Sea of Poppies (51 page)

In Alipore Jail the season of festivals had been celebrated with no little fanfare: Diwali, in particular, was an occasion for the jemadars and their gangs to compete in a fiery display and many of the jail's inner courtyards had been lit up with lamps and improvised sparklers. The noise, food and festivity had had a perverse effect on Neel, causing a sudden collapse in the resolve that had sustained him thus far. On the night of Diwali, when the courtyard was ablaze with light, he had trouble rising from his
charpoy and could not bring himself to step beyond the bars: his thoughts were only of his son, of the fireworks of years past, and the dimness, silence and denial that would be the boy's lot this season.

Over the next few days Neel's spirits sank lower and lower, so that when Bishu-ji came to announce that the date of their departure had been fixed, he responded with bewilderment: Where are they taking us?

To Mareech. Have you forgotten?

Neel rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. And when is that to be?

Tomorrow. The ship is ready.

Tomorrow?

Yes. They'll come for you early. Be ready. And tell Aafat too.

That was all: having said what he had to, Bishu-ji turned on his heel and walked away. Neel was about to slump back into his charpoy when he noticed his cell-mate's eyes resting on him, as if to ask a question. Many days had passed since Neel had last performed the ritual of asking for his cell-mate's name, but now he stirred himself to say, in gruff English: ‘We're leaving tomorrow. The ship is ready. They'll come for us in the morning.' Apart from a slight widening of the eyes, there was no response, so Neel shrugged and turned over on his charpoy.

With departure looming, the images and memories Neel had tried to bar from his mind came flooding back: of Elokeshi, of his home, of his husband-less wife and fatherless child. When he dozed off, it was only to be visited by a nightmare, in which he saw himself as a castaway on the dark void of the ocean, utterly alone, severed from every human mooring. Feeling himself to be drowning, he began to toss his arms, trying to reach towards the light.

He woke to find himself sitting up, in the darkness. Gradually he became aware that there was an arm around his shoulder, holding him steady, as if in consolation: in this embrace there was more intimacy than he had ever known before, even with Elokeshi, and when a voice sounded in his ear, it was as if it were coming from within himself: ‘My name Lei Leong Fatt,' it said. ‘People call Ah Fatt. Ah Fatt your friend.' Those faltering, childlike words offered more
comfort than was in all the poetry Neel had ever read, and more novelty too, because he had never before heard them said – and if he had, they would only have been wasted before, because he would not have been able to value them for their worth.

It was no human agency but rather a quirk of the tides that was responsible for fixing the date of the
Ibis
's departure. That year, as in many others, Diwali fell close to the autumn equinox. This would have had little bearing on the sailing of the
Ibis
if not for one of the more dangerous oddities of the waterways of Bengal: namely the
bán
, or bore – a tidal phenomenon that sends walls of water hurtling upriver from the coast. Bores are never more hazardous than in the periods around Holi and Diwali, when the seasons turn upon an equinoctial hinge: at those times, rising to formidable heights and travelling at great speed, the waves can pose a serious threat to the river's traffic. It was one such wave that determined when the
Ibis
would weigh anchor: the announcement of the hazard having been made well in time, it was decided that the schooner would ride the bore out at her moorings. Her passengers would come on board the day after.

On the river, the day began with a warning from the harbourmaster that the bore was expected around sunset. From then on, the riverfront was a-buzz with preparations: fishermen worked together to carry dinghies, pansaris and even the lighter paunchways out of the water and up the embankments, taking them beyond the river's reach. Patelis, budgerows, batelos and other river craft that were too heavy to be lifted from the water were spaced out at safe intervals, while brigs, brigantines, schooners and other ocean-going vessels struck their royal and t'gallant yards, and unbent their sails.

During his stay in Calcutta, Zachary had twice joined the crowds that gathered on the river's banks to watch the passing of the bore: he had learnt to listen for the distant murmur that heralded the wave's approach; he had watched the water rising suddenly into a great, roaring head that was topped by a foaming white mane; he had turned to see the bore go by, on its coiled and tawny haunches, racing upstream as if in pursuit of some elusive prey. He too, like the urchins along the shore, had cheered and shouted, without quite
knowing why, and afterwards, like everyone else, he had felt a little twinge of embarrassment at all the excitement – because it took no more than a few minutes for the water to resume its normal flow and for the day to return to the even tenor of its ordinariness.

Although no stranger to these waves, Zachary had no shipboard experience of them, having only watched them from shore. Mr Crowle, on the other hand, was well-practised in dealing with bores and macareos, having ridden out many such, on the Irrawaddy as well as the Hooghly. The Captain put him in charge of the preparations and stayed below, letting it be known that he would not come on deck until later in the day. But as it happened, about an hour before the bore was expected, a message was received from Mr Burnham, summoning the Captain to the city on some urgent last-minute business.

As a rule, when the Captain had to be ferried ashore, it was a tindal or seacunny who rowed him over in the ship's gig – a small but handy little rowboat that was kept permanently tethered to the stern while the schooner was in port. But today the
Ibis
was shorthanded because many of the lashkar were still ashore, either recovering from their pre-departure excesses or making preparations for the long absence ahead. With every available hand occupied in snugging the ship down, Zachary went to Mr Crowle and offered to row the Captain's gig himself.

The offer was made on an impulse, without any forethought, and Zachary regretted it the moment it was out of his lips – for Mr Crowle took a while to chew over it, and his face darkened as he tried the taste of his conclusions.

‘So what'd you think, Mr Crowle?'

‘What do I think? I'll tell y'Mannikin: I don't think the skipper needs to be jibbering the kibber with yer. If he has to be rowed, then it's best I be the one to do it.'

Zachary shifted his weight uncomfortably. ‘Sure. Suit yourself, Mr Crowle. Was just tryin to help.'

‘Help? It's no help to anyone to have yer pitching the gammon to the skipper. Ye'll stay where ye're needed and look sharp about it too.'

This exchange was beginning to attract attention from the lascars, so Zachary brought it to an end: ‘Yes, Mr Crowle. As you please.'

The first mate went off in the gig, with the Captain, while Zachary stayed on board, to oversee the lascars who were unbending the topgallants and royals. By the time the mate returned, the sky was beginning to turn colour and spectators were gathering along the embankments, to wait for the bore.

‘Take y'self aft, Reid,' the first mate growled as he came aboard. ‘Don't need yer swilkering about for'ard.'

Zachary shrugged this off and went aft, to the wheelhouse. The sun had set now and the fishermen onshore were hurrying to secure their upturned boats. Zachary was looking downstream, watching for the first signs of the wave, when Steward Pinto came running to the stern. ‘Burra Malum calling Chhota Malum.'

‘What for?'

‘Problem with langar-boya.'

Zachary hurried forward to find the first mate standing between the bows, squinting at the water ahead. ‘Something amiss, Mr Crowle?'

‘You tell me, Reid,' said the first mate. ‘What do y'see over there?'

Shading his eyes, Zachary saw that Mr Crowle was pointing to a cable that linked the schooner's bow to the underside of a buoy, some fifty feet ahead. Having been on board during the initial berthing of the
Ibis
, Zachary knew that the Hooghly's bore entailed special procedures for the mooring of ocean-going sailing ships: they were usually berthed far out in the river's stream, where, instead of dropping their anchors, they were tethered between buoys anchored deep in the river's muddy bed. The holdfasts to which the ship's cables were attached lay on the underside of the buoys, beneath the water's surface, and could only be accessed by divers who were accustomed to the near-blind conditions of the muddy river. It was one such mooring-cable that had attracted Mr Crowle's attention – but Zachary was at a loss to see why, for there was not much to be seen of the rope, which disappeared underwater halfway to the buoy.

‘Don't see nothing wrong, Mr Crowle.'

‘Don't you now?'

There was just enough light to get another look: ‘Sure don't.'

Mr Crowle's index finger rose to pick a morsel from his teeth. ‘Don't say much for yer know, Mannikin. What if I told you the
cable's a-foul of the buoy's anchor-chain?' He raised an eyebrow as he examined his fingernail. ‘Didn't think o'that, did ye now?'

Zachary had to acknowledge the truth of this. ‘No, Mr Crowle. I didn't.'

‘Care to go out in the gig and take a look?'

Zachary paused, trying to reckon whether he would have time enough to get to the buoy and back before the wave came bearing down. It was hard to judge because of the current, which was flowing so swiftly as to carve deep fissures on the river's surface.

As if to preclude his doubts, the first mate said: ‘Not a nidget are ye, Reid?'

‘No, Mr Crowle,' Zachary said promptly. ‘I'll go if you think it's necessary.'

‘Stubble yer whids then, and heave on.'

If he was to do it, Zachary knew he would have to be quick. He went aft at a run, heading for the stern where the gig was still tethered – pulling it out of the water was to have been the last item in the preparations for the bore. Looking at it now, Zachary decided that it would take too long to draw the boat around to the side-ladder: better, if trickier, to vault over the stern-rail. He was tugging on the boat's painter when Serang Ali stepped out of the wheelhouse to whisper: ‘Malum 'ware: gig-bot broken.'

‘What . . . ?'

Zachary's question was cut short by the first mate, who had followed him aft: ‘What's this now? Fraid o' wettin yer feet, Mannikin?'

Without another word, Zachary handed the gig's painter to Serang Ali who looped it around a stanchion and pulled it taut. Climbing over the stern-rail, Zachary took hold of the rope and lowered himself into the gig, signalling to Serang Ali to set the boat loose. Almost at once the current took hold of the little craft and pulled it along the length of the schooner, propelling it towards midstream.

The gig's oars were on the floorboards and on reaching for them, Zachary was surprised to find that there was a good inch or so of water sloshing around the bottom. He thought nothing of it, for the boat's sides were so low that waves often lapped over them, even when the craft was stationary. When he began to row, the gig responded well enough until he was some twenty feet past the
schooner's bow. He noticed then that the water in the boat's bottom had risen past his ankles and was creeping up his calves. He had, so far, concentrated his attention on the buoy, so he was taken aback when he looked over the gig's side – for only an inch or two remained between the gunwale and the fast-flowing river. It was as if holes had been drilled into the gig's hull, with great care, so as not to open up fully until the boat was under oar.

He pushed his shoulders hard against the oars now, trying to turn the gig about, but the stern was wallowing so deep in the water that the bows would not respond. The buoy was only some twenty feet ahead, clearly visible even in the rapidly dimming light, but the current was sweeping the boat wide of its mark, towards the middle of the river. The schooner's cable was tantalizingly close and Zachary knew that if he could but reach it, he would be able to pull himself to safety. But the gap was widening quickly, and although he was a strong swimmer, Zachary guessed that it would not be easy to get to the cable before the wave swept in, not with the current flowing against him. Clearly, his best hope lay in being picked up by another boat – but the Hooghly, usually so tightly packed with river craft, was ominously empty. He looked towards the
Ibis
and saw that Serang Ali knew he was in trouble. The lascars were labouring to lower the starboard longboat – but there was nothing to be hoped for here, for the process could take as much as fifteen minutes. Glancing shore-wards, he saw that he was being observed by a great number of spectators – fishermen, boatmen and others – all of whom were watching with helpless concern. The sound of the approaching bore was clearly audible now, loud enough to leave no doubt that anyone who ventured into the water would do so at the risk of his life.