Flood of Fire (87 page)

‘Miss Paulette?'

Removing the handkerchief from her face she looked up at him.

‘Yes?'

‘May I sit down, Miss Paulette?' he said.

She shrugged indifferently and he saw that she was past caring. She buried her face in her handkerchief again, and after waiting a while he cleared his throat: ‘Miss Paulette, it was Mrs Burnham's wish – she told me this herself – that you and I should be reconciled.'

‘What did you say?' Whipping away the handkerchief, she shot him a puzzled glance.

‘Yes, Miss Paulette,' Zachary persisted. ‘She specifically said to me that I should take care of you.'

‘Really, Mr Reid,' she retorted. ‘But to me she said something else.'

‘What?'

‘She said I was your only hope and that
I
should look after
you
.'

They were quiet for a bit and then Zachary said: ‘May I at least come to take a look at your garden?'

‘If that is what you wish,' she said. ‘I will not prevent it.'

‘Thank you, Miss Paulette,' said Zachary. ‘I am sure Mrs Burnham would be pleased.'

*

Kesri did not see Captain Mee again until the Bengal Volunteers were sent back to Hong Kong.

By that time Kesri had spent a week in the island's newly built
military encampment. He was dozing one evening, with a candle flickering by his bed, when the door flew open. At first Kesri thought that it was Maddow who had stepped out to fetch something. But then he saw that the silhouette in the doorway was Captain Mee's: he was bare-headed, swaying slightly on his feet; in his hands was a leather satchel.

It was a hot day and Kesri had thrown off his sheet. Now, wanting to spare the captain the sight of his exposed stump, he began to grope around, trying to cover himself. The sheet eluded his grasp and in the end it was Captain Mee who found it and draped it over him.

‘I'm sorry to barge in like this, havildar.'

His words were a little slurred and Kesri could smell liquor on his breath.

‘It's all right, Kaptán-sah'b,' said Kesri. ‘I'm glad to see you.'

Captain Mee nodded and sank into a chair beside the bed. The candle was close to him now, and when its light fell on his face Kesri saw that the captain was haggard, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles. Pushing himself a little higher, on his pillows, Kesri said: ‘How are you, Kaptán-sah'b?'

To Kesri's surprise there was no answer; instead Captain Mee fell forward in his chair and buried his face in his hands, planting his elbows on his knees. After a minute or two Kesri realized that he was sobbing. He sat still and let him continue.

Presently, when the captain's shoulders had ceased to heave, Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah'b, what is it? What has happened?'

At that Captain Mee looked up, his eyes even redder than before. ‘Havildar, I don't suppose you've heard – about Cathy … Mrs Burnham …'

‘What about her, sir?'

‘She's dead.'

‘No?' cried Kesri, recoiling in shock. ‘But how did it happen?'

‘During the storm – she was on a ship that went down. That's all I know.'

Fumbling for words, Kesri said: ‘Kaptán-sah'b – I don't … I don't—'

Captain Mee cut him short with a brusque gesture. ‘It's all right – there's no need to say anything.'

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 contiguous 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.'