by Amitav Ghosh
Turning abruptly to his side, Captain Mee picked up the satchel he had brought with him. ‘I have something for you, havildar.’ ‘For me?’
‘Yes.’ He thrust the satchel into Kesri’s hands. ‘Open it.’
The satchel was very heavy for its size and as he was undoing the buckle, Kesri heard the scraping of metal on metal. Captain Mee held up the candle as Kesri looked in.
At first glance Kesri thought his eyes had deceived him and he looked away, in disbelief. Then he looked again and his gaze was again met by the glitter of gold ornaments and the sparkle of silver coins.
‘What is this, Kaptán-sah’b?’
‘Some if it is booty – my share of it. And yesterday we were given our arrears of pay and battas – that’s there too. As for the rest, don’t ask.’
‘But Kaptán-sah’b – I cannot take this.’
‘Yes you can. I owe it to you.’
‘No, Kaptán-sah’b – it is much more than you owe me. More than I have ever earned. I cannot take it.’
The captain rose to his feet. ‘It’s yours,’ he said roughly. ‘I want you to have it.’
‘But—’
Captain Mee cut Kesri short by clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Goodbye, havildar.’
‘Why “goodbye”…?’ said Kesri, but the door had already closed.
Captain Mee’s abrupt departure left Kesri distraught; the captain’s words kept circling through his head and the more he thought about them the more he worried.
Lying helpless in bed, Kesri tried to think of some means of preventing what he thought was going to happen. He considered approaching another officer, but he doubted that anyone would believe him unless he divulged everything he knew about Captain Mee and Mrs Burnham – and this he could not bring himself to do. They would probably think he was lying anyway: why would a havildar know about such things?
When Maddow returned, Kesri said: Did you know that Burnham-memsah’b had died?
Yes, said Maddow. I heard.
Why didn’t you tell me?
I thought I’d tell you later, Kesriji. How did you find out?
The kaptán-sah’b was here …
If not for the intensity of the pain in his leg, Kesri would have skipped his medicaments that night; his foreboding was so acute that he would have preferred to stay awake. But when the time came he could not refuse: he took his draught of morphine and soon fell into a deep, stupefied sleep. Hours later he woke to find Maddow shaking his shoulder.
Kesriji! Kesriji!
Kaa horahelba? What is it?
Listen, Kesriji – it’s about Mee-sah’b.
Kesri sat up and rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, trying to clear his mind: What is it?
Kesriji – there’s been an accident. The kaptán-sah’b was cleaning his gun. It went off.
What happened? Is he badly wounded?
No, Kesriji – he’s dead.
Kesri took hold of Maddow’s arm and tried to swing his body around: Help me get up; I want to go there; I want to see him.
Kesri had not yet learnt to use a crutch. He hooked an arm around Maddow’s neck and hopped along by his side, towards the officers’ lines, where guards and orderlies could be seen rushing about.
Halfway there they were stopped by a sarjeant of the Royal Irish: ‘Halt!’
‘Please let me pass,’ said Kesri. ‘Mee-sahib was my company commander.’
‘Sorry – orders. No one’s allowed any further.’
Kesri could see that the sarjeant would not relent. He turned away with a sigh: Abh to woh unke hain, he said, more to himself than to Maddow – he’s theirs now; we have no claim on him.
With Maddow’s help he hobbled back to his room and fell again into his bed.
But now, despite the lingering effects of his medication, Kesri could not go back to sleep: he thought of all the years he had known Captain Mee and the battles they had fought together: it was sickening that he had died in this way; he had deserved a soldier’s death. It was a waste, such a waste, of Captain Mee’s life – and his own too. And for what? A pension? A citation?
Kesri reached for the satchel that Captain Mee had given him and ran his fingers over the coins: they were worth much more, he knew, than the pension that was due to him.
And then another thought struck him: the other officers were sure to know that Captain Mee had recently received his back pay and allowances; they were bound to search for the money in his rooms and when they failed to find it there would probably be an inquiry.
What would happen if the officers came to learn that Kesri was in possession of a satchel-ful of gold and silver? Would they believe that Captain Mee had given a gift of such value to his havildar?
Or would they find a pretext to take it away?
Kesri could not stand to think of it: to throw the satchel in the water would be better than to lose it to them.
Turning on his side, Kesri whispered to Maddow: Listen – are you awake?
Ji, Kesriji. Do you want some medicine for the pain?
No. I want to ask you something.
Ji, Kesriji.
That day, when that boy disappeared …
Yes?
You helped him, didn’t you? You helped him escape, with those men you were talking to – isn’t that so?
Why do you ask? said Maddow quietly.
I was just thinking, said Kesri, that if you were to speak to those men again, then maybe we could get away too – you and I? Do you think it could be arranged?
*
British-held Hong Kong’s first auction of land was held on 14 June 1841, a fortnight after the storm.
The area on sale was smaller than expected: it consisted of only fifty plots, each with a sea-frontage of one hundred feet, along a stretch of shore on the seaward side of the island’s only proper thoroughfare – the Queen’s Road. The authorities announced beforehand that the currency of the auction would be pounds sterling. But since Spanish dollars were still in wide use a fixed rate of exchange was thought necessary – it was declared to be four shillings and four pence for one silver dollar. It was ordained also that the bidding would start at ten pounds and advance in increments of ten shillings; every purchaser would be required to erect a building valued at one thousand dollars or more, within six months of the sale; as a guarantee of this undertaking, a sum of five hundred dollars would need to be deposited with the treasury as ‘earnest money’.
Although few could afford to meet these terms the event still drew a great number of spectators, from the dozens of ships that were anchored at Hong Kong Bay. Passengers, supercargoes, mates, bo’suns and even cabin boys flocked to Mr Lancelot Dent’s new godown at East Point, where the auction was to be held: even if they couldn’t bid they could at least sniff the scent of wealth.
Presiding over the proceedings was Mr J. Robert Morrison, the Acting Secretary and Treasurer to the Superintendents of Trade. Only a few dozen chairs had been set out, for the turnout was not expected to be large. When the godown began to fill up Mr Morrison issued instructions that only bidders were to sit; spectators would have to stand at the back, in a roped-off enclosure.
Once the bidding started it proceeded briskly. Some of the merchants had already received their share of the six-million-dollar indemnity paid by the Chinese; as a result there were many bulging purses at the auction.
One of the largest lots, a parcel of 30,600 square feet, fetched £265; another even larger lot, of 35,000 square feet, went for £250, its location being less desirable. Very few lots went for less than £25; most fetched well over double that sum. Only one lot went unsold.
The Parsi seths were among the most enthusiastic bidders; between them they acquired no fewer than ten lots. The Rustomjees, a Bombay family, acquired more land than any other group of bidders, amassing no less than 57,600 square feet. Seth Hormuzjee Rustomjee alone bought six lots, a total of 36,000 square feet, for £264.
The second largest buyer was Jardine, Matheson and Co. which acquired three co
ntiguous lots for £565, with a total area of 57,150 square feet. Mr Dent, who had been expected to make an equally big purchase, disappointed the auctioneers by spending only £144, on two lots that added up to a mere 14,800 square feet.
As a special consideration a few prospective buyers were permitted to reserve plots for future purchase. One such was Fitcher Penrose who was unable to attend the auction for reasons of ill-health. Another was Zadig Bey who was in mourning for his godson; although he attended the auction with Shireen, neither of them made a bid.
This was Zadig and Shireen’s first appearance together in public and and many took it as a declaration of their intention to wed. When they entered the godown there were some who held their breath, imagining that they were about to witness a famous contretemps in which Shireen would be dealt the cut direct by her co-religionists.
But they were disappointed: far from shunning Shireen, her fellow Parsis accorded her a warm welcome; soon they were observed to be chatting with each other in a fashion so cordial as to leave no doubt that the seths had reconciled themselves to her remarrying outside the community.
By this time Shireen too had received compensation for her late husband’s losses from the opium crisis of two years before. Most of it she had already remitted to Bombay to pay off his debts; in addition she had sent large sums to her two daughters. But even after these disbursements the monies that remained still amounted to a sizeable fortune, amounting to tens of thousands of silver dollars.
Those in the know were well aware that Shireen was a wealthy woman and many were surprised when she did not join the bidding. Later, when she went to congratulate Seth Hormuzjee Rustomjee he even asked her why she had refrained from making a bid. Shireen’s answer was that she had decided to wait until the slopes of ‘Peaceful Mountain’ were made available to buyers.
Why?
The air was more salubrious there, Shireen explained, and it was her intention to endow a public hospital, in the name of her late husband, Bahram Moddie.
*
At the end of the bidding it emerged that one tract of land, consisting of lot numbers 16 to 20 had been reserved by an unnamed buyer: this being one of the largest acquisitions of the day, there was much excited comment.
Afterwards, when the spectators had dispersed and Mr Dent’s servants were serving champagne to the successful bidders, Mr Morrison was besieged with questions about the buyer’s identity. His protests to the effect that he was not at liberty to say found little purchase with the gathering. The clamour quickly grew so loud that he threw up his hands and cried: ‘This much I can certainly tell you, gentlemen, that the purchaser is amongst us now. If he should wish his name to be known then he will reveal it himself.’
At this a hush fell. It lasted until Mr Burnham, who was dressed in deep mourning, stepped forth and turned to face the gathering. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am grateful to Mr Morrison for being so scrupulous in respecting my request for confidentiality. It was not in order to create a mystery that I asked him to withhold the name of the purchaser. It is because to reveal it would require another announcement, one that I had deemed unbecoming for a time of bereavement. But it strikes me now that no one would have been more gratified by this disclosure than my late, beloved wife so there is perhaps no reason to delay it any longer.’
Here Mr Burnham stopped to gesture to Zachary who went to stand beside him. Placing a hand on his shoulder Mr Burnham continued: ‘Ladies, gentlemen, I am pleased to announce that the purchaser of lots 16 to 20 is a new entity, created just this week – the firm of Burnham and Reid.’
A round of applause broke out now and Mr Burnham paused until it had died away: ‘It would be remiss of me,’ he went on, ‘if I were to omit to mention another collaboration that we have entered into just this day, an association that will, I am certain, greatly strengthen our new company.’
Now Mr Burnham again made a beckoning gesture, at which another man stepped forward to join him and Zachary. This caused something of a stir – for when this man, who was dressed in an impeccably cut suit, turned to face the assembly he was seen to be Chinese.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Burnham, ‘it gives me the greatest pride to announce that from this time on the firm of Burnham and Reid will be working closely with our good friend, Mr Leonard Chan.’
Now, taking Zachary’s wrist in his right hand and Mr Chan’s in his left, Mr Burnham hoisted up their arms and held them aloft in triumph.
*
One of the few spectators to remain in the godown was Baboo Nob Kissin who was looking on from a dark corner at the back. When the three men made their gesture of triumph his heart flooded over with the joy that comes from seeing a mighty endeavour brought to its intended conclusion. Tears came into the gomusta’s eyes as he recalled the day he had first beheld Zachary, on the Ibis: that he should have been transformed so quickly from an ingenuous, good-natured boy, into a perfect embodiment of the Kali-yuga, seemed to Baboo Nob Kissin nothing less than a miracle; he marvelled to think that a creature as humble as himself should have played a part in bringing about the change. He knew of course that his role in promoting the ascendancy of the triumphant trio was but a small one – yet he was certain also that when the day of reckoning arrived, and the Kalki avatar manifested itself on earth, he would not be denied the credit for having advanced the coming of the pralaya by at least a decade or two. To be awarded that much credit would be enough for him; he wanted no worldly reward or recognition for being the first of his compatriots to recognize that it was their assigned destiny to serve the Kalki’s chosen precursors, to be their faithful gomustas in hastening the end of the earth.
It occurred to him also that it was the Ibis, that marvellous vehicle of transformations, that had launched him on the path of destiny and he was seized by an uncontrollable urge to clasp his eyes once again upon that vessel of blessed memory. In a swirl of saffron, he ran outside – but only to be confronted with yet another miracle: the Ibis, which had for the last several days been at anchor off East Point, was gone.
*
In Deeti’s shrine, high up on the slopes of the Morne Brabant, at the south-western corner of Mauritius, there was a special chamber for that episode of Maddow Colver’s life that came to be known as ‘the Escape’. This part of the ‘memory-temple’ was especially beloved of the Fami Colver, particularly the young ones, the chutkas and chutkis, laikas and laikis: every year, during the Gran Vakans, when the family made its annual pilgrimage to the ‘memory-temple’, they waited breathlessly for that moment when Deeti would point to the stylized image of a sampan, with six figures seated inside: Serang Ali, recognizable by his blood-red mouth; Jodu with his three eyebrows; Neel, with his journals; Raju, in his fifer’s hat; Kesri, who, by convention, was always drawn with a bundook – and of course, the patriarch himself, Maddow Colver.
‘Ekut, ekut!’ Deeti would cry, and that great horde of bonoys, belsers, bowjis, salas, sakubays and other relatives would follow her finger as she traced the path of Jodu’s sampan as it edged across the bay, from the Kowloon side, to draw up beside the Ibis, which was all but empty, with the second mate away at the land auction, and the sailors either ashore or asleep.
There vwala!
Her finger would come to rest on Serang Ali: You see him, this gran-koko with a head teeming with mulugandes? This is the great burrburiya who had once again thought up the plan for their escape.
You see now, how he vaults on deck, with Jodu and Maddow behind him? In a matter of minutes the crew are locked up in the fo’c’sle and then Kesri, Raju and Neel come aboard too.
In a trice the sails are hoisted and filling with wind, and by the time the auction ends the schooner is long out of sight …
Epilogue
In embarking on the task of writing a history of the Ibis community, the author had hoped to include an account of the materials on which his narrative is largely founded: that is to say Neel’s archive, by which is meant not only his
notes and jottings but also the extensive collection of books, pictures and documents that he accumulated during the years in which he ran a printshop in Shanghai, in partnership with Compton (Liang Kuei-ch’uan).
For this author no part of this history is of greater interest than that of the archive’s survival: indeed, it was once his fond hope that this episode would provide the climactic tamám-shud to this chronicle. But to arrive at that story, in its proper temporal sequence, would require the narrative to move forward by almost a century – that is, to the years immediately preceding the Second World War, which was when Neel’s great-grandsons smuggled the most important parts of the archive out of China.
The unfortunate reality however is that ten years of diligent application have so far succeeded in advancing the narrative by only four years: from 1838 to 1841. Such being the case, with nearly a century’s-worth of events still to come, the author is compelled to acknowledge that it is highly unlikely that he will be able, in the years that remain to him, to provide a full account of the archive’s survival. But to tell this tale hurriedly, out of its proper order in the sequence of events, would, for him, be a betrayal of the enterprise: he would prefer that it remain forever untold than be related in such a fashion.
For the purposes of the present volume suffice it to say that the war in China dragged on for another fifteen months after Neel’s escape on the Ibis, in June 1841. Through this period Neel kept careful track of the movements of the British expeditionary force (now vastly expanded) as it advanced northwards in the direction of Beijing, successively attacking Xiamen, Zhoushan, Ningbo and Shanghai, thereby causing so much destruction and such extensive loss of life that the Daoguang Emperor was ultimately forced to authorize his representatives to capitulate to the invaders’ demands.
The most important of these concessions were: the formal ceding of Hong Kong; the opening of five ports to foreign trade; and the payment of an enormous indemnity, amounting to a total of twenty-one million silver dollars. The agreement that formalized this capitulation came to be known as the Treaty of Nanking and was signed on 29 August 1842, on the HMS Cornwallis (of which Neel wryly notes that ‘this ship, built in the Wadia shipyard in Bombay, was named after a man whose name will forever be preceded by the epithet “Butcher” – fitting that his remains lie in Ghazipur, a stone’s throw from the Opium Factory’).
