“So what is it, this mission?”
Bowman told him everything that Wright had said before he croaked. The ex-sergeant blew on the embers of his cigar.
“You want to stop one of Min’s ambassadors?”
“Well, we need a boat, whatever. And if we go back without having completed the mission, we’ll probably be hanged anyway. You saw what happened to those fishermen . . .”
Penders stood up, walked over to the porthole and tossed the cigar out.
“As far as the boat’s concerned . . . yeah, definitely. As far as Wright’s mission is concerned, though . . . with this rain, I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’d better think so, because that’s what we’re going to do.”
Penders looked outside: the lights from the junk illuminated a few yards of forest, stained red through the canvas sails.
“You and me, Sergeant, we’re not the same. I couldn’t care less about becoming lieutenant or being a Company hero. What you said in the hold, with your knife to the child’s throat, that’s all that interests me: getting out of this alive. And if we find a boat, you can say whatever you like in Rangoon. Me, I’ll go somewhere else, somewhere they’ve never even heard of London.”
Bowman sniggered, his hand on the handle of his dagger, ready to jump on Penders’ back.
“A corner of the world where the Company doesn’t exist? Well, as far as your escape’s concerned, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, go back up to the deck and organise guard duty.”
Penders turned around. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but his air of superiority had not disappeared.
“At your command, Sergeant.”
“And tell them to bring me some food.”
In the morning, the rain was still falling. The men had not slept and they lay on the deck, soaked to the bone, shivering with exhaustion, maybe already feverish. With difficulty, they relit the fires and heated some water.
In Feng’s cabin, Bowman had found a pair of raffia-soled sandals and a leather jacket that he had put on over his shirt. He went up to the steering post and leaned over to check the state of the hull. The boat was holding up well despite the hold full of water. The hawsers that moored it to the trees were taut as the strings on a fiddle. The river had risen by six feet, and branches and tufts of grass torn from the riverbank sped past the hull. At any moment, a tree trunk might pierce the side of the boat and send them to the bottom of the river.
The sergeant went back down to where the men were dozing. The preacher, having just finished his guard duty, came to give his report.
“Four of the Burmese have left. They must have sneaked out to the shore during the night.”
The sergeant looked at the men slumped around him, swore, and kicked over a saucepan full of hot water and rice, scattering the contents all over the deck. The barefooted soldiers scrambled out of the way.
“Men! Attention!”
The Englishmen lined up, and the Burmese imitated them.
“Penders! I want a dozen armed men portside watching the river, six at starboard watching the forest! Three sentries on the bow and three others at the stern! Fifteen-minute shifts! I don’t want to see a single eye looking anywhere but straight in front!”
He took a machete from the hands of a sailor and walked along the starboard railing. As he moved forward, he cut the ropes holding the sails in place. The canvas roof slumped onto the deck. Stopping by a hawser knotted around a cleat, he stabbed the machete into the gunwale, right next to the rope.
“A machete for each hawser! When I give the order, I want all the moorings cut at the same time! Peavish, you count the bamboo poles. I need enough for half the crew. If there aren’t enough, go on to the shore with your monkeys and five men and find some. If the Burmese try to escape, you shoot them. And ten men with me! Now!”
With the aid of pulleys, Bowman and his team lifted up the mainmast and rolled it into the river, then used axes to chop up the other two masts and threw the rigging overboard to lighten the junk. They cleared out the deck, the holds and the fo’c’s’le, made barricades along the railings with anything they could find, creating little holes and spaces where they stood with the poles.
Bowman ordered the sails cut up into yard-long squares of canvas, which were distributed to the men to protect their muskets and powder from the rain.
They managed to remove the tree trunk that had speared Feng’s cabin, one team on land pulling on ropes while another pushed from inside. As the trunk slipped out, it took the Chinaman’s corpse with it.
By the time the junk was ready, the afternoon was over. The galley was put back in its former place, the stock of arms and ammunition transferred to Wright’s cabin. All day long, sentries surveyed the river and the forest, squinting through the grey blur of rain for the slightest movement.
Rice was served, and the men came in turns to devour their ration in the dry before returning to their posts. When they weren’t on guard duty, they lay in the middle of the deck, back to back, resting their heads on the little squares of red canvas. Night fell for the second time on their immobile craft. Those who were too sick to do their shift were allowed to sleep sheltered in Feng’s cabin.
Penders spent all night outside with the men, the mosquitoes and the forest noises. Howler monkeys growled like lions, and thousands of frogs joined together in a shrill chorus. Bowman slept badly in Wright’s bunk, surrounded by guns and bullets.
*
At dawn, the wind had died down and the rain now fell vertically, producing a softer, waterfall-like sound.
Bowman drank a ladle full of water from a barrel placed under a hole in the canvas, and he felt almost as if he were drinking an enemy’s blood.
Men dozed, pressed close against each other. Those on duty, shoulders slumped, let the raindrops roll over their faces without moving. The sergeant made a quick count of the Burmese lying in heaps next to the railing. The sentries, though helpless to prevent a night attack, had at least discouraged the others from attempting to escape. He used his foot to wake up Private Bufford, who was lying on the deck in front of him.
“Buffalo, go to the woods with five men and heat up some water for the soup. You remember the orders?”
Bufford opened his eyes, swollen by mosquito bites, and scratched his beard. Still in good health, Peavish’s first apostle got to his feet.
“Fire two shots if there’s any trouble, sir.”
“And no hunting.”
“No hunting, sir.”
Penders was on the sterncastle, on guard duty with two other men.
“What do we do if there’s no boat today, Sergeant?”
“We turn the junk into a raft tomorrow, leave the monkeys in the forest, and try our luck in the estuary. There must be a way to make this thing float for two days.”
Penders lowered his head, tilting his hat, which was beginning to lose its shape.
“In that case, we should tell Peavish to pray that the rain doesn’t stop. If it stays like this, we could get to the sea without being seen.”
Arthur Bowman nodded, silent.
“But until then, the orders don’t change.”
Penders looked up.
“Still want to be a hero?”
“Better than being a deserter, don’t you think?”
“Bowman, the idea that men like you can become heroes is something beyond my comprehension.”
“Because men like you or the preacher make a difference?”
The sound of a gunshot echoed between the trees. The two men turned towards the shore, lifting their guns and cocking the hammers. On the deck, everyone stared at the jungle. As they listened hard to guess what might have happened, the sound of the rain seemed to grow louder.
There was no second gunshot.
Bowman still hadn’t lowered his rifle.
“I told those fools not to go hunting. What the hell are they doing? Penders, stay here with the sentries.”
He jumped down onto the deck.
He held his gun in front of him. His men imitated him, aiming the muskets at the forest. They waited like that for a minute, arms trembling under the weight of their weapons. Cheek against the butt of the rifle, Bowman blinked his eyes to get rid of the water that was blurring his view. He turned towards the steering post. Penders had his back to him. Bowman was about to yell out to ask if he could see anything from up there when the former sergeant lifted his rifle upstream, aiming through the curtain of rain, and fired before shouting:
“Sail!”
At the same time, a sentry facing the forest yelled:
“Sergeant!”
Bowman turned.
Bufford and three men were running pell-mell towards them. They clambered onto the trunk that served as a gangplank. Private Buffalo shouted:
“They’re coming!”
At the steering wheel, Penders reloaded his gun and the two sentries fired in turn. One of the shots carried, the other failed, the damp powder spurting out in a cloud of white smoke.
Bowman roared:
“Starboard! Fire at will!”
An ear-splitting burst of gunfire swept the still motionless forest. He rushed to the side overlooking the river and stared through a gap between the piled-up crates and bags. A junk was emerging from the rain, sails down, about a hundred feet away. The railings bristled with the shapes of men and muskets.
Bowman threw himself to the ground, and the first round of fire from Min’s soldiers hit the deck. Sentries fell, bullets hit wood, whistling as they ricocheted. The second salvo cut down two more men.
Penders had lost his sentries; he jumped down to the deck, abandoning the fo’c’s’le because it was too exposed.
“I’ll take care of the forest, Sergeant!”
He ran over to the starboard side and organised the first and second line.
“Fire!”
Ten men stood and fired randomly into the trees. They dived to the deck and reloaded while the second line stood up. Bowman had done the same thing on his side and the first English bullets hit the enemy junk. Bufford, his face already black with powder, fell to his knees to reload. Bowman grabbed him by his shirt collar.
“What happened?”
“The monkeys, Sarge! The monkeys who ran away! They came back with soldiers! The powder was wet, we could only fire one shot! They’ve got bows and arrows and muskets! Harris is dead! I think he’s dead!”
“How many are there?”
Bullets hissed like snakes above their heads and they flattened themselves against the barricade of crates.
“Dunno, Sarge! Lots!”
All the men were gathered on the deck, about fifteen on each side. The first arrows and bullets fired from the forest hit Penders’ men, just before the impact. Hawsers snapped, and they felt the junk move slightly away from the shore, deeper into the current. It reared up. The water in the hold moved from one side to the other and the weight dragged the whole ship with it. Now it was leaning towards the river. For a moment, suddenly more worried by the prospect of being taken by the current than by the Ava warriors’ attack, the men were paralysed, their eyes riveted to the last ropes mooring the junk to the shore.
Above him, Bowman saw the silhouette of a Burmese soldier, a dark shape in the grey rain.
“The fo’c’s’le!”
The junk had rammed them from behind, and Min’s soldiers had boarded.
Bowman put one knee to the deck and lifted his rifle. The bullet hit the jaw of the first enemy to set foot on his boat.
“Portside with me!”
The men facing the river turned around, aiming up high and shooting the attackers.
“Fire at will!”
Bowman ran to the fo’c’s’le, then to Wright’s cabin, where he grabbed the crate of bombs. He passed Feng’s cabin, where the sick men had taken refuge.
“To the armoury! Load the guns and bring them on deck! Now!”
He opened the crate, picked up a two-pound bomb in one hand and with the other sparked a match, lit the wick and leaned outside through the hole in the hull. He saw the painted eye on Min’s junk, arms and muskets above the bow. He waited until the wick was half burned, then threw the bomb, rolling into a corner of the cabin to protect himself, head in his arms.
The explosion shook the entire boat. A few seconds’ silence followed, then there were screams and the gunfire started up again. The sergeant lit a second bomb and threw it in the same way. He just had time to put his head back inside the cabin to hide himself: three muskets aimed at him, opened fire, and one bullet pierced the wood and tore open his shoulder. The crate of bombs under his arm, he ran to the door. The second explosion propelled him into the galley.
Bufford and the preacher reloaded their guns, the hot barrels smoking in the rain. Penders fired, Collins yelled as he aimed at the forest, and Feng’s Burmese fought like madmen. The Minié bullets of the French rifles caused terrible injuries, lifting soldiers from the ground even when they just grazed them, ripping off arms and leaving holes in bellies, projecting clouds of blood into the vertical rain, which brought them back to earth in a fraction of a second.
Only half of Bowman’s men remained.
“Penders!”
Bowman handed him the crate of bombs.
“Bufford! All the men to port with me!”
He put himself at the head of the group.
“Bayonets! All guns loaded!”
The men put the pistols, loaded by the sick men, into their belts, then turned the bayonets round to attach them to the muskets’ barrels. Bowman whistled and signalled to Penders, who lit two bombs and threw them over the fo’c’s’le.
The two explosions swept the upper deck and corpses fell in front of them, with pieces of wood and scraps of flesh. Bowman screamed at the top of his voice, terrifying his own men:
“Attack! Board!”
Bufford and the other soldiers hesitated, then followed him.
The smoke from the bombs had not completely dissipated. They stepped over corpses and jumped across the bow of the enemy junk, appearing suddenly from the white cloud like demons. Burmese soldiers got to their feet, in shock. The Englishmen executed them at point-blank range. Panic spread through Min’s men. Bowman stabbed his bayonet into the first one to drop his weapon and raise his hands in surrender.
On the forest side, two other explosions rang out, and they were caught in a rain of earth and wood. Bowman’s men continued moving forward, galvanised by their furious sergeant.
Bowman saw the pilot, up on the enemy fo’c’s’le, dive into the water. It was a rout. A Burmese officer fired a last pistol shot, which hit Bufford. Sergeant Bowman grabbed his rifle like a spear and threw it with all his strength, nailing the officer to the door. He picked up a Burmese rifle and loaded it. On the deck now, there were no soldiers remaining but them.
Bufford stood up, holding his belly. The bullet was lodged in his flesh and he smiled as he looked at the massacre. The sergeant turned towards the shore and, with Penders’ men on the other junk, fired at the forest.
All the men still standing sprayed the jungle with lead, stripping the bark and leaves from trees, until Bowman heard Penders yell:
“They’re retreating! Cease fire! Cease fire!”
Their ears were ringing, their hands trembling. They wiped blood from their faces, unsure whether it belonged to them, a comrade or an enemy. No-one was willing to let go of his weapon yet. Adrenaline was coursing through their veins, and fear was winning out over rage. Little by little, the sounds of the river and the rain returned, mixed with human groans.
Min’s boat was theirs.
Bowman ordered Bufford to kill the wounded. He took three men and rushed to the cabins, smashing open the doors one by one. They searched the entire junk, but not a single living being remained aboard, nor was there any trace of Min’s ambassador.
Sergeant Bowman returned to the wreck, which was close to being taken by the river. From up on the f
o’c’s’le, he scanned the deck and the rest of his troops.
Standing, incredulous, bleeding copiously, about fifteen men and five or six Burmese got their breath back, staring at the Ava jungle where the enemy had retreated. With their bullets and bombs, the English had created a clearing about thirty feet long in the forest. The men reloaded their guns, rummaging through their pockets in search of the last ammunition. Peavish was still alive, as if miraculously cured, and he lifted his eyes to the sergeant above him. Bowman stood victorious, invincible, hair soaked with blood, smiling with satisfaction as his gaze swept this rain-lashed world of fury.
Bowman saw the preacher on his feet and his monstrous smile grew wider.
Peavish looked down, turned towards the river and crossed himself.
Bowman turned around.
The only colours in the drowned landscape that surrounded them were two pairs of red eyes, moving closer.
Peavish had a terrifying vision of Cerberus, emerging from Hell through the waters of the Irrawaddy to collect his warrior, Sergeant Bowman, and take him back home.
Two other junks were coming down the river.
6
General Godwin and Commodore Lambert landed at Rangoon on 14 April, 1852 and took the city. Twenty thousand of Pagan Min’s men, entrenched on the Singuttara hill, around the great golden pagoda of Shwedagon, surrendered without a fight.
Following the same map that Campbell had used in 1826, the fleet then headed towards the Irrawaddy and made itself the river’s master, occupying the estuary. The Company held the shores.
Trapped between the kingdom of Siam to the east (which had no intention of breaking its agreements with the English), China to the north-east (also under the control of the Company), the northern provinces (once again bound to the governance of Bombay) and the coasts to the south occupied by Godwin, the King of Ava refused to admit defeat. Helped by the monsoon season, entrenched in the north in his capital city, surrounded by jungle and largely inaccessible to troops, he stood up to the Company until December. A war without battles, between two enemies separated by nearly 400 miles of forests and mountains.
Rumours were rife in the gulf about negotiations between Pagan and Spain, supported by the French, over the purchase of arms and equipment by the Burmese army. Even if such negotiations did exist, however, the Company was in control of the Irrawaddy, and there was no chance of any aid reaching Ava, by sea or by land.
Retribution Road Page 6
