by Amitav Ghosh
It was around this time that officials in Guangzhou received news of the seizure of Chusan and the fall of Ting-hae. It was then too that the city’s officials learnt that a large number of British merchant vessels had accompanied the expeditionary fleet and were actively engaged in selling opium, up and down the coast.
These developments came as bitter blows to Commissioner Lin who had, even until then, nurtured the hope that a negotiated settlement, leading to a resumption of trade, would be worked out. But now, seeing that hostilities had already been launched by the British, he became convinced that the only way the opium trade could be brought to a halt was by wholly evicting the invaders from China. To that end notices were distributed along the coast offering rewards for the capture of enemy aliens. Not all foreigners fell under this head: Portuguese, Americans and some others were exempted. The notices were targeted solely at British subjects, which included Parsi merchants as well as Indian soldiers and sepoys.
Macau was the one place on the mainland where there was still a substantial British presence: it was there, if anywhere, that the notices were expected to produce results. And soon enough a courier came hurrying to Guangzhou to report that an Englishman had been captured in Macau, along with two Indian servants: they had been spirited into the mainland and were now in the custody of provincial officials.
The courier was sent back post haste: the captives were to be treated with the utmost consideration, wrote Commissioner Lin, and they were to be brought immediately to Guangzhou.
Over the next few days Guangzhou was swept by rumours: it was said that the captured Englishman was a personage of great consequence, possibly Commodore Bremer himself. This created great excitement, for the commodore had by this time achieved an almost mythic stature, being credited with all manner of demonic attributes: he was said to be fantastically tall, with burning eyes, an enormous mane of red hair and so on.
Much to everyone’s disappointment the Englishman, on arrival, proved to be a short, slight young man, much given to striking extravagant poses, sometimes knitting his legs together as though in need of a chamber-pot, and sometimes rolling his eyes at the heavens, like a farmer yearning for rain. On questioning it turned out that his name was George Stanton, and that he was a twenty-three-year-old Christian evangelical who had interrupted his studies at Cambridge in order to save souls. Since there was no ordained clergyman in Macau he had claimed the preacher’s pulpit for himself and had proceeded to deliver a series of sermons to the remnants of the city’s English community.
Being a man of strict habits it was Mr Stanton’s daily practice to bathe in the sea at sunrise, usually in the company of some other young men in whom he had tried to inculcate certain improving practices. It turned out that it was his diligence in this regard that had led to his capture: one morning Mr Stanton and his servants had arrived at Macau’s Cacilhas beach to find it deserted. Mr Stanton had proceeded with his swim, as usual – and this was when a group of agents from the mainland had effected his capture, whisking him away in his still-wet breeches and banyan, along with his two servants.
It fell to Neel to question the two servants, whose names had been recorded by the captors as Chan-li and Chi-tu: it turned out that they were actually Chinnaswamy and Chhotu Mian, from the Madras and Bengal presidencies respectively. They were both in their late teens and had previously been employed as lascars, of the rank of kussab. They had entered Mr Stanton’s service in Singapore where they had been stranded after a dispute with their former serang.
While corroborating Mr Stanton’s account in a general sense the two lascars were emphatic in dissociating themselves from him, describing him as the worst, most foolish master that could be imagined, a complete ullu and paagal. He had made them rise before dawn every day to walk with him to the beach, all the while exhorting them to take cold baths themselves – this was the only sure method, he had assured them, of foiling the constant temptations of a horrible, debilitating disease.
It had taken them a long time to figure out what he was talking about and when they did, they had realized that he was completely insane. They had resolved to leave his service as soon as possible, but no opportunity for escape had arisen, and now here they were, captives in Guangzhou!
Bas! said ChhotuMian with bitter relish. At least Stanton-sahib will get his punishment too. Without his bath he will be helpless, no? His hands will have no mercy on him.
But the lascars’ satisfaction was misplaced: on Commissioner Lin’s orders Mr Stanton was provided with excellent accommodation, in Canton’s Consoo House. He was also given a Bible, writing materials and every facility that he desired.
As for Chinnaswamy and Chhotu Mian, on Neel’s recommendation they were sent off to join Jodu, on the Cambridge.
After it had been determined that Mr Stanton was a person of no consequence there was no particular reason to detain him in Guangzhou. He would have been set free if the matter had not taken another turn: the Portuguese Governor of Macau sent a letter – evidently written under pressure from British officials – demanding Mr Stanton’s immediate release, on the grounds that he had been illegally captured on Portuguese territory (of the lascars and their fate, Neel noticed, there was no mention).
The letter infuriated Commissioner Lin. This was not the first time he had been forced to remind the governor that Macau was not foreign territory but a sovereign part of China, on which the Portuguese had been allowed to settle as a special favour: he now decided that the time was ripe for an assertion of this principle. To that end a large squadron of war-junks was sent to Macau, through the inner channels of the Pearl River delta, in order to evade the British blockade. In addition a force of some five thousand troops was also sent down, to take up positions along the massive barrier wall that marked Macau’s northern boundary.
All this happened very quickly, amidst an atmosphere of rising tension and uncertainty in Guangdong. Neel had a hazy idea that something significant was afoot but had no inkling of what it was. Then, on the morning of 14 August, Compton told him that Zhong Lou-si was proceeding towards Macau in person and had decided to include Neel in his entourage. Since Macau had a large number of people from Xiao Xiyang – Goa – it was thought that his services might be required.
Zhong Lou-si and his entourage left Guangzhou that afternoon. Their boat made its way southwards through the inland channels of the delta and brought them to their destination the next day. They landed slightly above the barrier that separated Macau from the rest of the mainland.
The barrier consisted of a heavily fortified wall that arced over the narrow but rugged isthmus that joined the mainland to Macau. On the mainland side the isthmus rose steeply, to a peak that commanded a panoramic view of the Portuguese settlement: from there the curved, tapering peninsula could be seen vanishing into the water like the tail of a gargantuan crocodile.
The area was familiar to Neel: during earlier visits to Macau he had often strolled up to the barrier. On a couple of occasions he had even walked through the gateway, advancing a good distance into the Province of Guangdong: in those days the customs house at the gate was but a sleepy little outpost; the guards would allow sightseers to go through in exchange for a few cash-coins.
Now, approaching the wall from the mainland side, Neel saw that the barrier’s fortifications had been greatly strengthened: a large battery of cannon had been placed along the embrasures and a huge military encampment had appeared on the slope above, with rows of tents ranged behind fluttering banners.
Although Neel asked no questions it was evident to him that a military action was imminent.
*
When Kesri heard that a steamer had taken a group of officers – Captain Mee among them – to Macau for a reconnaissance mission, he guessed that a fight was in the offing. This was confirmed when the Enterprize came paddling back to Saw Chow: within a few minutes Kesri received a summons from Captain Mee.
‘The men must be ready to embark early tomorrow morning,�
� the captain told Kesri. ‘A transport vessel will come for us soon after dawn – the Nazareth Shah.’
At Macau the officers had seen much evidence of warlike preparations by the Chinese, said Captain Mee. They had deployed a large force just above the barrier; in addition a fleet of war-junks had appeared in the inner harbour. There was every sign that the Portuguese colony was shortly to be attacked, an eventuality that Captain Smith, the CO of the southern theatre, was determined to prevent. Accordingly he had decided to launch a pre-emptive action to disperse the Chinese forces. The ground attack was to be led by a detachment of one hundred and ten Royal Marines, supported by ninety armed seamen from the frigate Druid. The Bengal sepoys would accompany the assault force to provide support if needed. They would embark the next day with only a small detachment of essential camp-followers – gun-lascars, bhistis and a medical team; the sepoys’ baggage was to be packed as per Light Marching Orders.
Kesri lost no time in summoning the company’s naiks and lance-naiks: they had practised so many embarkation drills that everyone knew what had to be done.
Next morning reveille was sounded early but the Enterprize was late in arriving so the sepoys had to endure a long wait under the hot sun. But once the embarkation started it went off without mishap: towed by the Enterprize, the sepoys’ transport ship drew close to the tip of the Macau promontory in the late afternoon. Several British vessels were already assembled there: two eighteen-gun corvettes, Hyacinth and Larne, a cutter, Louisa, a few longboats and the forty-four-gun frigate Druid.
Together the British vessels rounded the tip of the promontory and dropped anchor in the Inner Harbour, on the western side of the city, facing the Praya Grande. Ranged opposite them, to the north, where the peninsula joined the mainland, were a dozen or more war-junks and a flotilla of smaller craft. It was evident to Kesri that these ungainly-looking vessels would be no match for modern warships, yet the very strangeness of their appearance, with castellations perched on the prow and stern, bred a certain disquiet, as did the inexplicable bursts of activity that broke out on their decks from time to time, accompanied by gongs, bells, clouds of smoke and massed voices, shouting in chorus. These peculiar outbursts put the sepoys’ nerves on edge.
In the distance, on the ramparts of the Macau barrier, there was a large battery of cannons and ginjalls – tripod-mounted swivel guns, six to fourteen feet long. Beyond the barrier lay a steep slope on which hundreds of pennants and banners were fluttering in the breeze: Kesri reckoned that a few thousand men were bivouacked up there. After nightfall cooking-fires began to glow all over the slope, creating a curious, glimmering effect, like that of fireflies lighting up a tree. It was clear also, from the traceries of light that kept zigzagging across the campsite, that fresh orders were circulating constantly in the hands of runners with torches.
On the Chinese ships too there were signs that preparations were continuing through the night: the water’s soft lapping was pierced every now and again by shouted commands and the sound of gongs.
When daylight broke it was seen that the war-junks had moved closer to the shore. They were anchored in a protective cluster around the projecting walls of the barrier. The battery on the battlements had also been augmented overnight and there were now some two dozen guns ranged along the parapet.
Through the morning Captain Mee and the other senior officers surveyed the defences, steaming back and forth, abreast of the shore, on the Enterprize. It was noon when the signal for the commencement of the attack was hoisted.
The operation began with the Louisa, the Enterprize and the two eighteen-gun corvettes converging on the barrier and taking up positions facing the Chinese vessels. The Enterprize went in so close to shore as to actually thrust her nose into the mud. Then, upon the hoisting of another signal, the warships opened fire from a range of six to eight hundred yards.
As the roar of cannon-fire rolled across the water flocks of waterbirds took wing, darkening the sky. Within minutes, the Chinese gunners were returning fire, even as cannonballs slammed into the battlements around them. For a while they kept up a spirited but erratic fusillade, with most of their shots sailing over their targets. Then, as the corvettes’ thirty-two-pounders found their range, they began to fall silent, one by one, amidst explosions of shattered masonry and dismembered limbs.
Under cover of the bombardment the Druids marines and small-arms’ men had already boarded a couple of longboats. Now, a signal went up on the frigate’s foremast summoning the Enterprize. With a frantic churning of her paddle-wheels the steamer reversed out of the mud and turned her bows around. Pulling up to the Druid, she took the longboats in tow and went steaming past the barrier to the spot that had been chosen for the landing – a beach on the mainland part of the shoreline, from where the Chinese position could be attacked from the rear.
For a while the landing force disappeared from view, vanishing behind a curve in the shoreline. When Kesri next spotted the red-coated soldiers they were coming over the top of a spur, in double column, with the marines on the outer flank. Their position was exposed to the heights above as well as to battery on the barrier. Coming over the ridge they ran into heavy matchlock- and cannon-fire. Then detachments of Chinese troops began to advance on them from two sides.
Suddenly the British attack came to a halt. The Druids small-arms’ men had a field-piece with them but before they could assemble it the landing-party was ordered to fall back on the beach.
Even as the retreat was under way, another flag was hoisted on the Druid. Captain Mee took a look and turned to Kesri: ‘The signal’s up. We’re to move forward to support the marines.’
Kesri snapped off a salute: Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.
The sepoys and their contingent of supporters were already on deck. The barrels of the howitzers and mortars, each of which weighed several hundred pounds, had been lowered into a cutter earlier; now the rest of the unit followed.
The camp-followers went first, led by the bhistis, their shoulders bowed by the weight of their water-filled mussucks; then came the medical attendants with rolled-up litters, and after them the gun-lascars, bearing the disassembled parts of a howitzer and its gun-carriage. Maddow, the newly recruited gun-lascar, was carrying a pair of hundred-pound wheels as if they were toys, one on each shoulder.
When the sepoys’ turn came, Kesri positioned himself at the head of the side-ladder so that he could observe the men as they filed past: they were unblooded troops after all, going into action as a unit for the first time. As such Kesri would not have been surprised to detect signs of nervousness or distraction on their faces – but he saw saw none of those fleeting, uneasy movements of the eyes that were always a sure indication of skittishness. None of the sepoys so much as glanced at him as they stepped down the ladder: to a man their eyes were fixed on the knapsack ahead. It pleased Kesri to see them moving smoothly, like spokes in a wheel, with their minds not on themselves but on the unit: it meant that the hard work of the last many months had paid off, that their trust in him was so complete that they knew, even without looking, that he was there, his presence as certain and dependable as the hand-rail that was guiding them down the ladder and into the longboat waiting below.
The boat’s tow ropes had already been attached to the Enterprize: the craft surged ahead as soon as Captain Mee and the subalterns had boarded. The sound of the steamer’s paddle-wheel drowned out the rattle of gunfire in the distance; the crossing seemed to take only a few minutes and then they were racing over the gangplank to join the marines at their beachhead.
As the sepoys formed ranks bhistis came running through, pouring water into their brass lotas. In the column beside them, the marines were urinating where they stood, in preparation for the advance. Knowing that there would be no time to relieve themselves once the attack began, the sepoys followed suit.
Captain Mee took command now, ordering the columns to advance, with the marines on the right flank. They ran up the slope at a steady trot and as they
came over the top of the elevation, the order to fire rang out. This time the sepoys and marines were able to throw up a thick curtain of fire, even as bullets were whistling over their own heads.
With volley following on volley, the charcoal in the gunpowder created a great cloud of black smoke, reducing visibility to a yard or two. Coughing, spluttering, the sepoys were half-blinded by the acrid smoke and half-deafened by the massed roar of the muskets. But there was no check in their stride: the habits ingrained by their training – hundreds of hours of daily drills – took over and kept them moving mechanically forward.
Kesri was in ‘coverer’ position, in line with the first row of sepoys. After the start of the battle his attention shifted quickly from the opposing lines to his own men. Many a time had he spoken to the sepoys about the surprises of the battlefield – the unpredictability of the terrain, the din, the smoke – yet he knew all too well that the reality always came as a shock, even to the best-prepared men.
Above the booms of the cannon and the steady rattle of musket-fire he caught the sound of a bullet hitting a bayonet, an eerie, vibrating tintinabullation. Looking into the smoke, his eyes sought out the ghostly outline of the sepoy whose weapon had been struck: he was holding his musket at arm’s length, gaping at the Brown Bess as though it had come alive in his hands and were about to skewer him. With a couple of steps Kesri crossed to his side and showed him how to kill the sound, by placing a flat palm upon the metal. Next minute, right behind him, there was the abrupt, metallic pinging of a musket-ball, ricocheting off the brass caging of a sepoy’s topee. The man who had been hit would be deafened by the sound, Kesri knew: the noise would reverberate inside his skull as though his eardrums were being pounded by a mallet. Sure enough, the sepoy – a boy of seventeen – had fallen to his knees, with his hands clasped over his ears, shaking his head in pain. Leaping to his side, Kesri pulled the boy to his feet, thrust his fallen musket into his hands, and pushed him ahead.
