Flood of Fire (75 page)

At the start of the Hour of the Horse, in the late morning, the gun-crews took their stations and went through their usual preparatory drills; each sirdar checked his cannon over and again, readying it for the first shot, making sure that the touch-hole was primed with powder, and that the first cartridge and ball were properly loaded and plugged in place, with waddings of oakum, made from old hemp ropes.

It was a warm day and as noon approached it became scorching hot on the fo'c'sle deck, which was exposed to the sun. Conical hats no longer sufficed to keep the gun-crews cool so they rigged up a canvas awning over the forward gun-ports. But as the sun mounted the sweat continued to pour off their bodies; many of
the lascars stripped down to their banyans, draping chequered gamchhas around their necks.

At noon the breeze died away and the air became very still. Soon word arrived that the British ships were becalmed nine li short of the First Bar; only the
Nemesis
was still moving upriver.

This set off a hopeful murmur among the gun-crews: if the ‘devil-ship' could be caught in a cross-fire, between the fort and the
Cambridge
, then there was a chance that she might be taken down.

Hopes rising, the gunners kept their eyes ahead, on the river. In a while, sure enough, puffs of black smoke appeared in the distance; then they heard the thudding of the steamer's engine, growing steadily louder.

Across the river too, on the ramparts of the mud fort, there were many who were looking out for the steamer. The fort commanded a better view of the channel so its lookouts spotted the
Nemesis
first. A signal was flashed to alert the crew of the
Cambridge
and a minute later Jodu pointed ahead: There!
Okhané!
And through a stand of acacia and bamboo Neel caught sight of a towering smokestack.

The
Nemesis
cut her speed as she came around the bend. She was almost within range when the
Cambridge
's gunners got their first good look at her long black hull and her two giant paddle-wheels. Between the wheels was a broad, bridge-like platform: a row of Congreve rockets could be seen lined up on it, ready for launching.

The steamer's appearance had changed since Neel had last seen her: on her bows there were two large, freshly painted eyes, drawn in the Asian fashion. Neel had never imagined that this familiar symbol could appear so sinister, so imbued with evil intent.

Jodu too was studying the steamer intently, his scarred eyebrows knitted into a straight line. He raised a finger to point to the base of the smokestack. That's where the steam-chest is, he said. If we can hit her there, she'll be crippled.

In the meantime, the steamer's pivot guns had already begun to swivel; one turned towards the fort and the other to the
Cambridge
. Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the report of a gun; it wasn't clear who had fired the first shot, but within seconds the steamer and the fort were hurling volleys at each other.

On the
Cambridge
a few more minutes passed before the steamer was properly within range. When the order to fire rang out, Neel and the rest of the gun-crew threw themselves at the tackles of their gun-carriage. Heaving in unison, they pushed the carriage against the bulwark, thrusting the muzzle out of the gun-port. Now, as Jodu squinted along the barrel, taking aim, the rest of the team armed themselves with levers and crowbars so that they could adjust the barrel as directed.

When the gun was angled exactly as he wanted, Jodu punched a quoin under the trunnion, to hold it steady. Waving the others back, he lowered a smouldering fusil to the touch-hole.

Only in the instant before the blast did Neel realize that the
Nemesis
had also opened fire and that the whistling noise in his ears was the sound of grapeshot. Then the recoil of their own eight-pound shot brought the gun-carriage hurtling backwards, till it was stopped by the breech-ropes that were knotted around the base of its cascabel.

After that there was no time to think of anything but of reloading: dipping his rammer into a bucket of seawater, Neel plunged the head into the smoking barrel, to extinguish any lingering sparks and embers. Then their powder-monkey – Chhotu Mian the lascar – placed a fresh packet of powder in the muzzle, followed by a handful of wadding. Another thrust of the rammer drove the cartridge to the end of the bore and into its chamber; then the ammunition-loader pushed a ball into the muzzle, to be rammed in again, with yet more wadding.

This time Jodu was slow and deliberate in his sighting. He had stripped off his banyan and was bare-bodied now; lithe, slight and deft in his movements, he snatched up a crowbar and began to make minute adjustments in the angle of the barrel, his coppery skin gleaming with sweat.

What are you aiming at? said Neel.

The steam-chest, grunted Jodu. What else?

Murmuring a prayer, Jodu lowered the fusil and stepped back.

An instant later the
Nemesis
shuddered and Neel saw that a jagged gash had appeared under the smokestack, roughly where the steam-chest lay.

A hit! shouted Jodu.
Legechhe!
We've hit it!

Amazed, almost disbelieving, the crew raised a cheer – but soon the steamer's giant paddle-wheels began to turn again, making it clear that the vessel was merely damaged, not disabled.

Yet to force the
Nemesis
to turn tail was no small thing either. The gunners on the
Cambridge
paused to catch their breath, giddy with excitement, savouring the moment.

But their elation was short-lived.

Even as the
Nemesis
was withdrawing, the masts of several other warships were seen in the distance, moving quickly towards them. The squadron hove into view with the steamer
Madagascar
in the lead; under heavy fire from the fort and the
Cambridge
the British ships began to deploy around the channel.

The warships held their fire as they manoeuvred into position; in tandem with the
Madagascar
a corvette pulled very close to the raft and turned broadside-on to the
Cambridge
. Then there was a rattling sound, as the wooden shutters of the vessels' gun-ports flipped open. Suddenly Neel found himself looking into the muzzles of dozens of British guns.

The two ships delivered their broadsides in unison, with a blast that shook the planks under Neel's feet.

Stay low! Jodu shouted over the din. They're shooting canister.

As the musket-balls whistled past, Neel looked up. He saw that the awning above the deck had been shot to shreds; a patch of canvas, smaller than a kerchief, lay at his feet, pierced in a dozen places.

Crouching low, the gun-crew pushed the carriage against the bulwark again. They were preparing to fire when Chhotu Mian toppled over with a powder-cartridge in his hands. Glancing at his body Neel saw that he had been hit by a cluster of grapeshot; his banyan was riddled with holes; blood was spreading in circles around the punctures in the fabric.

Don't stop! shouted Jodu. Load the cartridge.

Neel snatched up the packet of powder and rammed it in. After the ball had been loaded, Jodu shouted to Neel to fetch the next cartridge; he would have to take over as powder-monkey now that Chhotu Mian was dead.

Racing to the companion-ladder, Neel saw that the maindeck of the
Cambridge
was shrouded by a pall of smoke. As he stepped
off the ladder his foot slipped on excrement, voided by some mortally wounded sailor. When he picked himself up again, Neel found that he was in the midst of a blood-soaked shambles: men lay sprawled everywhere, their clothes perforated with grapeshot. A cannonball had knocked down a heavy purwan and in falling on the deck it had pinned several men under it. The smoke was so thick that Neel could not see even as far as the quarter-deck, less than thirty feet away.

It turned out that the sailor responsible for distributing the powder had been grazed in the head. He was sitting on his haunches, with blood pouring down his face. The packets of powder were lying behind him; Neel took one and raced back to the fo'c'sle deck where he thrust it into the eight-pounder's muzzle.

Theirs was now one of the last gun-ports on the
Cambridge
that was still active. But the gunners of the
Nemesis
were closing in; even as their eight-pounder was recoiling from its next shot, a heavy ball struck the bulwark, knocking out one of the rings that held the gun's breech-ropes. A slab of wood fell out, yanking the gun-carriage towards the water. As it tumbled over the side, barrel and all, Neel heard the whoosh of a rocket and looked up: in the bright afternoon sunlight the projectile seemed to be heading directly towards him.

Neel froze as he watched the rocket arcing down from the sky. He would not have moved if Jodu had not pushed him:
Lafao!
Jump!

*

Shireen was walking along a beachside pathway in Hong Kong, with Freddie, when the smoke from the battle at the First Bar appeared over the horizon, spiralling slowly upwards.

It was Freddie who drew her attention to it. ‘Look there – must be more fighting, lah. Very far; too far for us to hear. Maybe near Whampoa.'

The smoke was just a dark smudge in the sky, but Shireen did not doubt that Freddie was right about its cause.

‘Do you think the British will press on to Canton now?' said Shireen.

‘Yes, this time for sure, lah.'

On the
Mor
Shireen had overheard a long discussion of this
subject that morning. Many of the seths were persuaded that this offensive would be called off like others before; they had convinced themselves that the Plenny-potty would again lose his nerve – and if not that, then the mandarins would surely succeed in bamboozling him once more.

The day's tranquil beginning had only deepened their conviction; the excitement of yesterday, when the bombardment of the forts of the Tiger's Mouth had jolted them out of their berths at sunrise, was still fresh in memory and the contrast between the din of that morning and the silence of this one seemed an ominous portent.

The mood had changed briefly when the first shots of a gun-salute were heard – but the seths' spirits had plunged again when it was learnt that the shooting did not presage a renewal of hostilities but was intended, rather, as a tribute to a Chinese admiral. Of all things! Almost to a man the seths concluded that the salute was a sure sign that the hapless Captain Elliot had once again been duped by the mandarins.

Dinyar alone had remained incorrigibly optimistic. The night before, on hearing of the storming of the Tiger's Mouth, he had predicted confidently that this time the British would not stop short of Canton itself.

The officers are all gung-ho now, he had told the other seths. The Plenipot wouldn't be able to hold them back even if he wanted to.

Shireen had listened to the discussion with only half an ear; it was Freddie who was uppermost in her mind that morning. She had thought of little else but of how she might contrive to see him without anyone learning of it.

Fortunately it happened that Dinyar had an errand to run in Hong Kong that day. Hearing him call for the
Mor
's cutter, Shireen had made up a story about needing to visit Sheng Wan village, to buy provisions. As luck would have it she had run into Freddie within minutes of stepping off the cutter.

‘Listen, Freddie,' she said to him now. ‘There is a reason why I came to see you today.'

‘Yes?'

‘There is something I want to tell you – something important.' Freddie nodded: ‘So then tell, lah.' And when she hesitated he
added with a smile: ‘Do not worry – I will not say anything to anyone.'

Shireen fortified herself with a deep breath and then a string of words came tumbling out with her scarcely being aware of it: ‘Freddie, you should know that Mr Karabedian has asked me to marry him.'

To her surprise Freddie took the disclosure in his stride, quite literally. Without missing a breath or a step he said: ‘And what your answer was, eh?'

‘I told him I wanted to talk to you first.'

‘Why me?'

‘But of course, I had to talk to you first, Freddie,' said Shireen. ‘You have known Zadig Bey all your life – he has been like a second father to you. I do not want to do anything that might hurt you.'

‘Hurt me?'

Freddie glanced at her with a raised eyebrow: ‘Why it will hurt me, eh, if you marry Zadig Bey? I will be happy for him – and for you too. You should not worry about me – or Father also.'

A weight seemed to tumble off Shireen's shoulder. ‘Thank you, Freddie.'

Acknowledging this with a grunt he shot her a sidewise glance: ‘But what about all your Parsis, eh? What they will say if you marry Zadig Bey? They are very strict, ne?'

Shireen sighed. ‘They will cut me off, I suppose. Even my daughters will, at least for a while. And I will probably never again be able to enter a Fire Temple: that will be the hardest part. But no one can take my faith from me, can they? And maybe, in a few years, people will forget.'

They had come to a sharp bend in the path now and as they turned the corner Shireen caught sight of Dinyar: he was walking briskly towards them.

Freddie too had come to a stop beside her. ‘Oh, see there,' he said, under his breath. ‘One of your Parsis.'

It had not occurred to Shireen that Freddie might be acquainted with her nephew. ‘Do you know Dinyar?' she said.

‘Only by sight, lah,' said Freddie. ‘He know me too but will not speak.'

‘Why not?'

Freddie's lips curled into a crooked smile: ‘Because I am half-caste bastard, ne?' he said. ‘He is afraid of me.'

‘But why should Dinyar be afraid of you?'

Freddie flashed her another smile. ‘Because he also have made half-caste bastard, lah. In Macau. He know I know. That is why he is afraid.'

Freddie smiled again as she stared at him, her eyes widening in shock. ‘Now I must go, lah. Goodbye.'