Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  *

  ‘And you see that promontory, abeam of the larboard bow?’ boomed Mr Doughty, pointing in a north-westerly direction. ‘Somewhere there lies Macau!’

  Down on the maindeck, Raju raised a hand to shade his eyes as he peered ahead: Macau was where his journey would end; this was where he would be reunited with his father!

  Excitement and anticipation bubbled up in him until they could no longer be contained. ‘Look!’ he said to Dicky. ‘That’s where I am going – Macau! That’s where my uncle is!’

  Dicky pulled a face. ‘Lucky bastard!’ he said enviously. ‘How is it that you civvy buggers have all these bloody uncles, and aunts, and fathers, and mothers?’

  The fifer spat overboard, into the foam-flecked sea. ‘We Lower Orphanage fellows, we don’t have even one bloody relative.’

  Although Dicky’s tone was jocular there was an edge to it that made Raju wilt: the pleasure with which he had been looking forward to leaving the ship now gave way to a guilty unease for having so joyfully welcomed the prospect of abandoning his friend. Turning away in confusion, Raju went down to the cubicle and began to gather his meagre belongings together. He was stuffing them into his ditty-bag when Zachary came in.

  ‘So this is it I guess, eh kid-mutt? You and I will soon be going our own ways?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Raju shyly held out his hand. ‘Thank you for bringing me with you, sir. If not for you I wouldn’t be here.’

  Zachary smiled as he shook the boy’s hand. ‘You’re a good lad, kid-mutt,’ he said. ‘I hope things work out well for you.’

  A minute later, the ship’s bell began to ring, announcing the sighting of the fleet.

  They went racing back to the deck to find that a mass of Union Jacks had appeared on the waters ahead, at the western edge of the Pearl River estuary.

  The grandeur of the landscape made the fleet look even more impressive than at Singapore: its masts, flags and pennants were so thickly bunched together that it was as if a great fortress had arisen out of the water.

  Twenty warships were at anchor there, including three seventy-four-gun men-o’-war, Wellesley, Melville and Blenheim; two forty-four-gun frigates, Druid and Blonde and no fewer than four steamers. Clustered around them were twenty-six transport and supply vessels with names like Futty Salaam, Hooghly, Rahmany, Sulimany, Rustomjee Cowasjee and Nazareth Shah. And everywhere in the channel, circling ravenously around the ships of the fleet, were bumboats – hundreds of them, bedecked with a vast array of wares: vegetables, meat, fruit, souvenirs.

  Guarding the fleet’s southern flank was a twenty-eight-gun frigate, Alligator. No sooner had the Hind drawn level with the frigate than her towropes were tossed off: in her present state she was in no condition to wend her way through those crowded waters to join her sister vessel, the Ibis, which was a good distance away.

  Even before the Hind had dropped anchor, cutters, lighters and bumboats were converging on her from every direction.

  *

  The Hind’s cargo of opium was large enough that it took a good few hours to offload it into a longboat. By the time Zachary stepped into the boat, to escort the cargo to the Ibis, it was well past noon.

  The air was as heavy as a hot compress: the torpid stillness of the afternoon had created a steamy haze so that the towering masts of the anchored frigates shimmered like trees in a fog.

  Zachary was sitting in the stern of the longboat, facing forward: rounding the prow of a sloop-o’-war he caught sight of a large daub of orange, sitting perched in the bows of a fast-moving gig.

  In a few minutes the splash of colour resolved itself into a familiar shape and form.

  ‘Baboo Nob Kissin?’

  ‘Master Zikri!’ cried the gomusta. ‘Is it you?’

  The gomusta, overjoyed, made an attempt to rise to his feet, almost overturning the gig. Sinking quickly back to the bench, he cried: ‘Master Zikri, you will live a hundred years! For you only I was going to look – it is a very urgent matter!’

  ‘What is it, Baboo?’

  ‘Captain Chillingworth is laid down with severe indispositions: one day stool is like porridge next day like curds. Tongue has also become black and furry, like bandicoot’s tail. He has been evacuated to Manila. In his absence I am glad to intimate an auspicious news: in lieu of himself Mr Chillingworth has appointed you captain of Ibis!’

  ‘Me? Captain?’ Zachary narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you ironizing me, Baboo?’

  ‘Hai, hai!’ Shaking his head solemnly, Baboo Nob Kissin bit his tongue. ‘I would never treat such a matter, with levitation. Look – I can prove to you that I am not laughing in my sleeve.’ Baboo Nob Kissin drew out a sealed letter and handed it over: ‘Here is authorization-chitty, issued by Mr Chillingworth. It is most fortunate that you have arrived today. You must join duty now only. Departure has been preponed – we must set sail tomorrow.’

  As Zachary was examining the letter, Baboo Nob Kissin lowered his voice and leant a little closer. ‘One secret I will impart: all this was my idea – I only told Captain Chillingworth that you are suitable for captain’s job. Now see how nicely everything has worked out? You will be able to sell your own opium and Mr Burnham’s also. Soon you will be making money, fist over wrist!’

  Amazed by yet another unexpected upturn in his fortunes, Zachary was still staring at the letter. ‘Holy gollation, Baboo! I don’t know what to say.’

  The gomusta in the meantime had bethought himself of another matter: ‘And what about the boy, Raju? I hope he did not create botherations?’

  ‘No, not at all. He’s waiting on the Hind – he’s got his things packed and is all ready to go off to his uncle.’

  At this a scowl appeared on the Baboo’s face. ‘Regarding that matter unfortunately a problem has risen up. Raju’s uncle has absconded from Macau – he has gone upcountry and is not reachable. Never mind. I will explain everything to Raju.’

  ‘I left him on the Hind – you’ll find him there.’

  As the boats were pulling apart, a thought struck Zachary and he turned around, cupping his hands around his mouth: ‘Baboo, what about the letter I sent with you? For Miss Paulette Lambert?’

  ‘She has received it, Master Zikri!’ the gomusta shouted back. ‘Not to worry – it has been delivered into her hands!’

  *

  Shortly after the Hind’s arrival Captain Mee and the subalterns left for the Wellesley, to meet with Colonel Burrell and Commodore Bremer. Kesri was not sorry to see the officers go: their departure left him free at last to give his attention to those who needed it most – the sepoys and camp-followers.

  The events of the last few days – the lightning strike, the dismasting, the deaths and injuries – had reduced many of the boys and men to a state where they seemed unable to absorb, or even notice, what was happening around them. Nor did their numbness dissipate on arrival: many of them began to drift about the decks in a kind of trance, staring at the unfamiliar surroundings and listening bemusedly to the clamour that was rising from the circling bumboats.

  They needed to be taken in hand, Kesri knew, but before he could do anything about it a team of surgeons and medical attendants arrived, to oversee the evacuation of the wounded, and in the confusion of the moment Kesri forgot to order the men to go below. This was an unfortunate omission; later he would curse himself for having allowed the men to witness the evacuation.

  Very few of the evacuees were in a condition to use the usual facilities for debarkation. Neither the side-ladders nor even the swing-lift would serve for the seriously injured so a special crane was set up to winch them down to the waiting boats in a hanging litter.

  The agonized screams of the injured fifers, as they were transferred from their pallets to the litter, were harrowing enough to listen to; worse by far was what happened when it came time for the injured punditji to be moved. He was carried out of the infirmary in an immobile condition, lying prone on a pallet. When his litter was hoisted off the deck, he sat suddenly erect,
like a puppet jerked up by the tug of a string. Raking the maindeck with wild, bloodshot eyes, he uttered a bone-chilling shriek, calling out the name of the god of death, Yamaraj.

  By the time his litter reached the boat the punditji was dead.

  *

  Soon after the Hind dropped anchor Zadig hired a sampan and went off to look for Robin Chinnery. He was gone for what seemed to Shireen an inordinately long time. But just as she was beginning to worry, he returned, full of good cheer.

  Everything was settled, he told Shireen;. the house that Robin had found for Shireen, in Macau, was ready and waiting.

  Shireen gave a sigh of relief. ‘That is very good news, Zadig Bey. I hope you thanked Robin for me? I was beginning to think that something had gone wrong.’

  Zadig was quick to apologize: it had taken him a long time to locate the Redruth, he said, and he had found Robin in a great state – it turned out that he was preparing to sail northwards, with the British fleet.

  ‘But why?’ said Shireen in surprise. ‘Has he joined the navy?’

  This drew a great guffaw from Zadig. ‘No, Bibiji, Robin is the least martial of men. He is actually going along as an artist. He tells me that it is quite the thing nowadays for armies to be accompanied by painters so that their exploits and victories can be recorded for posterity. A colonel has invited him and it is too good an opportunity to be refused. Robin will set sail tomorrow.’

  ‘What a pity,’ said Shireen in disappointment. ‘I would have liked to meet him.’

  ‘He would have liked to meet you too, Bibiji. In Canton, during the opium crisis, he was often at Bahram-bhai’s house. He wanted to offer his condolences but unfortunately there’s no time today. He will come to see you when he returns: in the meantime he sends you his salaams. So does his friend, Paulette.’

  ‘She was there too?’

  ‘Yes, Bibiji – and she too will come to see you some day. She was at Hong Kong you know, when Bahram’s body was found.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Shireen. ‘I didn’t know that. What an odd coincidence.’

  ‘No, Bibiji, not really. Paulette spends a lot of time on the island.’

  Zadig turned to point in the direction of Hong Kong. ‘Do you see that tall mountain over there? That is where Paulette’s guardian, Mr Penrose, has set up a nursery, for his collection of plants. Since Mr Penrose is rather infirm, it is Paulette who takes care of it: she goes there every day.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘Yes, Bibiji, she often goes on her own. She dresses up in breeches and a jacket and no one gives her any trouble. She was up there that day when Bahram died. The nursery has a very good view of the bay and the shore: Paulette noticed a great commotion and came hurrying down to the beach below the nursery. And there she found Vico, the munshi and some lascars from the Anahita gathered around Bahram’s body.’

  Shireen fell silent, resting her eyes on the looming island. ‘I would like to talk to her, Zadig Bey.’

  ‘I’m sure an opportunity will arise soon enough, Bibiji. She too is keen to meet you.’

  *

  Down in the shadows of the dimly lit cubicle, Raju listened numbly as Baboo Nob Kissin gave him the news: his father was no longer in Macau; he had gone off to Canton to take a job; he could not be contacted because the Pearl River was under blockade; even to try to send a message was fraught with risk, since it might bring down suspicion on his head – nonetheless, attempts would be made …

  After listening for a while Raju broke in: Apni chithi likhechhilen na? You had written a letter to him, hadn’t you? You had told him I was coming?

  Yes, of course I had, said Baboo Nob Kissin. But my letter must not have reached him. He must have left Macau before it arrived. He was gone by the time I reached the coast; I have not been able to reach him since.

  The explanation was lost on Raju, who turned on Baboo Nob Kissin as though he were personally to blame: But why? Why did he leave? Why didn’t he wait?

  Because he didn’t know, said Baboo Nob Kissin. It’s not his fault – how could he have imagined that you would set out in search of him? Had he known he would certainly have waited. We just have to send him word, somehow, and I am sure he will come for you.

  But what am I to do till then? cried Raju in dismay. Where will I stay? With whom?

  The boy’s increasingly fraught tone alarmed Baboo Nob Kissin.

  Listen, Raju, he said. Tomorrow I will be leaving to go north on the Ibis – Mr Reid will be the captain. You can come with us as a ship’s boy if you want.

  But I don’t want to move to another ship! cried Raju, his eyes glistening. I have friends on the Hind – why should I leave them? Isn’t it enough that my father isn’t here? Do you want me to lose my friends too?

  Pierced by the note of accusation in his voice, Baboo Nob Kissin could only appeal to the heavens – Hé Gobindo; hé Gopal! Under his breath he cursed himself for having brought this calamity upon his own head: had he not sought out the boy and his mother, in Calcutta, he wouldn’t have had this problem on his hands.

  As so often in his life, the decision had been made for Baboo Nob Kissin by Ma Taramony, his guiding spirit. Having long regarded Neel with a maternal eye, she had decided that it was imperative for Baboo Nob Kissin to visit his wife, on his return from China to Calcutta: it was his duty, she had told him, to tell the unfortunate woman that her husband was still alive and would return some day, to take her and Raju away from Calcutta.

  Although Baboo Nob Kissin had had his reservations, he had obeyed Ma Taramony’s instructions in the belief that the matter would end there. Not for a moment had it occurred to him that he was in danger of being set upon by a wilful and headstrong boy who, on hearing the news would proceed to beg, cajole and demand that he, Baboo Nob Kissin, a mere messenger, come to his assistance in his quest to seek out his father.

  Baboo Nob Kissin had protested to the best of his ability but his resistance had been hindered by an unfortunate quirk of his character: a besetting fear of children. Although more than a match for wily seths and ruthless zamindars, the gomusta was incapable of resisting the importunities of a child – not because of the softness of his heart but out of a deep dread of the terrible power of their powerlessness. When the look in their wide, expressive eyes turned to anger or disappointment, they seemed to him to be gifted with the ability to inflict all kinds of injuries. There was little he would not do to escape their maledictions – and somehow Raju had seemed to be aware of this and had turned it to his advantage, besieging him with pleas, entreaties, cajoleries and veiled threats.

  Nor had the boy’s mother done anything to restrain her son; to the contrary, she had added her own pleas to her son’s: There is nothing for Raju in Calcutta; she had said. He has grown restless and I can no longer manage him. He will go to the bad if he remains here; it is best for him to fufil his heart’s desire and go off to search for his father.

  So Baboo Nob Kissin had agreed to foist the boy on Zachary, fully trusting all the while that Neel was still in Macau and would be able to take charge of his son.

  And now this …

  Look, Raju, said Baboo Nob Kissin. I warned you at the outset that it would be difficult. It was you who were adamant that you wanted to come, no matter what. Now, you must be patient: I will arrange something, I promise, but you must wait.

  At this, a look of exactly the kind that Baboo Nob Kissin most dreaded – wide, wounded and filled with disappointment – entered the boy’s eye: Wait? How long?

  Flustered, the gomusta rose to his feet: I don’t know – and anyway I have to go now, to see Mr Doughty. In the meantime you should think about what you want to do.

  Baboo Nob Kissin disappeared, leaving Raju huddled in a corner.

  Through misted eyes the boy saw again the scene of his father’s arrest, at their family home, in Calcutta, two years before. They had been flying kites together, on a terrace, when their steward came up to say that the Chief Constable had arrived, with a squad of arme
d men. Raju remembered how his father had told him to wait on the terrace; he would be back in ten minutes. So Raju had stayed there, waiting, even after his father was taken away, in a carriage.

  He was aware now of a cold, empty sense of abandonment – a feeling very similar to what he had felt then, except that he was two years older now and no longer trusted in promises. He knew that he could not wait for Baboo Nob Kissin or anyone else to decide his fate: until such time as he was reunited with his father he would have to take his destiny into his own hands. But to know this only made things worse – for he had not the faintest inkling of where to go next or what to do.

  Then came a familiar knocking, on the planks of wood that separated the cubicle from the camp-followers’ cumra. It was followed by Dicky’s voice: ‘Arré Raju? You still there, men?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What-happen? I thought you were leaving for that place – Makoo or something.’

  ‘No, men, can’t. Uncle has gone off somewhere.’ ‘So what you will do now?’ ‘Don’t know.’

  There was a silence and then Dicky said: ‘Arré you know something, men? You can always join our squad, no? We need more fifers; I heard the fife-major talking about it only today.’

  *

  Daylight was fading when the officers returned from their meeting on the Wellesley. The subalterns came bounding up the Hind’s side-ladder, talking excitedly, with an exuberant young cornet leading the way.

  ‘Just our luck to be left out of the action …!’

  ‘Oh how I should have liked to bag my first slantie …’

  Captain Mee came up last, but his voice was the loudest of all: ‘And you can be sure that those bloody bog-trotters of the 49th will never leave off barneying about their little adventures up north …’

  Listening to them Kesri understood that the Bengal Volunteers had been spared an immediate deployment. This was welcome news: after everything they had been through lately the unit was in no condition to face another voyage, even less to go into action. He could only hope that they would soon be sent ashore, to a camp on dry land.