Sea of Poppies (77 page)

There was a desperation, almost a pathos, in this threat of blackmail, and it made Zachary smile. ‘Go ahead, Mr Crowle,' he said. ‘Whatever that paper is, it's not a letter of indenture. Take it to the Captain – believe me, I'd be glad of it. And I'll wager that when he hears about the bargain you were of a mind to make, it's not because of me that he's going to be all cut up inside.'

‘Stow yer magging, Reid!' The first mate's hand came flying out of the shadows to strike Zachary across the face. Then a blade flashed in the lamplight and its point came to rest on Zachary's upper lip. ‘I'se done my time, Mannikin, and ye'll do it too. Ye're just a broth of a boy: I'll bring y'to yer bearings soon enough.'

‘With your knife, Mr Crowle?' Now the blade began to descend, travelling downwards in a straight line, from Zachary's nose, past his chin to the base of his throat.

‘I tell yer, Mannikin, ye're not nigger enough to leave Jack Crowle hangin a-cockbill; not when he's all catted and fished. I'll corpse yer before I let yer gi'me the slip.'

‘Better do it then, Mr Crowle. Better do it now.'

‘Oh, I'd kill yer without a thought, Mannikin,' said Mr Crowle, through his teeth. ‘Don't y'doubt it. I'se done it before and I'll do it again. Wouldn't make a penn'orth o'difference to me.'

Now Zachary could feel the cold metal point pushing against his throat. ‘Go on, Mr Crowle,' he said, steeling himself. ‘Do it. I'm ready.'

With the tip of the knife biting into his skin, Zachary kept his eyes fixed upon the first mate's, even as he was preparing himself for the thrust. But it was Mr Crowle's gaze that wavered first, and then the knife faltered and fell away.

‘God damn yer eyes, Reid!'

Throwing his head back, the first mate gave voice to a howl that welled up from the bottom of his belly. ‘The devil take yer, Reid; God damn yer eyes . . .'

Just then, even as the first mate was standing in front of Zachary, staring in disbelief at the knife he had been unable to use, the door of the cabin creaked open. Framed in the doorway stood the slight, shadowy figure of the half-Chinese convict: he had a sharp-tipped handspike in his grip, Zachary saw, and he was
holding it not as a sailor would, but like a swordsman, with the point extended.

Sensing his presence, the first mate spun around, with his knife at the ready. When he saw who it was, he snarled in disbelief: ‘Jackin-ape?'

Ah Fatt's presence seemed to have a tonic effect on the first mate, restoring him instantly to his usual self: as if exhilarated by the prospect of violent release, he made a swinging lunge with his knife. Ah Fatt swayed easily out of the way, seeming hardly to move at all, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. His eyes were almost closed, as if in prayer, and his handspike was no longer extended, but folded against his chest, its point tucked under his chin.

‘Going to cut yer tongue out, Jackin-ape,' said Mr Crowle, in a voice that was filled with menace. ‘Then I'm a-goin to make yer eat it too.'

The mate made another thrust, aiming at the belly, but Ah Fatt turned sideways, eluding the point of his blade. This time the momentum of the strike carried the mate forward, exposing his flank. Spinning on his heel, like a bullfighter, Ah Fatt thrust the handspike through his ribs, burying it almost to the hilt. He held on to his weapon as the mate dropped to the deck, and when the spike was free of his body, he turned the bloody point towards Zachary. ‘Stay where you are. Or else, you too . . .'

Then, just as quickly as he had come, he was gone: slamming the door behind him, he thrust the handspike through the handles, locking Zachary into the cabin.

Zachary fell to his knees beside the pool of blood that was leaking out of the first mate's flank: ‘Mr Crowle?'

He caught the sound of a choking whisper: ‘Reid? Reid . . .'

Zachary lowered his head, to listen to the faltering voice.

‘Y'were the one, Reid – the one I'se been lookin for. Y'were the one . . .'

His words were choked off by a surge of blood, gushing up through his mouth and nose. Then his head snapped back and his body went rigid; when Zachary put a hand under his nostrils, there was no evidence of breath. The schooner lurched and the first mate's lifeless body rolled with it. The edge of the old crew-list
could be seen peering out of his vest: Zachary pulled it out and stuffed it into his own pocket. Then he rose to his feet and shoved his shoulder against the door. It gave a little, and he jiggled it gently until the handspike slipped out, falling to the deck with a thud.

Bursting out of the first mate's cabin, Zachary saw that his own door was already open. Without pausing to look inside, he went racing up to the quarter-deck. Rain was lashing down from the sky in knotted sheets; it was as if the schooner's sails had come unfastened and were tearing themselves apart against the hull. Instantly drenched, Zachary raised a hand to shelter his eyes from the sting of the rain. A wave of lightning surged across the sky, widening as it travelled westwards, flooding the water below with a rolling tide of radiance. In that unearthly light a longboat seemed to leap out at Zachary, from the crest of a wave: although it was already some twenty yards off the schooner's beam, the faces of the five men who were in it could be clearly seen. Serang Ali was at the rudder, and the other four were huddled in its middle – Jodu, Neel, Ah Fatt and Kalua. Serang Ali had seen Zachary too, and he was raising his hand to wave when the craft dropped behind a ridge of water and disappeared from view.

As the lightning was retreating across the sky, Zachary became aware that he was not the only one who was watching the boat: there were three others on the main deck, below, standing with their arms interlinked. Two of them he recognized immediately, Paulette and Baboo Nob Kissin – but the third was a woman in a sodden sari, who had never before uncovered her face in his presence. Now, in the fading glow of the clouds, she turned to look at him and he saw that she had piercing grey eyes. Although it was the first time he had seen her face, he knew that he had glimpsed her somewhere, standing much as she was now, in a wet sari, hair dripping, looking at him with startled grey eyes.

Sea of Poppies
owes a great debt to many nineteenth-century scholars, dictionarists, linguists and chroniclers: most notably to Sir George Grierson, for his
Report on Colonial Emigration from the Bengal Presidency
, 1883, for his grammar of the Bhojpuri language, and for his 1884 and 1886 articles on Bhojpuri folk songs; to J. W. S. MacArthur, one-time Superintendent of the Ghazipur Opium Factory, for his
Notes on an Opium Factory
(Thacker, Spink, Calcutta, 1865); to Lt Thomas Roebuck, for his nautical lexicon, first published in Calcutta,
An English And Hindostanee Naval Dictionary Of Technical Terms And Sea Phrases As Also The Various Words Of Command Given In Working A Ship, &C. With Many Sentences Of Great Use At Sea; To Which Is Prefixed A Short Grammar Of The Hindostanee Language
(reprinted in London in 1813 by Black, Parry & Co., booksellers to the Hon. East India Company; later revised by George Small, and reissued by W. H. Allen & Co., under the title
A Laskari Dictionary Or Anglo-Indian Vocabulary Of Nautical Terms And Phrases In English And Hindustani
, London, 1882); to Sir Henry Yule & A. C. Burnell, authors of
Hobson-Jobson: A Glossary Of Colloquial Anglo-Indian Words And Phrases, And Of Kindred Terms, Etymological, Historical, Geographical And Discursive
; and to the Chief Justice of Calcutta's Supreme Court of Judicature for his verdict in the 1829 forgery trial of Prawnkissen Holdar (reprinted in Anil Chandra Das Gupta, ed.,
The Days of John Company: Selections from Calcutta Gazette 1824–1832
, West Bengal Govt. Press, Calcutta, 1959, pp. 336–38).

This novel has been greatly enriched by the work of many contemporary and near-contemporary scholars and historians. The complete list of books, articles and essays that have contributed to
my understanding of the period is too long to reproduce here, but it would be remiss of me not to acknowledge my gratitude for, and my indebtedness to, the work of the following: Clare Anderson, Robert Antony, David Arnold, Jack Beeching, Kingsley Bolton, Sarita Boodhoo, Anne Bulley, B. R. Burg, Marina Carter, Hsin-Pao Chang, Weng Eang Cheong, Tan Chung, Maurice Collis, Saloni Deerpalsingh, Guo Deyan, Jacques M. Downs, Amar Farooqui, Peter Ward Fay, Michael Fisher, Basil Greenhill, Richard H. Grove, Amalendu Guha, Edward O. Henry, Engseng Ho, Hunt Janin, Isaac Land, C. P. Liang, Brian Lubbock, Dian H. Murray, Helen Myers, Marcus Rediker, John F. Richards, Dingxu Shi, Asiya Siddiqi, Radhika Singha, Michael Sokolow, Vijaya Teelock, Madhavi Thampi and Rozina Visram.

For their support and assistance at various points in the writing of this novel, I owe many thanks to: Kanti & Champa Banymandhab, Girindre Beeharry, the late Sir Satcam Boolell and his family, Sanjay Buckory, Pushpa Burrenchobay, May Bo Ching, Careem Curreemjee, Saloni Deerpalsingh, Parmeshwar K. Dhawan, Greg Gibson, Marc Foo Kune, Surendra Ramgoolam, Vishwamitra Ramphul, Achintyarup Ray, Debashree Roy, Anthony J. Simmonds, Vijaya Teelock, Boodhun Teelock and Zhou Xiang. I owe a great debt of gratitude also to the following institutions: the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, England; the Mahatma Gandhi Institute, Mauritius; and the Mauritius National Archives.

The lines quoted in Chapter Two (
Ág mor lágal ba
. . .) are from a song collected by Edward O. Henry (
Chant The Names of God: Music and Culture in Bhojpuri-Speaking India
, San Diego State Univ. Press, San Diego, 1988, p. 288). The lines quoted in Chapter Three (
Majha dhára me hai bera mer
á . . .) are from a song collected in Helen Myers,
Music of Hindu Trinidad: Songs from the Indian Diaspora
, Univ. of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1998, p. 307. The lines quoted in Chapter Five (
Sãjh bhailé
. . .) are from Sarita Boodhoo's
Bhojpuri Traditions in Mauritius
, Mauritius Bhojpuri Inst., Port Louis, 1999, p. 63. The lines quoted in Chapter Nineteen (
Talwa jharailé
. . .) and the lines quoted in Chapter Twenty-one (. . .
uthlé há chhati ke jobanwá
. . .) are from songs collected by Sir George Grierson for his article “Some Bhojpuri Folksongs,”
Journal of the
Royal Asiatic Society
18, p. 207, 1886. In all these instances the translations are my own.

Without the support of Barney Karpfinger and Roland Philipps, the
Ibis
could not have crossed the Bay of Bengal; at critical moments in her journey, when she lay becalmed in kalmariyas, James Simpson and Chris Clark blew wind into her sails; my children, Lila and Nayan, saw her through many a storm and my wife, Deborah Baker, was the best of malums: I, no less than this frail craft, owe them all a great debt of gratitude.

Amitav Ghosh
Kolkata
2008

Words! Neel was of the view that words, no less than people, are endowed with lives and destinies of their own. Why then were there no astrologers to calculate their kismet and make predictions about their fate? The thought that he might be the one to take on this task probably came to him at about the time when he was first beginning to earn his livelihood as a linkister – that is to say, during his years in southern China. From then on, for years afterwards, he made it his regular practice to jot down his divinations of the fate of certain words. The
Chrestomathy
, then, is not so much a key to language as an astrological chart, crafted by a man who was obsessed with the destiny of words. Not all words were of equal interest, of course, and the
Chrestomathy
, let it be noted, deals only with a favoured few: it is devoted to a select number among the many migrants who have sailed from eastern waters towards the chilly shores of the English language. It is, in other words, a chart of the fortunes of a shipload of girmitiyas: this perhaps is why Neel named it after the
Ibis
.

But let there be no mistake: the
Chrestomathy
deals solely with words that have a claim to naturalization within the English language. Indeed the epiphany out of which it was born was Neel's discovery, in the late 1880s, that a complete and authoritative lexicon of the English language was under preparation: this was, of course, the
Oxford English Dictionary
(or the
Oracle
, as it is invariably referred to in the
Chrestomathy
). Neel saw at once that the
Oracle
would provide him with an authoritative almanac against which to judge the accuracy of his predictions. Although he was already then an elderly man, his excitement was such that he immediately began to gather his papers together in preparation for the
Oracle
's publication. He was to be disappointed, for decades would pass before the
Oxford English Dictionary
finally made its appearance: all he ever saw of it was a few of the facsicules that appeared in the interim. But the years of waiting were by no means wasted: Neel spent them in collating his notes with other glossaries, lexicons and word-lists. The story goes that in the last years of his life his reading consisted of nothing but dictionaries. When his eyesight began to fail, his grandchildren and great-grandchildren were made to perform this service for him (thus the family coinage ‘to read the dicky', defined by Neel as ‘a gubbrowing of last resort').