by Amitav Ghosh
In the meantime, the gun-lascars had assembled their gun-carriage; the howitzers opened fire together with the marines’ field-piece. From the squat barrels of the howitzers came dull thudding sounds as they lobbed shells into the fortifications; from the field-piece came deep-throated roars as it hurled grapeshot and canister directly into the ranks of the opposing infantry.
Seeing the Chinese line waver, Captain Mee, who was in the lead, raised his sword to signal a charge. A great howl – Har, har Mahadev! – burst from the sepoys’ throats as they rushed forward. When they emerged from the curtain of smoke, bayonets at the ready, the Chinese line swayed and began to turn; all of a sudden the opposing troops scattered, melting away into the forested hillside.
Now it was all Kesri could do to bring the men to heel: they were in the grip of that euphoria that seizes soldiers after a battle is won, a thing as elemental as the blood-lust of an animal after a hunt. This was when they were at their most dangerous, their discipline at its shakiest: Kesri ran after them, brandishing his sword and shouting dreadful threats as he dhamkaoed and ghabraoed them back into formation – yet in his heart, he was glad that their initiation into combat had happened in this way, in a minor skirmish rather than a pitched battle. As he watched them, sulkily falling back into line, a great pride filled Kesri’s heart: he realized that he would never know a love as deep as that which bound him to this unit, which was largely his own creation, the culmination of his life’s work.
*
Neel was watching from the crest of a nearby hill, along with Zhong Lou-si and his entourage: for him, as for them, the engagement had, through most of its duration, confirmed certain widely held beliefs about the relative strengths and weaknesses of the Chinese and British forces. One of these was that British superiority at sea would be offset by Chinese strength on land; that the defenders’ overwhelming advantage in numbers would allow them to repel a ground invasion.
No one in Zhong Lou-si’s entourage was surprised by the damage inflicted by the British broadsides; they were well aware by now of the lethal firepower of steamers, frigates and other Western warships. The defenders too had been warned beforehand and had made preparations to wait out a bombardment. It was the ground assault that would be the real test, they knew, and when it was launched they had taken satisfaction in the minuscule size of the first landing-party – a total of fewer than three hundred men! They were jubilant when the marines and small-arms’ men were forced into retreat by the thousands of Chinese troops that poured out to oppose them. At that moment Compton and his colleagues had felt that their beliefs had been vindicated and the battle had been won.
It was for this reason that the subsequent rout was doubly shocking, to Neel and Compton alike. Thousands of men put to flight by a force of fewer than five hundred! Not only did it defy belief, it challenged every reassuring assumption about the wider conflict, not least those that related to the effectiveness of Indian troops.
Although nobody mentioned the sepoys to Neel, he overheard Compton saying to someone: If the black-alien soldiers had not arrived the battle would have ended differently.
Neel took a perverse satisfaction in Compton’s words for he had tried often, always unavailingly, to alter his friend’s low opinion of the fighting qualities of Indian troops. Committed though Neel was to the Chinese cause, he was aware now of a keen sense of pride in his compatriots’ performance that day. The matter of who the sepoys were serving was temporarily forgotten; he knew that he would have been ashamed if they had failed to give a good account of themselves.
In other ways too the day was a revelation to Neel. He had never witnessed a battle before and was profoundly affected by what he saw. Thinking about it later he understood that a battle was a distillation of time: years and years of preparation, decades of innovation and change were squeezed into a clash of very short duration. And when it was over the impact radiated backwards and forwards through time, determining the future and even, in a sense, changing the past, or at least the general understanding of it. It astonished him that he had not recognized before the terrible power that was contained within these wrinkles in time – a power that could mould the lives of those who came afterwards for generation after generation. He remembered how, when reading of long-ago battles like Panipat and Plassey, he had thought of them as immeasurably distant from his own life, a matter of quaint uniforms and old-fashioned weaponry. Only now did it occur to him that it was on battlefields such as those that his own place in the world had been decided. He understood then why Shias commemorate the Battle of Kerbala every year: it was an acknowledgement that just as the earth splits apart at certain moments, to create monumental upheavals that forever change the terrain, so too do time and history.
How was it possible that a small number of men, in the span of a few hours or minutes, could decide the fate of millions of people yet unborn? How was it possible that the outcome of those brief moments could determine who would rule whom, who would be rich or poor, master or servant, for generations to come?
Nothing could be a greater injustice, yet such had been the reality ever since human beings first walked the earth.
Fifteen
On Zadig Bey’s advice Shireen stayed indoors during the fighting. But Macau was so small that it was impossible to hide from the terrifying sound of cannon-fire: as she paced her darkened rooms Shireen was visited by all manner of dreadful imaginings. It was not till the late afternoon, when Zadig Bey came running to her house, that she learnt that the Chinese troops had been dispersed.
‘Are you sure, Zadig Bey?’
‘Yes, Bibiji, take my word for it, from now on Commissioner Lin will leave Macau alone. We will be perfectly safe here.’
Shireen was inclined to think that Zadig was being too optimistic but his prediction was vindicated soon enough. Within a day or two it was confirmed that all Chinese troops had been withdrawn from the vicinity of Macau. From then on both Macau and Hong Kong became, in effect, protectorates of the British expeditionary force. Foreigners no longer had anything to fear in either place.
The changed circumstances prompted many foreigners to move to Macau, among them the Parsi shipowner, Dinyar Ferdoonjee. Having made a fortune selling opium in the Philippines and Moluccas, he rented a large house that looked out on the bayside promenade of Praya Grande – the Villa Nova.
It so happened that Dinyar Ferdoonjee was a relative of Shireen’s. When he heard that she was living in rented lodgings he went to see her and begged her to move in with him.
Bahram-bhai had helped him get started in business, Dinyar said to Shireen; he owed it to his memory to look after her. Besides, she would be doing him a favour; he had staffed the villa with cooks and stewards from his ship, the Mor, but being only in his mid-twenties, he was unaccustomed to running a household; he would be most grateful if Shireen could take charge.
Attractive as the offer was, Shireen was reluctant to accept, mainly because she thought Rosa would have trouble finding accommodation for herself. But Rosa told her not to worry; she had a standing invitation to move in with a Goan family of her acquaintance.
After that there was no reason not to accept. Within a week Shireen was comfortably settled in Dinyar’s villa. Nor did she regret it: her new living quarters consisted of an entire wing of the villa; and it was pleasant also to be running a household again. Moreover the Villa Nova was in a splendid location, with a fine view of the promenade and the Inner Harbour. Its frontage consisted of a long, shaded veranda: sitting there of an evening, in a rocking chair, Shireen could see the whole town go by on the Praya Grande. Most days Zadig Bey would stroll past too and more often than not she would step outside to join him on his walk.
Dinyar proved to be an unusually congenial and thoughtful host: Shireen had wondered whether he might look askance on her wearing European clothes and going about without a duenna. But it turned out that Dinyar was exceptionally liberal in his views; not only did he applaud her choice of clothing he als
o declared her to be a pioneer: ‘You’ll see, Shireen-auntie, one day all our Bombay girls will want to dress like you.’
At the same time Dinyar was a proud Parsi, observant in his religious practices and fond of the old customs. He was delighted when Shireen made lacy torans and draped them around the doorways of the Villa Nova.
Shireen was by no means the only person to benefit from Dinyar’s hospitality: he entertained frequently and prided himself on his table – in this, he liked to say, he was merely emulating Bahram, whose generosity and love of good living was a byword on the China coast. Thus, by living with Dinyar, Shireen was able to glimpse an aspect of her husband’s life that she herself had never known.
As the weeks went by other Parsimerchants began to trickle into Macau and the Villa Nova quickly became the community’s meeting place: on holidays the seths would assemble for prayers in the salon; afterwards they would exchange news of Bombay over meals of dhansak, steamed fish, stewed trotters and baked dishes of creamy, shredded chicken: marghi na mai vahala.
But in the end the conversation would always veer around to the questions that most concerned them all: Would the British be able to extract reparations from the Chinese for the opium they had seized? Would the money be adequate? Would their losses be made good?
Shireen was the only person present who did not fret over these questions: rarely had she felt as content as she was in the Villa Nova.
*
In a few short weeks Zachary became so expert in selling opium to offshore buyers that he started seeking out new markets on his own, in remote coves and bays. Almost always his buyers were smugglers from the mainland, members of cartels affiliated with certain gangs and brotherhoods. Once Zachary had familiarized himself with their signals and emblems he had no difficulty in identifying reliable buyers. Nor did language present any difficulty: the negotiations were usually conducted in pidgin, with which Zachary was already familiar through his dealings with Serang Ali. He was well able to bargain on his own behalf.
As it happened many of Zachary’s sales were to a single cartel: the network headed by the tycoon Lenny Chan. But Zachary’s dealings were always with Mr Chan’s underlings; knowing their boss to be an elusive man, Zachary assumed that he was unlikely to meet him on this voyage.
But he was wrong. One sultry August night, off the coast of Fujian, the Ibis was approached by a small, sleek-looking junk; unlike most such vessels, the junk had a canvas lateen sail; at the rear of the maindeck was a large ‘house’, with lanterns bobbing in front of it.
As usual, the negotiations were conducted by a linkister who came over to the Ibis for that purpose. Afterwards, when a deal had been reached, there was a shout from the junk, in Chinese.
Then the linkister turned to Zachary, with a bow: ‘Mr Chan, he wanchi talkee Mr Reid.’
‘Haiyah!’ said Zachary in surprise. ‘Is true maski? Mr Chan blongi here, on boat?’
The linkister bowed again. ‘Mr Chan wanchi Mr Reid come aboard. Can, no can, lah?’
‘Can, can!’ said Zachary eagerly.
The Ibis’s longboat was already loaded and ready to go, with dozens of opium chests stacked inside: usually it was Baboo Nob Kissin who handled the transfer of the cargo, but this time it was Zachary who went.
As the boat approached the junk, an unexpected greeting reverberated out of the darkness: ‘How’re you going on there, Mr Reid?’
The voice was English in its intonation, yet the man who came forward to greet Zachary when he stepped on the junk’s maindeck looked nothing like an Englishman: he had the appearance rather of a prosperous mandarin. His tall, corpulent form was covered by a robe of grey silk; on his head was a plain black cap; his queue was coiled in a bun and pinned to the back of his head. His face had the sagging, pendulous curves of an overfilled satchel, yet there was nothing soft about it: his nose was like a hawk’s beak and his heavy-lidded eyes had a predatory glint. His hand too, Zachary noted as he shook it, was unexpectedly hard and calloused, talonlike in its grip.
‘Welcome aboard, Mr Reid. I’m Lenny Chan.’
‘I’m very glad to meet you, sir.’
‘Likewise, Mr Reid, likewise.’ Putting a hand on Zachary’s shoulder he guided him aft. ‘I hope you’ll take some tea with me, Mr Reid?’
‘Certainly.’
A gust of perfumed air rushed out at them as a sailor held open the door of the junk’s ‘house’: Zachary found himself looking into a brightly lit, sumptuously appointed cabin, furnished with richly carved tables, couches and teapoys.
Seeing that his host had slipped off his shoes, Zachary bent down to follow suit. But Mr Chan stopped him as he was unlacing his boots: ‘Wait!’ He clapped his hands and a moment later a young woman stepped in. She was dressed in an ankle-length robe of shimmering scarlet silk; without looking Zachary in the eye, she sank to her knees, head lowered, and undid his laces. After removing his boots, she disappeared again into the interior of the vessel.
‘Come, Mr Reid.’
Mr Chan led Zachary to a large, square armchair and poured him a cup of tea.
‘We’ve done a lot of business together haven’t we, Mr Reid?’ said Mr Chan, seating himself opposite Zachary.
‘So we have, Mr Chan. I think I’ve sold more than half my cargo to your people.’
Mr Chan’s head was cocked to one side, and his eyes seemed almost shut – but Zachary knew that he was being minutely studied.
‘I hope,’ said Mr Chan, ‘that some of the goods you sold were on your own account?’
‘Only ten chests I’m afraid,’ said Zachary.
‘Well that’s not to be laughed at, is it?’ said Mr Chan. ‘I’ll wager you’re much richer than you were.’
‘That I certainly am.’
‘Though not quite so rich as Mr Burnham perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘But I’m sure you will be soon enough.’ Mr Chan smiled thinly: ‘People say you’re quite the coming man, Mr Reid.’
‘Do they?’ Zachary was becoming a little unnerved now.
‘Yes. I hope we will go on doing business with each other, Mr Reid.’
‘I hope so too, Mr Chan.’
‘Good, good,’ said Mr Chan meditatively. ‘But enough about business – you are my guest today and I would like to invite you to share a pipe. It is the custom, you know – men who have smoked together can trust one another.’
Taken aback, Zachary did not respond immediately.
His hesitation did not pass unnoticed: ‘You do not smoke opium, Mr Reid?’
‘I smoked once,’ said Zachary. ‘A long time ago.’
‘Was it not to your taste?’
‘No,’ said Zachary. ‘Not really.’
‘But if I may say so,’ said Mr Chan, ‘perhaps the circumstances were not right? May I ask if you were sitting or lying down when you smoked?’
‘Sitting.’
‘There you are,’ said Mr Chan, ‘that’s no way to smoke. Chasing the dragon is an art, you know – it must be done properly.’
Rising from his chair, Mr Chan went to a nearby shelf, picked out an implement, and brought it to Zachary. It was an ornate pipe, with a stem as long as a man’s forearm. It was made of a silvery alloy, like pewter, but the mouthpiece was of old, yellowed ivory, as was the octagonal bulb at the other end of the pipe.
‘This is my best pipe, Mr Reid. It is known as the “Yellow Dragon”. People have offered me thousands of taels for it. You will see why if you try it.’
A shiver passed through Zachary as he ran his fingers along the long metal stem. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll try it, this one time.’
‘Good – a man should sample the goods he sells.’ Mr Chan smiled. ‘But if you are to do it, Mr Reid, you must do it properly – and it is not possible to smoke properly in a jacket and trowsers. Better you change into Chinese robes.’
He clapped his hands and the girl appeared again; after exchanging a few words with Mr Chan she ushered Zachary through a door,
into a room that looked like a large wardrobe. Handing him a dove-grey gown, she bowed herself out.
While he was changing Zachary heard the sound of furniture being moved. He stepped out of the wardrobe to find that the cabin’s lights had been dimmed and two couches had been positioned next to each other, in one corner. Between the couches was a marble-topped table, on which lay an array of objects: a box with a lacquered top, a pair of needles with hooked ends, a couple of saucers, and of course, the ‘yellow dragon’, which was almost as long as the table itself. The girl was on her knees beside the table, holding a small lamp.
Mr Chan gestured to Zachary to take one of the couches. ‘Please lie down, Mr Reid, make yourself comfortable.’
After Zachary had stretched himself out, Mr Chan lifted the lacquered box off the table. Handing it to Zachary he said: ‘Look – this is freshly cooked opium, we call it chandu. It is made by boiling raw opium, such as you have in your chests.’
Inside the box lay a small, dark brown nugget. ‘Smell it, Mr Reid.’
The odour was sweet and smoky, quite different from the smell of raw opium gum.
Taking the box from Zachary, Mr Chan handed it to the girl, who was now kneeling between the two couches, with the lamp in front of her. She picked a needle off the table, dipped it into the opium and gave it an expert twirl: it came away with a tiny pellet of the gum, no larger than a pea. This little piece she now stuck into the lamp’s flame; when it began to sizzle and blister she handed it to Mr Chan. Resting the mouthpiece of the ‘yellow dragon’ on his chest, he twirled and tapped the scorched opium on the implement’s ivory cup. This process was repeated twice, without the mouthpiece yet being put to use.
Then Mr Chan said: ‘We’re almost ready now, Mr Reid. When I roast the opium again it will catch fire. The smoke will last for one or two seconds. You must be prepared – you must blow out your breath, emptying your chest so you can draw in all the smoke. When the opium begins to burn I will put it on the dragon’s eye’ – he pointed to the tiny hole in the pipe’s octagonal cup – ‘and you must draw hard.’
