Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  He was about to pull himself aboard again when he caught sight of the soiled belaying pin, lying on the budgerow’s deck. It occurred to him that this was as good a time as any to give it the polishing it needed: it was within easy reach so he caught hold of it and dropped back into the river. A few steps towards the shore brought him into waist-deep water. He pulled up some rushes and began to scour the pin, his elbow pumping furiously in the water.

  The pin was skittle-shaped, of about a handspan’s length: the grease and mud had made it slippery, so he had to press it against his belly with one hand, while scrubbing it with the other.

  After several minutes of hard rubbing the encrustation of dirt began to come off at last. The pin was almost clean when a child’s voice broke in. ‘You! You there!’

  He was standing with his back to the lawn and was caught unawares. Spinning around, he found himself looking at a little blonde girl, dressed in a white pinafore: he guessed that she was the Burnhams’ daughter.

  Suddenly he realized that his chest was naked and that she was staring at it. Flushing in embarrassment, he retreated quickly into deeper water, stopping only when his body was submerged up to the neck. Then he turned to face her: ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello.’

  She looked at him gravely, cocking her head like a bird: ‘You’d better get out of the water,’ she said. ‘Mama says the river’s filthy and only horrid heathens and Gentoos bathe in it.’

  ‘Does she?’ he said, in panic. ‘But then you mustn’t tell her you saw me in the river!’

  ‘Oh, but she knows already. She was watching you with her bring-’em-near, from her bedroom window. I saw her.’

  Now another voice came echoing across the lawn: ‘Annabel! Annabel! Oh, you budmash larkin, have you no shame?’

  Zachary looked up to see the bonneted figure of Mrs Burnham streaming across the lawn in a torrent of lace and fluttering silk.

  He retreated again, sinking even deeper into the water, allowing it to cover him almost to the chin.

  ‘Oh Annabel! What a bandar you are running out into the hot sun. We’ll be lucky if we’re not roasted half to death!’

  Mrs Burnham was running so hard that the bonnet had flown off her head: it would have fallen but for the pink ribbon that held it fast to her neck. Her ringlets were flying around her face and there were bright red spots on both her cheeks.

  Chastened though he was, it did not escape Zachary that Mrs Burnham’s appearance was in no small measure enhanced by her flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair. Nor was the Junoesque appeal of her generous bustline entirely lost on him.

  ‘Oh Annabel!’ With her eyes carefully averted from Zachary, Mrs Burnham clapped her bonnet over her daughter’s face. ‘This budmashee just will not do! Come away, dear. Jaldee!’

  Zachary decided now that he had no option but to brazen it out. Adopting as airy a tone as he could muster, he said: ‘Hello there, Mrs Burnham – terribly hot, isn’t it? Thought I’d cool off with a quick bath.’

  An outraged quiver went through Mrs Burnham’s body, but she did not turn to look at him. Speaking over her shoulder, through clenched teeth, she said: ‘Surely, Mr Reid, there is some provision for bathing inside the budgerow? And if there is not then some must be made – for we certainly cannot have you wallowing in the mud, like a sunstruck buffalo.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Burnham; I didn’t think—’

  She cut him off sharply. ‘I must ask you to remember, Mr Reid, that ours is a Christian house and we do expect a certain modesty, in all things …’

  Words seemed to fail her here, and she quickened her step, steering her daughter in front of her.

  Zachary called out after her rapidly retreating back: ‘I do apologize for my state of undress, Mrs Burnham. Won’t happen again, I promise you.’

  He received no answer, for Mrs Burnham and her daughter were already halfway to the house.

  *

  A fortnight went by without any mention of Bahram’s finances. Through that time not a word was said to Shireen about the state of her husband’s business affairs at the time of his death.

  At first Shireen was too distraught to give this any thought. It was only after the initial shock of bereavement had passed that she began to wonder about the silence.

  In a family like theirs, where matters of business weighed on every mind, there was something a little unnatural about the studied avoidance of this one topic, especially since it was well known to everyone that Bahram had travelled to China with the avowed intention of taking over the shipping division of Mestrie & Sons, a firm that had been in Shireen’s family for generations.

  Of Shireen’s immediate relatives those who were best placed to be informed about Bahram’s business affairs were her two brothers, who had jointly inherited the company upon their father’s death, a couple of years before. Shireen could scarcely doubt that they knew something about the state of her husband’s finances, yet neither of them showed any signs of broaching the subject, even though they visited her several times each day.

  It was certainly no secret to Shireen that her husband and her brothers had been locked in a struggle over the company after her father’s untimely death. The tussle was not unexpected: her brothers had never considered Bahram worthy of the Mestrie family and he in turn had heartily reciprocated their ill-will. Ever since the day of Shireen’s wedding the tensions between her siblings and her husband had snapped and whirred around her, like ropes around a windlass. But through most of her married life Shireen had been privy only to the familial aspects of the conflict: where matters of business were concerned her father had enforced an uneasy peace. It was only after the patriarch’s death that Shireen had herself become the pivot on which the family’s tensions turned.

  No one knew better than Shireen how betrayed and ill-used her husband had felt when her brothers had tried to pension him off so that they could dispose of the branch of the company that Bahram had himself built up – the hugely profitable shipping and export division. But to be a party to his own dispossession was not in keeping with Bahram’s character: he had decided to acquire the export division for himself, and to that end he had invested in a massive consignment of goods for China, in the hope of raising the funds for an outright purchase. Not being a man for half-measures he had decided that his consignment would consist of the largest cargo of opium ever to be shipped from Bombay. To raise the money for it he had tapped every source of capital available to him – business partners, community leaders, relatives – and finding himself still short he had turned finally to Shireen, asking her to pawn her jewellery and mortgage the land she had inherited from her father, in Alibaug and Bandra.

  Over the years Shireen had been at odds with Bahram over many things, most of all his apparent unconcern for their lack of a son. She had often pleaded with him to search for a cure, but he had never taken the matter seriously, which had caused her great pain and regret. But when it came to business she knew that his instincts were unerring – he had always proved his doubters wrong. She herself, being of a naturally pessimistic bent, had often been among those who expected his ventures to fail. But they never had – and in time she had grown to accept that in these matters it was best to trust her husband’s judgement. So in the end she had yielded to his entreaties and allowed him to dispose of her inheritance as he thought best.

  What had happened to that money? Why had nobody mentioned it to her? For a while she clung to the reassuring notion her family was avoiding the subject because they did not want to raise it in company. It was true certainly that between her daughters, her sisters, her grandchildren and her own sizeable contingent of bais and khidmatgars, there was scarcely a moment when she was alone. Even her nights were not really her own, for there was always someone at hand to make sure that she took a liberal dose of laudanum before going to bed.

  Shireen was not ungrateful for her family’s support, yet, after a while, it became apparent to her that there was something odd about
the nature of their sympathy. Her relatives’ concern seemed to be focused entirely on herself – her departed husband seemed hardly to figure in their thoughts. When she made an attempt to reverse this, by announcing that she wanted to hold a lavish ‘Farvandin roj’ ceremony for Bahram, in the Fire Temple, no one paid her any mind. Instead, without consulting Shireen, the family organized a small service that was attended only by a few close relatives.

  When she tried to question her daughters about this they fobbed her off by muttering about the expense. She knew then that something was being concealed from her and that she would have to take matters into her own hands. The next day she sent notes to her brothers asking them to visit her as soon as possible.

  Next morning, punctilious as ever, they came up together, dressed for the day, in crisp angarkhas and neatly tied white turbans. After a few conventional words of greeting Shireen said: I’m glad you’ve come; I’ve been wanting to ask you about some things.

  What things?

  About my husband’s business dealings. I know he had sunk a lot of money into this last trip to China. I was wondering what became of his investments.

  There was a silence and Shireen saw that they were exchanging glances, as if to urge each other to go first. To make it easier for them to speak she broke in: You must tell me; I should know.

  They fell on this opening with some relief.

  The situation was very unfortunate, they said. Bahram-bhai had made some terrible mistakes; his love of risk had led to calamity; he had taken an enormous gamble and his wager had gone disastrously awry.

  Shireen’s fingers snaked through the folds of her white sari seeking the comfort of the sacred kasti threads that were girdled around her waist.

  What happened? she said. Tell me about it.

  After some hesitation they began to speak together: It was not entirely Bahram’s fault, they said. He had been caught unawares by recent developments in China. Soon after he reached Canton a new viceroy had been appointed, a mandarin by the name of Commissioner Lin – by all accounts a power-crazed madman. He had detained all the foreign merchants and forced them to surrender the opium they had shipped to China that season. Then he had personally overseen the destruction of their cargoes – goods worth millions of Spanish dollars! Bahram was among the biggest losers; his entire cargo had been seized and destroyed – a consignment that he had bought mostly with borrowed money. As a result his debts to his creditors in Bombay were still unpaid; had he returned he would have had to default and declare bankruptcy – this wasn’t surprising perhaps; he had always been a gambler and a speculator, just like his grandfather before him.

  Shireen listened as if in a daze, with her hands clasped on her lap. When they had finished, she said: Is there really nothing left? Nothing?

  They shook their heads: there was nothing. Bahram had left behind nothing but debts. Such were the circumstances that his flagship, the Anahita, had perforce been sold off at Hong Kong, to one Benjamin Burnham, an English businessman, for a price far below the vessel’s value. Even the houses Bahram had built for his daughters would need to be sold. Fortunately she, Shireen, was provided for – she still had this apartment, in their family house; at least she would never have to worry about having a roof over her head. And her sons-in-law were both doing well; they had decided to put money into a fund that would provide her with a monthly allowance. She would have to economize of course, but still with a bit of care she would certainly be able to get by.

  At this point an odd thing happened. A butterfly flitted through an open window, hovered over their heads for a bit, and then settled briefly on a framed portrait of Bahram. Shireen gasped and pulled off her veil: the portrait was one that Bahram had brought back from Canton many years before. It showed him in a dark blue choga, sitting with his knees slightly apart, his square face, with its neatly trimmed beard, looking startlingly handsome, a smile curling his lips.

  Shireen had always believed that even the most trivial occurrences could be freighted with meaning; to her it seemed self-evident that when things happened in conjunction – even small things – the connections were never without significance. Now, even after the butterfly had flown away, she could not wrench her gaze from the portrait. Bahram seemed to be looking directly at her, as though he were trying to tell her something.

  Shireen took a deep breath and turned to her brothers: Tell me; is there any chance at all that some part of my husband’s investments may be recovered?

  They glanced at each other and began to murmur in low, regretful voices, as if to apologize for quashing her hopes.

  There was indeed a chance, they said, that some of the money might be recovered. Bahram was not the only foreign merchant to have his goods seized; many others, including several important British businessmen, had surrendered their cargoes to Commissioner Lin. The authorities in London would not allow these confiscations to pass unchallenged: they were not like Indian rulers, who cared nothing for the interests of businessmen – they understood full well the importance of commerce. It was rumoured that they were already planning to send a military expedition to China, to demand reparations. If there was a war and the Chinese lost, as was likely, there was a good chance that some of Bahram’s money would be returned.

  But …

  Yes? said Shireen.

  But when the time arrived for the distribution of the recovered funds, there would be no one at hand to represent Bahram. There was sure to be a scramble for the funds and the other merchants would be there in person, present and ready to claim their share.

  Shireen’s mind cleared as she thought about this. But couldn’t we send someone to represent us? she asked. What about Vico?

  They shook their heads. Vico had already declined, they said. He was after all only Bahram’s purser and had no standing either with the Canton Chamber of Commerce or the British government. The foreign merchants of Canton were a tight little circle, impossible for outsiders to penetrate. Bahram had himself been a member of that group, so they might well be sympathetic to his family’s claims if approached by a blood relative – but unfortunately there was no one to play that part for Bahram.

  Shireen knew exactly what was being implied – that things would have been different if she and Bahram had had a son to represent their interests. She had so long tormented herself with this thought that she had no patience for it now. But what about me? she said, blurting out the first words that came to mind: What if I were to go myself?

  They stared at her, aghast. You?

  Yes.

  You? Go to China? You’ve never even stepped out on the street by yourself!

  Well, why shouldn’t I go? Shireen retorted. After all, your wives and daughters go out in public, don’t they? Don’t you boast to your English friends about how ‘advanced’ our family is and how we don’t keep purdah?

  Shireenbai, what are you talking about? It’s true that our wives don’t keep strict purdah but we have a certain standing in society. We would never allow our sisters and daughters to wander around the world on their own. Just imagine the scandal. What would people say?

  Is it scandalous for a widow to want to visit her husband’s grave?

  At that point, they seemed to decide that she needed to be humoured and their voices softened.

  You should talk to your daughters, Shireen. They’ll explain the matter to you better than we could.

  August 11, 1839

  Canton

  Yesterday I ran into Compton while walking down Thirteen Hong Street. Ah Neel! he cried. Zhong Lou-si wants to see you!

  I asked why and Compton explained that Zhong Lou-si had been very impressed by his report on opium production in Bengal. On hearing of my part in it, he’d said that he wanted to yam-chah (drink tea) with me.

  Of course I could not say no.

  We agreed that I would come by Compton’s print shop the next day, at the start of the Hour of the Rabbit (five in the afternoon).

  I arrived a few minutes bef
ore Zhong Lou-si’s sedan chair came to the door. He looked older than I remembered, stooped and frail, with his wispy white beard clinging to his chin like a tuft of cobwebs. But his eyes were undimmed with age and they twinkled brightly at me.

  So, Ah Neel! I hear you’ve been learning to speak Cantonese? Haih Lou-si!

  Zhong Lou-si is not Cantonese himself but he has been in Guangdong so long that he understands the dialect perfectly. He was very patient with my faltering efforts to speak the tongue. I did not acquit myself too badly I think, although I did occasionally have to seek help from Compton, in English.

  It turned out that Zhong Lou-si had asked to meet with me for a special reason: he is composing a memorandum about British-ruled India – he used the word Gangjiao, which is the commonly used term for the Company’s territories – and he wanted to ask me some questions.

  Yat-dihng, yat-dihng, said I, at which Zhong Lou-si said that rumours had reached Canton that the English were planning to send an armed fleet to China. Did I have any knowledge of this?

  I realized that the question was deceptively simple and had probably been phrased to conceal the full extent of Zhong Lou-si’s intelligence on the subject. I knew that I would have to be careful in choosing my words.

  Among foreigners, I said, it had long been rumoured that the British would soon be sending a military expedition to China.

  Haih me? Really? Where had I heard this? From whom?

  I explained that many men from my province Bengal – (Ban-gala is the term used here) – were employed as copyists and ‘writers’ by British merchants. There were some Bengali copyists even in the staff of Captain Elliot, the British Plenipotentiary, I told him. We often exchanged news amongst us, I said, and it was common knowledge that Elliot had written to the British Governor-General in Calcutta, in April this year, asking for an armed force to be assembled for an expedition to China. I told him that I had overheard Mr Coolidge and his friends talking about this recently, and they appeared to believe that the planning for the expedition had already begun, at British military headquarters in Calcutta. But nothing would be made public until authorization was received from London.