Flood of Fire

by Amitav Ghosh

  Some 2,400 fighting men were to be deployed for the operation, accompanied by the usual contingents of auxiliaries and camp-followers. The force would be divided into four brigades: the Bengal Volunteers, with its 112 sepoys, had been assigned to the 4th Brigade which would also include 273 Cameronians and 215 men of the 37th Madras.

  ‘Any questions, havildar?’

  The only aspect of this plan that worried Kesri was the composition of the 4th Brigade: he knew, from his experience with the Cameronians, that they would be none too pleased at having to join forces with sepoy units – there was bound to be some friction.

  Other than this he had no concerns: the meticulous planning, the carefully drawn chart and the precise numbers were all reassuring, presaging as they did a set-piece operation of the kind at which British commanders excelled. With any luck the battle would bring the campaign to an end and they would be able to go home soon afterwards, with some decent prize money in their pockets.

  ‘Embarkation will be when, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow, 1 p.m., havildar.’

  The lateness of the hour surprised Kesri; it was unusual for a big operation to start so late in the day. ‘Why that time, sir?’

  Captain Mee smiled. ‘Have you forgotten, havildar? It’s the twenty-fourth of May tomorrow – Queen Victoria’s birthday. There’ll be a gun salute at noon.’

  Kesri had indeed forgotten about the Queen’s birthday. He was glad to be reminded of it, however, for this was one of those occasions when sepoys were entitled to a special ‘wet batta’ of grog.

  *

  There being no one else to claim Freddie’s body it fell to Zadig Bey and Shireen to make arrangements for his funeral.

  They quickly agreed that he would be buried according to Chinese rites; that, said Zadig, was what Freddie would have wanted. As for the site, it was Shireen who suggested that he be buried next to his father.

  This suggestion drew a quizzical look from Zadig. ‘But what about Dinyar and the other Parsi seths?’ he said. ‘What will they say about Freddie being buried next to Bahram-bhai? What if they object, because he wasn’t a member of the community?’

  ‘Let’s not worry about the seths,’ Shireen said. ‘What matters is what Bahram would have wanted. And in death at least I think he would have wanted to give Freddie the acceptance he could not give him in life. It’s only right that Freddie should be buried beside him.’

  Zadig did not demur: ‘Yes, that is true – Bahram-bhai would have wanted it so.’

  They agreed also that the funeral would be held that very day. The body had been in the water a long time already and the weather being as hot as it was it would not do to put off the interment. In any case the island would be celebrating the Queen’s birthday the next day, and who knew what problems might arise?

  Since neither Zadig nor Shireen had any idea of how to organize a Chinese funeral, the arrangements were left to Freddie’s landlord. It was he who found a coffin and pasted yellow and white papers on it; he also hired grave-diggers, a cart and a few professional mourners.

  It took a while to get all this done and it was not till late afternoon that the corpse was properly prepared and the coffin closed.

  The sun was dipping towards the horizon when the procession set off from Sheng Wan. As they were leaving the village Zadig said to Paulette: ‘Have you had any news from Robin Chinnery?’

  Paulette nodded: ‘Yes, he sent a letter recently, from India. He fell very ill in Chusan and was evacuated to Calcutta—’

  She broke off to point to the bay, where a longboat could be seen heading towards Sheng Wan. ‘Look, there’s Mrs Burnham.’

  The cart was told to go on while Paulette, Zadig and Shireen went back to the seashore to greet the visitor.

  Despite the heat and humidity, Mrs Burnham was wearing gloves and a veil, as always, except that they were black instead of white. She was mortified to find the others dressed in light-coloured clothing.

  ‘Oh good heavens!’ she said, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘I’ve made an ooloo of myself, haven’t I? I don’t suppose they wear black at Chinese funerals, do they? Should I go back and change?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Shireen. ‘I’m sure it’ll make no difference. It’s enough that you came.’

  Mrs Burnham gave Shireen’s hands a squeeze. ‘Of course, Shireen dear: I’d have come earlier if I had known.’

  The cart was now a long way ahead so they had to hurry after it.

  The old coastal pathway that ran past Sheng Wan village had recently been widened and paved, but work on it was still continuing: the road was to be formally named the next day, in honour of the Queen. Gangs of labourers were putting in milestones and removing rubble as they passed by.

  The cart was waiting for them at the top of the ridge that led to the Happy Valley. On arriving there they saw that a cloud was coming across the valley, trailing a sheet of rain.

  ‘It’s just a shower,’ said Zadig Bey. ‘But we’d better take shelter here while it passes.’

  There were some trees beside the road and they huddled under them to wait.

  From where she stood Shireen could see much of the shoreline of Hong Kong Bay. The year before, when she had gone to visit Bahram’s grave for the first time, there were only a few little villages dotted along the shore. Now there were godowns, barracks, parade grounds, marketplaces and clusters of shanties. Preparations were already being made for the first land auction: plots had been marked out along several stretches of the shore. At some points sampans and junks were anchored so closely together that it was as if the very soil of the island had expanded.

  Paulette too was looking down at the shoreline and she saw that a large, official-looking boundary had been staked out right above the beach where Freddie’s body had washed up earlier in the day. It was there too that he had been sitting the year before when she came down from the nursery and unexpectedly ran into him. The memory brought tears to her eyes and she raised a hand to wipe them away.

  Mrs Burnham was beside her, and she slipped her hand into Paulette’s.

  ‘Do you miss him already, Paulette?’

  Paulette buried her face in her hands. ‘I cannot believe,’ she said between sobs, ‘that he too has left me.’

  *

  At Whampoa the next day, when the guns went off to mark the Queen’s birthday at noon, the blasts seemed to congeal the heat and humidity, making it hard to breathe: Kesri was reminded of the sultry weather that preceded the coming of the monsoons, back home.

  The embarkation took unusually long because the transport vessels were a disparate assortment of junks and local boats, captured only the day before. There were no fewer than thirty of them and it was 3 p.m. before the convoy began to move, with all the boats being taken under tow by the Nemesis. But on the way there were further delays because of attacks by fire-boats; as a result there was only an hour of daylight left when the convoy finally reached the designated landing-point, at Tsingpu village, to the north of Guangzhou.

  When the boats pulled in Kesri was with Captain Mee on the highest deck of the Bengal Volunteers’ transport vessel. Spyglass in hand, the captain was surveying the salient features of the landscape that lay ahead of them: the four forts he’d pointed out on the chart lay almost due south and were dimly visible through the haze.

  The distance between the landing-point and the forts was not great – only three or four miles, as the captain had said – but Kesri saw at a glance that the intervening terrain would not be easy to cross. In between lay a stretch of land that was strikingly similar to the surroundings of his own native village: it was a flat patchwork of fields, covered with green shoots – the crop was rice and Kesri guessed that many of the paddies were flooded. As at home the paths that wound through the fields were very narrow, scarcely wider than a man’s foot, with surfaces of slippery wet clay. Even experienced rice farmers were apt to lose their footing on such pathways; for soldiers and sepoys, balancing muskets and fifty-pound knaps
acks, it would be hard going.

  Nor was the area as sparsely populated as Captain Mee had led Kesri to think. Kesri guessed that several thousand people lived in the tightly packed clusters of houses that dotted the plain. It was probably in order to resist dacoits and marauders that they lived so close together – and evidently this was exactly what the people of Tsingpu had in mind now. Armed with sticks, staves and pikes they were pouring out to confront the squad of marines that had gone ashore to establish a perimeter around the campsite.

  The villagers’ response did not surprise Kesri – people in his own district would have reacted the same way – but the marines were caught off-guard and for a few minutes it looked as though there would be an all-out confrontation. Then an officer took matters in hand: a couple of warning shots were fired, a cordon was formed and the angry villagers were pushed back, past a small temple at the edge of the settlement.

  As soon as the situation had been brought under control General Gough stepped off the Nemesis and marched over to the crest of a nearby elevation, to take stock of the terrain. In the meantime some of the junior officers, Captain Mee among them, went into the village temple to look around. They emerged whooping with delight, having found quantities of offerings inside the temple, among them haunches of fresh meat, which they requisitioned for their own table.

  ‘That fat heathen joss-god can’t have any use for venison, can he?’ said Captain Mee, with a sardonic laugh. ‘So it may as well be used to celebrate the Queen’s birthday.’

  The theft of these offerings further inflamed the villagers and groups of men began to collect around the campsite, brandishing scythes and throwing stones; some were even armed with matchlocks. The marines had to shoot into the air to disperse them.

  These incidents further delayed the disembarkation. When it finally started the Bengal Volunteers, being small in number, were the first of the 4th Brigade’s units to go ashore.

  Sensing an opportunity, Kesri decided to secure a good location for B Company’s tents. He chose a spot on the riverbank, where they were likely to catch a breeze. The sepoys and followers would be grateful, he knew, for an opportunity to wash away the day’s grime in the river – this was a comfort they prized above all others.

  But just as Kesri was issuing instructions to the tent-pitchers, Colour-Sarjeant Orr of the Cameronians appeared: ‘Who the hell said you coolies could settle your black arses here?’ He pointed to the tents of the 37th Madras: ‘You belong back there with the Ram-sammies.’

  Kesri tried to hold his ground but was outranked and heavily outnumbered. When Captain Mee himself took the other side, saying, ‘I’m sorry, havildar, you’ll have to move,’ he had to give in.

  The Cameronians’ taunts rang in Kesri’s ears as he walked away.

  ‘… let that be a lesson to you, boy …!’

  ‘… and you’d better be sure we don’t see any of your nigger-snot back here!’

  Worse still, the only remaining spot was at the back, where there was not a breath of fresh air, but mosquitoes aplenty, swarming in from the rice-fields. The perimeter site was also uncomfortably close – a group of angry villagers had gathered around a clump of trees, just beyond the nearest picket. But there was nothing to be done about any of this: they would have to spend the night here.

  Kesri sighed as he looked around. He could only hope that B Company would soon be gone from this place.

  *

  That night, because of a shortage of camping equipment, the banjee-boys were billeted with the company’s bhistis and gun-lascars, in a tent where their bodies were packed together as tightly as cartridges in a case. The trapped air reeked of unwashed clothing, stale sweat and urine, and the drone of mosquitoes was as loud as a gale. The ground too was swarming with insects so everybody had to sleep fully clothed, with sheets swathed around their bodies for additional protection – and these too were soon soaked in sweat.

  Raju could not sleep, and in a while, hearing a rustling sound, he peered out from under his sheet and saw a shadow slipping out of the tent.

  Beside him, Dicky too was awake. ‘You know where that bugger’s going?’ he whispered.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bet he’s going to have a dip. I heard the bhistis have found a pond nearby. Let’s follow him, men; we can also cool off a little.’

  ‘But what if Bobbery-Bob …?’

  Raju remembered that the fife-major had said that he’d flog anyone who was found outside the tent.

  ‘Balls to bloody Bobbery-Bob,’ hissed Dicky. ‘I’m going, men.’

  With a twist of his body Dicky slipped under the tent-flap. A second later Raju followed.

  A red-rimmed moon was shining dimly through a pearly haze. In the faint light they caught a glimpse of the bhisti’s crouched figure darting past the nearest picket, heading towards an incline where a body of water could be seen shimmering in the darkness.

  They followed slowly, staying low and keeping their eyes on the bhisti as he crept ahead to the water’s edge. Having made sure that nobody was around, the man stripped off his ungah and his pyjamas, and slid quietly into the pond.

  ‘It’s safe, see?’ said Dicky. ‘Come on, men, let’s go.’

  They took a few more steps forward and were only a short distance from the water when they saw the bhisti coming out and reaching for his clothes.

  Then something else caught Dicky’s eye and he ducked under a bush, pulling Raju down with him.

  Peering through the leaves, they saw that three shadowy figures had crept up behind the bhisti as he was pulling on his ungah. Before he could push his head through the neck-hole the shadows lunged at him; with his face still swaddled in the garment, the bhisti was pushed down on to his knees.

  All this happened very quickly so that the bhisti’s single cry for help – Bachao! – was still hanging in the air when a blade flashed in the silvery moonlight. Then the man’s decapitated trunk tumbled forward and the ungah was whisked away, with the head still inside.

  The bundle of white cloth seemed to float off into the darkness as the three figures melted back into the shadows.

  A voice called out from the picket – Kaun hai – who goes there? – and then the guards went running past. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell began to ring, causing a stir in the camp.

  ‘Come on, men.’ Dicky gave Raju’s arm a tug. ‘Follow me and stay low.’

  The camp was in an uproar now so nobody noticed the two boys as they slipped back into their tent.

  Once they were under their sheets Raju whispered into Dicky’s ear: ‘We should tell someone what we saw, no men?’

  ‘Fuck off, bugger!’ Dicky hissed back. ‘Mad or what? Bobbery-Bob will stick a tent-pole up your chute if he hears you were out there. And mine too.’

  Raju tried to close his eyes but found that he was shivering, despite the heat. Through the chattering of his teeth he caught the sound of metal tools biting into the soil – somewhere nearby a grave was being prepared for the decapitated bhisti.

  In a while Dicky whispered into his ear: ‘You know why they took his head?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Must be for the reward, no?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘What else? Don’t you wonder, men, how much they’d get for your head or mine?’

  *

  At dawn, when the reveille was sounded, the air was still hot and heavy. The men and boys of B Company were drenched in sweat even before the morning hazree – and as luck would have it they were served the item they hated most: potatoes.

  As they were eating an alarm bell began to ring: Chinese soldiers had been spotted in the distance, issuing from the city’s northern and western gates.

  Kesri had barely drained his mug of tea when Captain Mee came striding over. He told Kesri that B Company and the 37th Madras would be the first units to move out of the camp; General Gough wanted to study the enemy’s movements and they had been detailed to accompany him to a hillock, a mile or so
away.

  The sepoys fell in hurriedly and marched out of the camp with drums beating and fifes playing. But once they entered the rice-fields it became impossible to keep good order: just as Kesri had thought, the paddies were flooded. The men were ordered to fall out and advance in single file, along the bunds.

  Soon all pretence of marching was abandoned; to keep their footing was as much as the sepoys could do. Churned up by their feet, the clay turned into a slippery slurry; the sepoys had to plant their musket-barrels in the mud to steady themselves. But even then some could not keep their balance and toppled over into the paddies. Once down, pinioned by their knapsacks and constrained by their tight, heavy uniforms, they could do nothing but flail their limbs until they were pulled out.

  The officers had an even harder time of it: unlike the sepoys, who were in sandals, they were shod in heavy boots and were reduced to shuffling along sidewise, with their arms spread out for balance.

  The Jangi Laat himself was only a short distance ahead of Kesri: a tall, mournful-looking man with a walrus moustache, General Gough – or Goughie, as he was spoken of by the officers – usually held himself stiffly upright. But now he was teetering along as though he were walking a tightrope, with his arms extended and his shako skewed dangerously to one side. His son, who was also his principal aide-de-camp, was right behind, trying to steady him by supporting his elbow. But he was himself wobbling precariously and it was almost inevitable that something untoward would occur. Sure enough, just as they were approaching the hillock, the general and his son both tumbled over into a rice-field. A halt was ordered while they were pulled out and wiped down.