mr Crowle?'

'Don't y'see, Mannikin?' The first mate put his hand on Zachary's shoulder. 'We could be a team, the two o'us.' He tapped the paper and took it out of Zachary's hand. 'This thing – nobbut needs be in the know of it. Not the Captain nor anyone else. It'll stay here.' Folding the manifest, he slipped it under his vest. 'Think about it, Reid, me as skipper, and y'self as mate. Tie for tye; no lies for y'self and none for me neither: we'd have the jin o'each other, both o'us. What more could two coves like us hope for? No need for gulling, no need for lies: ton for ton and man for man. I'd be easy on yer too, Mannikin; I'm one who knows what o'clock it is and which way the bull runs. When we're in port ye'd be on the loose, free for whatever takes yer fancy: don't make no difference to me, not ashore.'

'And at sea?'

'All ye'd have to do is cross the cuddy from time to time. That in't so long a walk, is it? And if it in't t'yer taste, y'can shut yer eyes and think y'self in Jericho for all I care. Comes a day, Mannikin, when every Tar has t'learn t'work ship in headwinds and bad weather. Y'think life owes y'any different from others just cause ye're a m'latter?'

Despite the brutal roughness of the first mate's tone, Zachary could sense that he was on the verge of an inner disintegration, and he was aware of an unexpected stirring of sympathy. His eyes sought out the piece of paper that he was holding between his fingers, and he was amazed to think that something so slight, so innocuous, could be invested with so much authority: that it should be able to melt away the fear, the apparent invulnerability that he, Zachary, had possessed in his guise as a 'gentleman'; that it should so change his aspect as to make him appeal to a man who could desire, evidently, only that which he held in his power; that the essence of this transformation should inhere in a single word – all of this spoke more to the delirium of the world than to the perversity of those who had to make their way in it.

He could sense the first mate's mounting impatience for an answer, and when he spoke it was not unkindly, but with a quiet firmness. 'Look, Mr Crowle,' he said. 'I'm sorry, but this deal o'yours won't work for me. It may look to you that this piece of paper has turned me inside out, but in truth it's changed nothing. I was born with my freedom and I ain't looking to give any o'it away.'

Zachary took a step towards the door but the first mate moved in front of him, blocking his way. 'Boat yer oars, Mannikin,' he said, on a note of warning. 'Won't do yer no good to walk yer chalks now.'

'Listen, Mr Crowle,' said Zachary, quietly. 'Neither of us needs to remember this conversation. Once I step out this door, it's over and done with – didn't happen.'

'Too late to toss up the bunt now, Mannikin,' said the first mate. 'What's said is said and can't be forgotten.'

Zachary looked him up and down and squared his shoulders. 'What do you plan to do then, Mr Crowle? Keep me in here till I knock the door down?'

'Aren't y'forgetting something, Mannikin?' The first mate tapped his finger on the paper that was tucked into his vest. 'Wouldn't take me more'n a couple o'minutes to run this over to the skipper.'

There was a desperation, almost a pathos, in this threat of blackmail, and it made Zachary smile. 'Go ahead, Mr Crowle,' he said. 'Whatever that paper is, it's not a letter of indenture. Take it to the Captain – believe me, I'd be glad of it. And I'll wager that when he hears about the bargain you were of a mind to make, it's not because of me that he's going to be all cut up inside.'

'Stow yer magging, Reid!' The first mate's hand came flying out of the shadows to strike Zachary across the face. Then a blade flashed in the lamplight and its point came to rest on Zachary's upper lip. 'I'se done my time, Mannikin, and ye'll do it too. Ye're just a broth of a boy: I'll bring y'to yer bearings soon enough.'

'With your knife, Mr Crowle?' Now the blade began to descend, travelling downwards in a straight line, from Zachary's nose, past his chin to the base of his throat.

'I tell yer, Mannikin, ye're not nigger enough to leave Jack Crowle hangin a-cockbill; not when he's all catted and fished. I'll corpse yer before I let yer gi'me the slip.'

'Better do it then, Mr Crowle. Better do it now.'

'Oh, I'd kill yer without a thought, Mannikin,' said Mr Crowle, through his teeth. 'Don't y'doubt it. I'se done it before and I'll do it again. Wouldn't make a penn'orth o'difference to me.'

Now Zachary could feel the cold metal point pushing against his throat. 'Go on, Mr Crowle,' he said, steeling himself. 'Do it. I'm ready.'

With the tip of the knife biting into his skin, Zachary kept his eyes fixed upon the first mate's, even as he was preparing himself for the thrust. But it was Mr Crowle's gaze that wavered first, and then the knife faltered and fell away.

'God damn yer eyes, Reid!'

Throwing his head back, the first mate gave voice to a howl that welled up from the bottom of his belly. 'The devil take yer, Reid; God damn yer eyes…'

Just then, even as the first mate was standing in front of Zachary, staring in disbelief at the knife he had been unable to use, the door of the cabin creaked open. Framed in the doorway stood the slight, shadowy figure of the half-Chinese convict: he had a sharp-tipped handspike in his grip, Zachary saw, and he was holding it not as a sailor would, but like a swordsman, with the point extended.

Sensing his presence, the first mate spun around, with his knife at the ready. When he saw who it was, he snarled in disbelief: 'Jackin-ape?'

Ah Fatt's presence seemed to have a tonic effect on the first mate, restoring him instantly to his usual self: as if exhilarated by the prospect of violent release, he made a swinging lunge with his knife. Ah Fatt swayed easily out of the way, seeming hardly to move at all, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. His eyes were almost closed, as if in prayer, and his handspike was no longer extended, but folded against his chest, its point tucked under his chin.

'Going to cut yer tongue out, Jackin-ape,' said Mr Crowle, in a voice that was filled with menace. 'Then I'm a-goin to make yer eat it too.'

The mate made another thrust, aiming at the belly, but Ah Fatt turned sideways, eluding the point of his blade. This time the momentum of the strike carried the mate forward, exposing his flank. Spinning on his heel, like a bullfighter, Ah Fatt thrust the handspike through his ribs, burying it almost to the hilt. He held on to his weapon as the mate dropped to the deck, and when the spike was free of his body, he turned the bloody point towards Zachary. 'Stay where you are. Or else, you too…'

Then, just as quickly as he had come, he was gone: slamming the door behind him, he thrust the handspike through the handles, locking Zachary into the cabin.

Zachary fell to his knees beside the pool of blood that was leaking out of the first mate's flank: 'Mr Crowle?'

He caught the sound of a choking whisper: 'Reid? Reid…'

Zachary lowered his head, to listen to the faltering voice. 'Y'were the one, Reid – the one I'se been lookin for. Y'were the one…'

His words were choked off by a surge of blood, gushing up through his mouth and nose. Then his head snapped back and his body went rigid; when Zachary put a hand under his nostrils, there was no evidence of breath. The schooner lurched and the first mate's lifeless body rolled with it. The edge of the old crew-list could be seen peering out of his vest: Zachary pulled it out and stuffed it into his own pocket. Then he rose to his feet and shoved his shoulder against the door. It gave a little, and he jiggled it gently until the handspike slipped out, falling to the deck with a thud.

Bursting out of the first mate's cabin, Zachary saw that his own door was already open. Without pausing to look inside, he went racing up to the quarter-deck. Rain was lashing down from the sky in knotted sheets; it was as if the schooner's sails had come unfastened and were tearing themselves apart against the hull. Instantly drenched, Zachary raised a hand to shelter his eyes from the sting of the rain. A wave of lightning surged across the sky, widening as it travelled westwards, flooding the water below with a rolling tide of radiance. In that unearthly light a longboat seemed to leap out at Zachary, from the crest of a wave: although it was already some twenty yards off the schooner's beam, the faces of the five men who were in it could be clearly seen. Serang Ali was at the rudder, and the other four were huddled in its middle – Jodu, Neel, Ah Fatt and Kalua. Serang Ali had seen Zachary too, and he was raising his hand to wave when the craft dropped behind a ridge of water and disappeared from view.

As the lightning was retreating across the sky, Zachary became aware that he was not the only one who was watching the boat: there were three others on the main deck, below, standing with their arms interlinked. Two of them he recognized immediately, Paulette and Baboo Nob Kissin – but the third was a woman in a sodden sari, who had never before uncovered her face in his presence. Now, in the fading glow of the clouds, she turned to look at him and he saw that she had piercing grey eyes. Although it was the first time he had seen her face, he knew that he had glimpsed her somewhere, standing much as she was now, in a wet sari, hair dripping, looking at him with startled grey eyes.