by Amitav Ghosh
‘Good day, Mr Reid!’
Turning with a start, Zachary found himself face to face with the man he had met yesterday on the deck of the Hind – he could not immediately remember his name. He was dressed as he had been the day before, in a light linen suit.
‘Freddie Lee,’ said the man, extending his hand.
‘Hello, Mr Lee!’ said Zachary, giving his hand a shake. ‘Nice surprise to run into you here.’
‘Why surprise?’ said Freddie gruffly. ‘Singapore is a small place, ne? You have seen the town?’
‘No,’ said Zachary. ‘This is my first time ashore.’
‘Come – I show you around,’ said Freddie. ‘Small place; will not take long.’
Some instinct stirred within Zachary, making him hesitate. But then Freddie added: ‘Don’t worry, lah – you and I, soon we will be shipmates.’
‘Really? You’ll be travelling on the Hind?’
‘Yes. My godfather, Mr Karabedian, he invite me share his cabin. I will go with all of you to China, lah.’
Reassured, Zachary said: ‘All right then, Mr Lee. I don’t mind taking a look around.’
Falling into step beside his guide, Zachary followed him down one street and then another, taking in the sights as they were pointed out to him: this building here was the London Hotel, established just a year ago, by Monsieur Gaston Dutronquoy; that over there was the portico of St Andrew’s Church; and there in the distance was the governor’s mansion.
‘Look around you, Mr Reid,’ said Freddie. ‘Look at this town, lah, Singapore, and all fine new buildings. Look at ships in the harbour. You know why they come? Because this is “free port” – they pay no duties or taxes. So where does the city get money?’
‘Can’t tell you, Mr Lee.’
‘Opium of course – is a monopoly of British government. Opium pays for everything – hotel, church, governor’s mansion, all are built on opium.’
In a while the streets became narrower and dustier and Zachary had the sense that they had left the European part of the city behind. Then they came to a road that was little more than a dirt path, winding up a hillside; it was rutted with cart tracks and lined on both sides with shacks and huts. There were plenty of people around, but they were all Indian or Chinese, and none too reputable by the looks of them.
A twinge of apprehension shot through Zachary now, slowing his steps. ‘Thank you, Mr Lee – but it’s getting late. I think I’d better get back to my ship.’
Instead of answering Freddie nodded, as if to signal to someone behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, Zachary saw that they were being followed by two burly men. They too had slowed down.
It dawned on Zachary now that he had allowed himself to be led into some kind of trap. He came to an abrupt halt. ‘Look, Mr Lee,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what your game is, but you should know that I’ve got nothing of value on me.’
Freddie smiled. ‘Why you insulting me, eh? Don’t want your money, Mr Reid.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘Want you visit my friend, lah.’ He pointed to a door that was only a few yards away.
‘Why?’
‘My friend want to meet you, that’s all,’ said Freddie laconically.
They had reached the door now; Freddie held it open and ushered Zachary in. ‘Please, Mr Reid – step in.’
The room that Zachary stepped into was so dimly lit that he was momentarily unsighted. As he stood on the threshold, blinking his eyes, he became aware of a strong, cloying smell – the sweet, oily odour of opium smoke. When his eyes grew accustomed to the murky light he saw that he was in a large, cave-like chamber, with several couches arranged along the walls. The windows were shuttered and what little light there was came from gaps between the tiles on the roof.
In one corner a pot of raw opium was bubbling upon a ring of glowing coal. Two boys were tending the stove, one stirring and the other fanning the flames. When Zachary and Freddie stepped inside, one of the boys came over to remove their shoes. The floor was made of beaten earth; it felt cool beneath Zachary’s bare feet.
‘Come na, Mr Reid.’ Freddie ushered him towards the far end of the room, where two waist-high couches were arranged around an octagonal, marble-topped table.
Stretching himself out on one of the couches, Freddie gestured to Zachary to recline on the other. ‘Please be comfortable, Mr Reid.’
Zachary seated himself on the edge of the couch, in a stiffly upright posture.
‘Tea, eh Mr Reid?’
A boy appeared, with a tray, but Zachary was now so ill at ease that he ignored it.
Freddie reached over, picked up a cup and handed it to him: ‘Please, Mr Reid, is just tea, lah. You must allow me to welcome you properly. Two years back did not think we would meet again like this.’
It took a moment for this to sink in and when it did Zachary almost dropped his teacup. ‘What the hell do you mean, “two years ago”?’
‘Mr Reid, still you do not know who I am?’
The light was so dim that Zachary heard rather than saw him smile.
‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, Mr Lee,’ he said quietly. ‘As far as I know we met yesterday, on the deck of the Hind.’
‘No, no, Mr Reid. On another ship we met, long ago, lah. Maybe will help you remember, eh, if I call you “Malum Zikri”?’
Zachary sat bolt upright and strained to look through the dimness. ‘I don’t know what in hell you’re talkin about, Mr Lee.’
‘If you would try you would remember Malum Zikri.’ Freddie laughed. ‘It was on Ibis, ne? Remember Mr Crowle, lah? First mate’s cabin? Remember his knife? He try do something – maybe stab you, maybe worse? But something happens – you remember? Someone comes in, ne?’
Suddenly, with the vividness of a nightmare, the memories came flooding back to Zachary: he was back on the Ibis, in the first mate’s cabin, trying to steady himself against the pitching bulkheads. Mr Crowle was looming above him, holding a page torn from the crew manifest: ‘Lookit, Reid, don’t give a damn, I don’t, if ye’re a m’latter or not … y’are what y’are and it don’t make no difference to me … we could be a team the two of us … all ye’d have to do is cross the cuddy from time to time …’ Then the flash of a knife-blade, and a snarl: ‘I tell yer, Mannikin, ye’re not nigger enough to leave Jack Crowle hangin a-cock-bill …’
‘Remember, eh, Malum Zikri?’
Freddie rose to light a lamp and held it to his face. ‘See now who I am, lah?’
It was not so much his face as the manner of his movement – quick, economical, precise – that confirmed to Zachary that Freddie was indeed the convict from the Ibis. Exactly so had he appeared in the hatchway that night, armed with a marlinspike, intent on settling his own scores with Mr Crowle. And no sooner was that done, than he had vanished, like a shadow – Zachary’s last glimpse of him was on the Ibis’s longboat, with the other four fugitives, pulling away as the storm howled around them.
Zachary dug his knuckles into his eyes, in an effort to erase these images, trying all the while to hold on to everything he knew to be true: which was that the fugitives had died soon after his last glimpse of them. It was impossible for a craft like the longboat to survive a storm of such violence, he was sure of that – and besides, had he not seen proof of their drowning? The boat itself, upended, with its bottom stove in?
It struck him that the fumes from the boiling opium might have disordered his mind: everything around him seemed uncanny, hallucinatory, alien. He extended a hand towards his host, as if to make sure that he was real and not a shadow.
The figure on the couch did not flinch. ‘Yes, Mr Reid. Is me – not a ghost.’
Zachary turned away and leant back against the headrest. What did this escaped quoddie want with him? Why had he revealed his identity unasked? Surely he knew that Zachary would have to report him to the authorities? And if he did know that then there was no way, surely, that he would allow Zachary to leave that den alive? He
was a practised killer after all.
Zachary’s eyes strayed towards the door. He saw nothing reassuring there: the two men who had followed them were standing guard in front of it.
Freddie seemed to guess what was going through his mind.
‘Look, Mr Reid – you must not think to leave this place just now, eh? Need time to think, or bad mistake you may make. Supposing now you will go to police and say, “Lookee here, have found prisoner who escaped from Ibis” – what you think happen next, eh? How you will prove it? There is nothing to tie me to Ibis, lah. Cannot prove anything – and even if can, what will happen then, eh? I tell them it was you helped us escape. I will tell that you yourself killed Crowle. Because he try do something to you, lah.’
Zachary shrugged. ‘No one would believe you – it’s your word against a sahib’s.’
Freddie smiled, narrowing his eyes. ‘Maybe, eh, I will even tell that Malum Zikri is not so much white as he looks. What then, eh? Maybe that will make big trouble for you among the sahibs?’
This knocked the wind out of Zachary. Knitting his fingers together, he tried to calm himself. ‘Just tell me, Mr Lee – what is it that you want from me? Why have you brought me here?’
‘Said already, ne? Friend wants to meet. Talk with you. Maybe do little business, eh?’
‘Where is your friend then?’
‘Not far.’ Freddie signalled to one of the boys, who went running to a door on the other side of the room. A moment later it opened to reveal the figure of a man dressed in a Chinese gown and cap.
The face was thin and weathered, the eyes hidden inside crevices of skin that had been burned and narrowed by the sun; the mouth was framed by a wispy, drooping moustache and the teeth were stained blood-red by betel.
‘Chin-chin, Malum Zikri!’
This time Zachary made no mistake. ‘Serang Ali? Is it you?’
‘Yes, Malum Zikri. Is me, Serang Ali.’
‘By the ever living, jumping Moses!’ said Zachary. ‘I should’a known … I guess the five of you have stuck together, haven’t you, after getting away from the Ibis?’
‘No, Malum Zikri,’ said the serang. ‘Not together – that way too easy to find, no?’
‘So where are the other three then?’
Seating himself next to Freddie, Serang Ali smiled: ‘Malum Zikri meet allo. In good time.’
Now, as he peered into the serang’s unreadable eyes, an eerie feeling went through Zachary: it was as if he were looking at something that was as implacable and elusive as destiny itself. He remembered that it was Serang Ali who had first planted in his head the ambition of becoming a malum and a sahib; he remembered also the last words he had said to him, shortly before escaping from the Ibis: ‘Malum Zikri too muchi smart bugger, no?’ Even then the words had worried Zachary, because he had suspected that the serang was taunting him. His every sense was on guard now, as he said: ‘What do you want with me, Serang Ali?’
‘Just wanchi ask one-two question.’
‘About what?’
‘How Malum Zikri come to Singapore-lah?’
‘I think you already know the answer to that,’ said Zachary warily. ‘I’ve come on the Hind, as her supercargo.’
‘Your ship carry soldier also?’
‘Yes – a company of sepoys.’
‘How many?’
Zachary narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you want to know, Serang Ali?’
‘Hab rich friend China-side, wanchi know.’
Suddenly Zachary understood: ‘Oh so that’s the game, is it? You’re spying?’
Serang Ali had been chewing paan all this while and he paused now to empty a mouthful of spit into a brass spittoon.
‘Why Malum Zikri talkee so-fashion? We blongi friend, no? Just wanchi little help.’ Serang Ali leant forward. ‘See – Malum Zikri have too muchi chest opium, no? He answer my question; he get very good price. One thousand dollar.’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Good, no-good, ah?’
‘You mean one thousand dollars per chest?’
‘Yes,’ said Serang Ali. ‘One thousand. In silver.’
Zachary began to chew his lip; the offer was almost too good to be true. At this price after ten chests everything else would be profit.
‘So what do you want of me then, Serang Ali?’
‘Nothing, Malum Zikri,’ said Serang Ali. ‘Just wanchi ask one-two question. Come, we shake on it.’
Serang Ali stuck out his hand but Zachary ignored it.
‘No, Serang Ali. Nothing’s settled yet, and it’s not gon’a be until I’ve sold you ten chests of opium at the price you’ve promised: a thousand silver dollars per chest. If we’re going to do any talking, it’ll be after that.’
Serang Ali’s eyes lit up. Clapping Zachary on the back, he said: ‘Good! Malum Zikri still too muchi smart bugger! So-fashion only must do busy-ness. Money down, allo straight.’
May 30, 1840
Honam
This morning I arrived at the print-shop to find Zhong Lou-si seated inside. This had never happened before so I knew something unusual was going on.
Zhong Lou-si and Compton were leafing through a stack of papers. Their faces were sombre, yet incredulous; they looked as though they had received news that they could not quite believe.
Mat liu aa? I said to Compton and he shook his head despondently. Maa maa fu fu Ah Neel – things are not so good.
What’s happened?
Ah Neel, we have received word from Singapore, he said. A British fleet has arrived there, from Calcutta. There are six warships including one that is very big, armed with seventy-four guns. There are also two steamers and twenty transport ships, carrying soldiers and stores. Many of the soldiers are Indians, some from Bang-gala and some from Man-da-la-sa, in the southern part of Yindu. The transport ships all belong to Indian merchants.
How do you know? I asked, and Compton explained that Zhong Lou-si had sent an agent to Singapore, to keep an eye on what was going on. This man is apparently a master-mariner and was once a pirate; he is said to be very well-informed.
And where were the ships heading? I asked, and Compton told me then that their destination is China. As proof of this he showed me a copy of the Singapore Chronicle that had been forwarded to Zhong Lou-si by his agent: it was clearly stated in the paper that the fleet would soon be proceeding to southern China. From there the expedition would sail northwards, to some point from which it could exert pressure directly on Beijing.
Apparently all of this is now public knowledge in Singapore.
The news has come as a great shock to both Compton and Zhong Lou-si. Despite all the warnings, in their hearts I think neither of them believed that the British would actually attack China. Commissioner Lin himself has been known to say that he does not think that it will come to war – I suspect he finds it impossible to conceive that any country would send an army across the seas to force another country to buy opium.
I asked if they knew how many soldiers had reached Singapore. They said that by their agent’s reckoning there were about three thousand, of whom about half are Indian. Zhong Lou-si has taken some reassurance from the size of the force; he thinks the British would have brought more troops if they really intended to wage war. He cannot believe that they would attempt to attack a country as large and as populous as China with such a small army. He thinks the British want only to make a show of force, as they have done twice before – in 1816 and 1823 – when they sent sepoys to Macau.
Surely, said Zhong Lou-si, if they were planning to make war they would send mostly English troops?
He finds it hard to imagine that they would depend on sepoys for something so serious – in similar circumstances the Chinese would never use yi troops.
I pointed out, as I have before, that the British have always relied heavily on Indian sepoys in their Asian campaigns – they did so in the Arakan, in Burma, in the Persian Gulf and so on. I told them also that the number of troops signified nothing: the main thrust of the attack woul
d come from their warships, not their infantry. They would be relying on their navy to overwhelm the Chinese fleet.
Zhong Lou-si conceded that on the water it would be hard for the Chinese forces to resist the English fleet. But he added that at some point the English would also have to fight on land. There they would find themselves at a huge disadvantage in numbers. They would be taught a lesson if they made such a great mistake as to launch a ground assault.
But it appears that the British troops are preparing to do exactly that. According to the agent’s reports from Singapore, the soldiers have been conducting many drills, on land as well as water. One of their weapons has made a great impression on the townsmen because it bears a resemblance to the fireworks that light up the sky on Chinese New Year. The agent has learnt from an informer that the weapon is called a ‘Congreve rocket’ (these two words were written in English, on the margins of the letter, no doubt by the informer).
Zhong Lou-si asked if I knew anything about this weapon and I said no. He then asked if I could find out about it.
At first I was dumbfounded: where on earth was I going to find out about rockets?
But then I had an idea: I remembered hearing that there was a large library in the British Factory in Canton, with books on all manner of subjects.
The factory’s residents are all gone of course, but the building is still looked after by its Chinese servants, many of whom are employees of the merchants of the Co-Hong guild. It struck me that if prodded by Zhong Lou-si they might be able to arrange for Compton and myself to visit the library.
I put the idea to Zhong Lou-si and he was much taken with it: within a few hours we received word that the requisite arrangements had been made.
Shortly after sunset Compton and I went to the British Factory and were led through its deserted interior to the shuttered library, which is on the building’s highest floor.
The lib rary is much larger than I had thought, with comfortable leather armchairs, large desks, and rows and rows of glass-fronted bookcases. There were so many books that we were dismayed; we thought it would take us days to go through each of the shelves.
Fortunately there was a catalogue, lying on a desk. With its help I quickly located a treatise called The Field Officer’s Guide to Artillery: sure enough it contained a section on the Congreve rocket.
