by Amitav Ghosh
‘Yes. The junk can tow the gig behind it and the men’ll bring ee back afterwards.’
‘Oh thank you, sir. Thank you.’
She ran on deck and signalled to the gig to wait.
The junk was close by, wallowing in the water: when the gig pulled up, Baburao lowered a wooden shelf for the plants. Paulette held her breath as the pots were being winched up, and was hugely relieved when the operation was concluded without mishap. Then a ladder was thrown down for her and she climbed up on deck.
This was the first time Paulette had stepped on Baburao’s junk, and her initial response was one of disappointment. The Redruth had been anchored off Hong Kong long enough that she had come to recognize some of the unusual vessels that plied those waters: caterpillar-like passenger boats, long and thin, with seats arranged in rows; ‘funeral-boats’, piled high with coffins; two-masted ‘duck-tail’ junks, with tiered houses; and perhaps the most eye-catching of all – whale-like ‘pole-junks’, over a hundred feet in length, with mouths that looked as though they were sieving food from the water.
In a place where such vessels abounded Baburao’s junk was not a craft likely to attract much notice: she was a sha-ch’uan – a ‘sand-ship’ – which his grandfather had acquired very cheap, somewhere up north. The ship’s name was too long for Paulette to remember, but it didn’t matter anyway, because in her hearing Baburao always referred to his junk as the Kismat – the word was the exact equivalent, he said, of the Chinese characters painted on the junk’s bows.
Like every other vessel on the Pearl River, the Kismat sported an enormous eye on each side of her bows – a gigantic oculus that seemed to be keeping watch for prey and predators. In size she was smaller than both the Ibis and the Redruth, being only about sixty feet in length, yet she had more masts than either of those vessels, being fitted with no less than five. Their arrangement was as odd as their appearance: they leant this way and that, like the tapers on a wind-blown candle-stand. Only two of the masts were planted squarely in the vessel and even these were slanted at strange, irregular angles, one leaning forward and the other tilting back. As for the three smaller poles, they looked more like sticks than masts, and were attached not to the deck but to the deck rails, being placed seemingly at random around the edges of the hull. The placement of the rudder was equally strange, to Paulette’s eyes at least, for it was fitted not into the centre of the stern, but on one side of the hull, and was controlled not by a wheel, but by a huge tiller that stuck out over the roof of the deckhouse.
In short, with her raised stern, her miscellaneous masts and barrel-shaped hull, the Kismat projected an image of wallowing ungainliness. But this was deceptive: once the mats were up on the masts, the junk provided as smooth a ride as any vessel of her size.
The journey started with a ceremony that seemed, in the beginning, to be very like the pujas Paulette had seen in Calcutta, with incense being offered to T’ien-hou and Kuan-yin (who were benevolent goddesses, explained Baburao, like Lakshmi and Saraswati in India). But then the ritual suddenly exploded, quite literally, into a spectacular tamasha with popping fireworks, banging gongs and the lighting of innumerable strips of red-and-gold paper (to frighten away the bhoots, rakshasas and other demons, said Baburao helpfully). All this, combined with the noise of alarmed ducks, crying babies and snuffling pigs, created an atmosphere such that Paulette would not have been surprised to see the junk flying off like a rocket. But instead, as the noise built to a climax, the Kismat’s matted sails went soaring up and she began to move ahead, leaving behind a long trail of smoke.
The waters at the mouth of the Pearl River were torn by cross-cutting currents and there were so many boats swarming about that the junk needed careful handling. Watching the crew as they went about their work, Paulette realized that it was not just the Kismat’s appearance that made her different from the Ibis and the Redruth: there was a marked contrast also in the way she was manned and crewed. Paulette had thought that the laodah of a junk was something like the nakhoda of an Indian boat – someone who combined, in part or whole, the functions of captain, supercargo and shipowner. But Baburao’s way of commanding his vessel was nothing like that of the nakhodas and sea-captains she had observed on the Hooghly and in the Bay of Bengal; and nor could the Kismat be said to be ‘manned’ – for her crew included several women whose duties were no different from those of the men. And no matter whether male or female, none of the crew would put up with barked orders and peremptory hookums: Baburao usually spoke to them in a tone of mild cajolery, as if he were trying to persuade them of the wisdom of doing as he asked. Stranger still was the fact that much of the time he said nothing at all: everyone seemed to know what they had to do without being told, and when Baburao did choose to interfere, the others did not hesitate to question his orders. When arguments broke out, they were usually resolved not by a display of authority or a show of force, but through the intervention of one of the women.
For several hours the junk threaded a slow and careful path through fleets of fishing boats, sharp-toothed reefs and small, wave-pounded islands. Then her bows turned towards a looming crag, fringed by a line of angry surf.
This, said Baburao, is Lintin Island.
The junk worked its way slowly around to a bay on the eastern side of the island, where two vessels of unusual appearance lay at anchor. The hulls were like those of Western sailships, but their masts had been cut off and their rigging removed, so they looked like barrels that had been cut lengthwise in half.
These were the last of the ‘hulks’ of Lintin, Baburao explained: in the past, they had been used solely for the purpose of storing and distributing opium. One of them was British, the other American, and they had been stationed at Lintin for many years, so that foreign opium-carriers could rid themselves of their wares before heading towards the customs houses that guarded the mouth of the Pearl River. Even a few years before, he said, there would have been many foreign vessels anchored in this bay, busily emptying their holds of ‘Malwa’ and ‘Bengal’; a flotilla of swift fast-crabs would have been sitting here too, waiting to whisk the cargo to the mainland.
Despite the ominous, eerie presence of the misshapen hulks, the bay was a wild and beautiful place, with clouds blowing past the island’s steeply rising heights. Baburao anchored the junk in the middle of the bay, manoeuvring her patiently into place, and choosing his spot with great care.
Now followed another ceremony, with incense, offerings and burnt paper.
Is this another puja? asked Paulette, and unlike the last time, Baburao was slow to answer. She had begun to regret having asked the question when he said, all of a sudden: Yes, it is a puja; but not like the last one. This is different.
O? Why?
Yes, this one is for my dada-bhai, my older brother, who died here …
It had happened many years before, Baburao explained, but he still could not pass that way without making a stop. The brother he was speaking of was his oldest, and he too had grown up on the Kismat, doing what his father and grandfather had done before him. But one day someone said to him: You’re a strong boy, why don’t you trying rowing a fast-crab? You’ll earn well, better than by fishing or sailing. How could anyone stop him? Every now and then he would go off to work the oars on one of those fast-crabs. It was hard work, but at the end of each run he would be given a little bit of opium as a cumshaw. He could have sold these, of course, and taken the money, but he was just a boy and often he ended up smoking his cumshaw instead. Soon he was working not for the pay but for the opium, and the harder he worked, the more he needed it. In a few years his body was wasted and his mind vacant; he could not row any longer and nor could he do anything else. He spent his time lying like a shadow on the Kismat’s foredeck. One day, when the junk was anchored in this spot he rolled over into the water and was never seen again.
I was the chhota-bhai, said Baburao, the little one, the youngest of four. When my brother died I was very small. My father decided that it
would be best for me to go away so he found me a job as a chokra on a Manila-bound ship. He knew that if I stayed here I too would lose myself in the smoke, like my brothers.
Your older brother was not the only one then?
No, said Baburao. My two other brothers, they too went that way. Even though they saw what happened to my oldest brother, they could not stop themselves: they got greedy for money and went to work on the fast-crabs. One of them was found beheaded, his body floating in a creek near Whampoa. To this day we don’t know who killed him or why, but what’s for sure is that it had something to do with the ‘black mud’. The other brother lived longer, he married and had children. But he was a smoker too, and he died when he was in his mid-twenties. After that my father wanted to sell this junk – he said the mud had turned this river into a stream of poison. I was in Calcutta when this came to my ears. I could not bear the thought of selling the Kismat; I had grown up on it. I loved these waters and I decided it was time to come back.
And are you glad you did? said Paulette.
I used to be, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know now. The more I see, the more it worries me. I worry about my sons, my grandchildren. How can they live on this river without being choked by the smoke?
Here Baburao broke off and tapped her on the shoulder: Come, I’ll show you something.
Leading her up to the most elevated part of the poop-deck, he handed her a telescope.
Look there, he said, pointing upriver. You’ll see a big fort, down by the water, right at the river’s mouth. The lascars call it ‘Sher-ka-mooh’, the Tiger’s Mouth; the Angrez call it the Bogue. It was built just a few years ago, to defend the river, and to look at it you would think no one could ever get into such a stronghold. But at night you or I or anyone else could walk in, without anyone stopping us. The soldiers are all lost in smoke, and their officers too. This is a plague from which no one can escape.
*
Within a few hours, it was common knowledge in Fanqui-town that the Dent faction had triumphed in the boardroom. The Achha Hong received the details through Vico, who predicted a celebration and sure enough, it was soon learnt that some of the Seth’s friends would be coming by later in the day.
This set off something of a panic in the kitchen, but by the time the guests began to arrive Mesto had everything in hand: bottles of champagne had been chilled and several batches of croquettes, pakoras and samosas had been prepared and were ready to serve.
Mr Dent and Mr Burnham were the first to be shown up to the daftar; Mr Slade arrived soon afterwards, accompanied by several others. As the celebration got under way, the khidmatgars who were serving the guests kept the rest of the staff informed of what was happening up there: now Mr Burnham was offering a prayer of thanks for the divine guidance that had led their faction to victory; now Sethji was raising a toast to Mr Dent, congratulating him on his leadership.
Vico was the only one to express any reservations: The outcome’s not decided yet, he muttered darkly; Mr Dent may have outmanoeuvred Mr King, but the Yum-chae may not be so easy to fool. Patrão knows this: he is raising toasts all right, but I know he’s worried.
Towards the end of the evening the khidmatgars reported that the Seth was indeed looking a little strained. This was confirmed at dinner time, when Dent and his cronies left for the Club: despite being entreated to join them Bahram elected to stay at home and went straight to bed.
Down in the kitchen there was plenty of champagne left and a lot of food as well; with the Seth safely tucked away in his bedroom no one had to worry about keeping quiet. Glasses were quaffed and trays emptied and then Vico decided to teach everyone the basics of ballroom dancing: ‘Come, munshiji, let me show you a few steps. We will start with waltz.’
Mesto began to beat time on a huge brass dekchi and the others started to clap. Neel’s protests were drowned out and he was soon lumbering around the kitchen with Vico, trying to stay in step.
The sight of their cavorting quickly reduced the others to helpless laughter. A pitcher of grog appeared and was quickly emptied and then the others began to join in too – khidmatgars, chowkidars, kitchen-chokras, even the solemn shroffs; soon, except for Mesto, they were all whirling around the kitchen like children at a mela. Then, at a word from Vico, the tempo of the music changed. The new dance, announced the purser, was called a quadrille and under his instructions they formed themselves into two lines. With their arms interlinked, they rushed at each other, with such force that many were knocked down. They lay on the floor, laughing, and marvelling at the thought that something so ridiculous could pass for a dance.
Then, as the laughter faded away, a furious pounding made itself heard. Vico picked himself up off the ground and went to the front door to investigate. When he came back all trace of merriment was gone from his face.
The Chamber has sent a runner, he said. An extraordinary meeting has been called; the Seth is needed there immediately.
The chapel clock had begun to ring as Vico was speaking: it was eleven at night.
A meeting? said Neel. At this time?
Yes, said Vico. It’s an emergency – the Co-Hong merchants have just returned from a meeting with Commissioner Lin. They’ve asked the foreigners to gather together because they have something very important to tell them.
Vico had already started for the staircase, but on reaching it he turned around: Who’s on valet-duty tonight? Tell him to come quickly.
The man was more than a little tipsy and water had to be splashed on his face before he could be allowed to go upstairs. A half-hour later, the Seth came sweeping down, in a dark choga: his turban, everyone was glad to note, was properly tied, his clothing impeccable.
It was too late to arrange for a lantern-bearer; instead it was Vico who accompanied the Seth to the Chamber, torch in hand.
Now began a long vigil in the kitchen: it was almost two o’clock when the Seth and Vico returned to the Hong. They went straight up to the Seth’s bedroom and another half-hour passed before Vico came down again.
By this time Neel, who had stayed up to work on the Chrestomathy, was the only man awake. Vico fetched a bottle of mao-tai liquor and poured out two stiff measures.
So what happened at the meeting?
Vico drained his glass and poured himself another: Munshiji, it seems patrão and his friends celebrated a little too early.
Why?
Munshiji, you would not have believed all the hungama …
They had arrived at the Chamber of Commerce to find the main hall all lit up, with people milling about as if it were a public theatre. This was fortunate because Vico was able to watch the proceedings from the back.
Twelve members of the Co-Hong were in attendance, seated in a row. Howqua, Mowqua and Punhyqua were there, of course, but so were several of the younger merchants, amongst them Yetuck, Fontai and Kinqua. They had all brought their servants and linkisters with them and there were dozens of lanterns bobbing over their heads, casting dancing shadows upon the walls. The foreigners were on the dimmer side of the room, some sitting and some standing, their faces looming out of a darkness that seemed barely to yield to the flickering sconces that lined the hall. In the no-man’s-land between the two groups stood the translators – a phalanx of linkisters on one side and on the other, the tall, youthful Mr Fearon.
The meeting began with the announcement that the Hongists had come to tell the foreigners about the Yum-chae’s response to the Chamber’s letter: this being a matter of life and death they had decided to use translators instead of speaking pidgin. The result was that every word had to be filtered through many pairs of lips.
‘We took your letter to the High Commissioner and he gave it to his deputy to examine. After it had been read out aloud His Excellency said: “The foreigners are merely trifling with the Co-Hong guild. They should not attempt to do the same with me.” Then he declared: “If no opium is delivered up tomorrow, I shall be at the Consoo Hall at ten o’clock and then I will show what I w
ill do.” ’
What does this mean?
It means, munshiji, that he saw right through Mr Dent’s little game: he told the Hongists that if no opium was surrendered by tomorrow morning he would carry out his threat.
Of executions?
So the Hongists said – and to tell you the truth, munshiji, even I, watching from the back of the hall, could see they were not joking. Their hands were shaking; their servants were weeping; some actually fainted and had to be carried away. But still the Chamber was not convinced. Led by Dent and Burnham, they kept arguing, questioning every detail, asking how the Hongists could be sure that they would really be beheaded – as if any sane man could lie about such a thing. Every member of the Co-Hong said yes, yes, if no opium was surrendered by ten o’clock tomorrow two of them would lose their heads. But still the Chamber went on questioning. Back and forth they went until someone came up with a suggestion: instead of giving up all the opium, why not surrender a thousand chests? Maybe that would keep the Yum-chae happy?
Did they all agree to that?
In the end, yes, but they – the foreigners – bargained and bargained as if it were a matter of buying fish at a bazar. They even tried to get the Co-Hong to pay for the surrendered chests: ‘Why should we pay?’ they demanded to know. This is the price of your own heads – you should bear the costs.’
They said that?
More or less.
Vico shook his head in bemusement. See, munshiji, when you’re in business, you need to think about your profits, everyone knows that. Sometimes you have to do a little hera-pheri, a little under-the-table business. That’s all in the game. Some days you’ll make money and on some days you’ll also lose a little – that’s normal too, for most of us. But these Burnhams and Dents and Lindsays, they don’t look at it like that. They’ve made more money here than anyone can count, and all of it with the help of Howqua, Mowqua and others of the Co-Hong. But now, when it’s a matter of life and death for the Hongists, they’re still bargaining with a ferocity that would put fishwives to shame. It makes you think, if that’s the value they put on their friends’ lives, what would you or I be worth?
