Flood of Fire (51 page)

Because he didn't know, said Baboo Nob Kissin. It's not his fault – how could he have imagined that you would set out in search of him? Had he known he would certainly have waited. We just have to send him word, somehow, and I am sure he will come for you.

But what am I to do till then? cried Raju in dismay. Where will I stay? With whom?

The boy's increasingly fraught tone alarmed Baboo Nob Kissin.

Listen, Raju, he said. Tomorrow I will be leaving to go north on the
Ibis
– Mr Reid will be the captain. You can come with us as a ship's boy if you want.

But I don't want to move to another ship! cried Raju, his eyes glistening. I have friends on the
Hind
– why should I leave them? Isn't it enough that my father isn't here? Do you want me to lose my friends too?

Pierced by the note of accusation in his voice, Baboo Nob Kissin could only appeal to the heavens –
Hé Gobindo; hé Gopal!
Under his breath he cursed himself for having brought this calamity upon his own head: had he not sought out the boy and his mother, in Calcutta, he wouldn't have had this problem on his hands.

As so often in his life, the decision had been made for Baboo Nob Kissin by Ma Taramony, his guiding spirit. Having long regarded Neel with a maternal eye, she had decided that it was imperative for Baboo Nob Kissin to visit his wife, on his return from China to Calcutta: it was his duty, she had told him, to tell the unfortunate woman that her husband was still alive and would return some day, to take her and Raju away from Calcutta.

Although Baboo Nob Kissin had had his reservations, he had obeyed Ma Taramony's instructions in the belief that the matter would end there. Not for a moment had it occurred to him that he was in danger of being set upon by a wilful and headstrong boy who, on hearing the news would proceed to beg, cajole and demand that he, Baboo Nob Kissin, a mere messenger, come to his assistance in his quest to seek out his father.

Baboo Nob Kissin had protested to the best of his ability but his resistance had been hindered by an unfortunate quirk of his character: a besetting fear of children. Although more than a match for wily seths and ruthless zamindars, the gomusta was incapable of resisting the importunities of a child – not because of the softness of his heart but out of a deep dread of the terrible power of their powerlessness. When the look in their wide, expressive eyes turned to anger or disappointment, they seemed to him to be gifted with the ability to inflict all kinds of injuries. There was little he
would not do to escape their maledictions – and somehow Raju had seemed to be aware of this and had turned it to his advantage, besieging him with pleas, entreaties, cajoleries and veiled threats.

Nor had the boy's mother done anything to restrain her son; to the contrary, she had added her own pleas to her son's: There is nothing for Raju in Calcutta; she had said. He has grown restless and I can no longer manage him. He will go to the bad if he remains here; it is best for him to fufil his heart's desire and go off to search for his father.

So Baboo Nob Kissin had agreed to foist the boy on Zachary, fully trusting all the while that Neel was still in Macau and would be able to take charge of his son.

And now this …

Look, Raju, said Baboo Nob Kissin. I warned you at the outset that it would be difficult. It was you who were adamant that you wanted to come, no matter what. Now, you must be patient: I will arrange something, I promise, but you must wait.

At this, a look of exactly the kind that Baboo Nob Kissin most dreaded – wide, wounded and filled with disappointment – entered the boy's eye: Wait? How long?

Flustered, the gomusta rose to his feet: I don't know – and anyway I have to go now, to see Mr Doughty. In the meantime you should think about what you want to do.

Baboo Nob Kissin disappeared, leaving Raju huddled in a corner.

Through misted eyes the boy saw again the scene of his father's arrest, at their family home, in Calcutta, two years before. They had been flying kites together, on a terrace, when their steward came up to say that the Chief Constable had arrived, with a squad of armed men. Raju remembered how his father had told him to wait on the terrace; he would be back in ten minutes. So Raju had stayed there, waiting, even after his father was taken away, in a carriage.

He was aware now of a cold, empty sense of abandonment – a feeling very similar to what he had felt then, except that he was two years older now and no longer trusted in promises. He knew that he could not wait for Baboo Nob Kissin or anyone else to decide his fate: until such time as he was reunited with his father he would have to take his destiny into his own hands. But to know
this only made things worse – for he had not the faintest inkling of where to go next or what to do.

Then came a familiar knocking, on the planks of wood that separated the cubicle from the camp-followers' cumra. It was followed by Dicky's voice: ‘Arré Raju? You still there, men?'

‘Yes.'

‘What-happen? I thought you were leaving for that place – Makoo or something.'

‘No, men, can't. Uncle has gone off somewhere.' ‘So what you will do now?' ‘Don't know.'

There was a silence and then Dicky said: ‘Arré you know something, men? You can always join our squad, no? We need more fifers; I heard the fife-major talking about it only today.'

*

Daylight was fading when the officers returned from their meeting on the
Wellesley
. The subalterns came bounding up the
Hind
's side-ladder, talking excitedly, with an exuberant young cornet leading the way.

‘Just our luck to be left out of the action …!'

‘Oh how I should have liked to bag my first slantie …'

Captain Mee came up last, but his voice was the loudest of all: ‘And you can be sure that those bloody bog-trotters of the 49th will never leave off barneying about their little adventures up north …'

Listening to them Kesri understood that the Bengal Volunteers had been spared an immediate deployment. This was welcome news: after everything they had been through lately the unit was in no condition to face another voyage, even less to go into action. He could only hope that they would soon be sent ashore, to a camp on dry land.

Later that evening, when he was summoned to Captain Mee's cabin for a briefing, Kesri learnt that he had guessed correctly: most of the expedition's troops would be proceeding northwards the next day, to be deployed at Chusan. But B Company was to remain where it was – on the
Hind
, in the general proximity of Hong Kong. Along with a detachment of Royal Marines they were to provide protection for the merchant fleet and for all British subjects in the area.

‘It's a pity we're going to miss the action,' said Captain Mee. ‘But the high command has decided that we need time to recover from our voyage.'

‘Some extra time will be good, Kaptán-sah'b,' said Kesri quietly.

Captain Mee shot him a quizzical glance. ‘Why, havildar? What's on your mind?'

For Kesri the most worrying thing was the shortfall in camp-followers: without a full contingent of gun-lascars he knew it would be difficult to make good use of their mortars and howitzers.

‘We have lost too many followers, Kaptán-sah'b. Gun-lascars especially – more are needed.'

‘Well I don't know that there's anything to be done about that,' said Captain Mee. ‘We aren't likely to find any gun-lascars here.'

‘Sir, maybe we can recruit some sailors instead?'

‘At a pinch perhaps,' said the captain. ‘If you see any likely fellows let me know.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Kesri. ‘And when will we move ashore, sir? Do you know?'

Captain Mee's answer came as a disappointment.

‘We're to remain on the
Hind
for the time being, havildar. It's up to Captain Smith of the
Volage
to decide – he's been placed in overall charge of the southern sector.'

Unrolling a chart, Captain Mee pointed to their location. Kesri saw that the Pearl River estuary was shaped like an inverted funnel, with the stem pointing north. The island of Hong Kong and the promontory of Macau were at opposite ends of the funnel's rim, forty miles apart. The
Hind
was currently positioned closer to Macau, but Captain Mee told him that they would soon be moving to Hong Kong Bay, where most of the British merchant fleet was at anchor.

Slowly the captain's fingertip moved up the chart, through clusters of islands to the point where the bowl of the funnel met the stem.

‘This here is the Bocca Tigris, havildar,' said the captain. ‘Some call it the Bogue.'

Kesri had heard of this place from lascars: they spoke of it as Sher-ki-mooh – ‘the Tiger's Mouth'.

‘It's a heavily fortified position,' said Captain Mee. ‘If there's any fighting in this sector, that's where it'll be.'

*

Bahram's grave was at the far edge of a bowl-like valley, encircled by steep ridges. They rented horses and a guide at a village called Sheng Wan, where they'd got off the boat that had brought them over to Hong Kong. The guide explained to Freddie that the grave was in an area known as Wang nai Cheong or ‘Happy Valley'. They made their way there by following a coastal pathway to the eastern side of the bay. Then they turned left to climb over a ridge before descending into the valley.

The valley floor was carpeted with rice paddies, some of which were fed by a bamboo aqueduct. On one side of the valley was a nearly vertical rock-face, of weathered granite. Perched on top of this was a gigantic boulder, elliptical in shape. At the foot of the boulder lay a great heap of red paper flags and joss sticks. The guide told Freddie that the rock was known as ‘the Harlot's Stone', and was visited by women who wanted to bear children.

Bahram's grave was at the other end of the valley: it was a modest stone structure, without any embellishments. The inscription on the gravestone had only the words: Bahramjee Nusserwanjee Moddie.

‘We decided not to add anything else,' said Zadig apologetically. ‘We were not sure what the family would want.'

Shireen nodded. ‘Yes, it was for the best. We will add some verses from the Avesta when it's possible.'

Shireen began to murmur the Srosh-Baj prayer while Freddie laid out some offerings that he had brought with him, of fruit and flowers. He had said hardly a word all day and it was not until they were on their way back to Sheng Wan that he spoke.

‘Don't be angry, ne, Bibiji,' he said. ‘But I will not go with you to Macau.'

‘But where will you go then?' said Shireen in surprise.

‘I will stay here, in Sheng Wan village – there are rooms to rent, ne? Guide has told me so.'

‘But why?'

Freddie's voice fell to a whisper. ‘He is here, my father. I can feel him. He wants me to stay.'

Fourteen

W
ith the arrival of the British force, rumours began to circulate that the Chinese authorities were offering bounties for the capture or killing of aliens. There were reports also of clashes between foreigners and villagers at various places around the mouth of the Pearl River.

The island of Hong Kong, however, remained an exception: it was one place where foreigners could wander more or less freely, without fear of annoyance or molestation. Strangers had been visiting the island for many generations and over time the villagers had grown accustomed to having them in their midst; many had even learnt to profit from their presence, as for example the elder of Sheng Wan village who had rented Fitcher Penrose the plot of land for his nursery, on the slopes of the island's highest mountain.

It was not for its convenience that Fitcher had chosen the site: the path that led to it started at a secluded beach and wound steeply upwards, doubling back and forth across a number of spurs and nullahs. The ascent was so taxing that Fitcher, whose ageing bones were often racked by attacks of rheumatism, was sometimes unable to undertake the climb for weeks at a time.

But in some ways the height was an advantage: Fitcher had noticed early on that the lower reaches of the island were marshy and infested with mosquitoes, while the higher slopes were relatively free of insects. The site had other advantages too – richer soil, lower temperatures and most notably a plentiful supply of water, from a pool fed by a stream that gurgled down from the elevated spine of the island. Being nestled inside a hollow the site was also sheltered from storms.

The magnificent views offered by the location, of the bay and of Kowloon, on the mainland, were of no moment to Fitcher, who
was chronically short-sighted. But to Paulette they mattered a great deal: the vistas that opened up on the walk to the nursery were so enchanting that she even relished the steep climb.

To the islanders the mountain was known as Taiping Shan – ‘Peaceful Mountain' – and so far as Paulette was concerned the name could not have been better chosen: the slope was a serenely tranquil setting and in all the time she had spent there she had never had the least cause to fear for her own safety. While at the nursery she always felt perfectly secure, not least because the two gardeners who had been hired to work there were a friendly, middle-aged couple from Sheng Wan: so reassuring was their presence that Paulette never felt the need to carry any weapons.