Authors: Amitav Ghosh
Zachary turned away and leant back against the headrest. What did this escaped quoddie want with him? Why had he revealed his identity unasked? Surely he knew that Zachary would have to report him to the authorities? And if he did know that then there was no way, surely, that he would allow Zachary to leave that den alive? He was a practised killer after all.
Zachary's eyes strayed towards the door. He saw nothing reassuring there: the two men who had followed them were standing guard in front of it.
Freddie seemed to guess what was going through his mind.
âLook, Mr Reid â you must not think to leave this place just now, eh? Need time to think, or bad mistake you may make. Supposing now you will go to police and say, “Lookee here, have found prisoner who escaped from
Ibis
” â what you think happen next, eh? How you will prove it? There is nothing to tie me to
Ibis
, lah. Cannot prove anything â and even if can, what will happen then, eh? I tell them it was you helped us escape. I will tell that you yourself killed Crowle. Because he try do something to you, lah.'
Zachary shrugged. âNo one would believe you â it's your word against a sahib's.'
Freddie smiled, narrowing his eyes. âMaybe, eh, I will even tell that Malum Zikri is not so much white as he looks. What then, eh? Maybe that will make big trouble for you among the sahibs?'
This knocked the wind out of Zachary. Knitting his fingers together, he tried to calm himself. âJust tell me, Mr Lee â what is it that you want from me? Why have you brought me here?'
âSaid already, ne? Friend wants to meet. Talk with you. Maybe do little business, eh?'
âWhere is your friend then?'
âNot far.' Freddie signalled to one of the boys, who went running to a door on the other side of the room. A moment later it opened to reveal the figure of a man dressed in a Chinese gown and cap.
The face was thin and weathered, the eyes hidden inside crevices of skin that had been burned and narrowed by the sun; the mouth was framed by a wispy, drooping moustache and the teeth were stained blood-red by betel.
âChin-chin, Malum Zikri!'
This time Zachary made no mistake. âSerang Ali? Is it you?'
âYes, Malum Zikri. Is me, Serang Ali.'
âBy the ever living, jumping Moses!' said Zachary. âI should'a known ⦠I guess the five of you have stuck together, haven't you, after getting away from the
Ibis
?'
âNo, Malum Zikri,' said the serang. âNot together â that way too easy to find, no?'
âSo where are the other three then?'
Seating himself next to Freddie, Serang Ali smiled: âMalum Zikri meet allo. In good time.'
Now, as he peered into the serang's unreadable eyes, an eerie feeling went through Zachary: it was as if he were looking at something that was as implacable and elusive as destiny itself. He remembered that it was Serang Ali who had first planted in his head the ambition of becoming a malum and a sahib; he remembered also the last words he had said to him, shortly before escaping from the
Ibis
: âMalum Zikri too muchi smart bugger, no?' Even then the words had worried Zachary, because he had suspected
that the serang was taunting him. His every sense was on guard now, as he said: âWhat do you want with me, Serang Ali?'
âJust wanchi ask one-two question.'
âAbout what?'
âHow Malum Zikri come to Singapore-lah?'
âI think you already know the answer to that,' said Zachary warily. âI've come on the
Hind
, as her supercargo.'
âYour ship carry soldier also?'
âYes â a company of sepoys.'
âHow many?'
Zachary narrowed his eyes. âWhy do you want to know, Serang Ali?'
âHab rich friend China-side, wanchi know.'
Suddenly Zachary understood: âOh so that's the game, is it? You're spying?'
Serang Ali had been chewing paan all this while and he paused now to empty a mouthful of spit into a brass spittoon.
âWhy Malum Zikri talkee so-fashion? We blongi friend, no? Just wanchi little help.' Serang Ali leant forward. âSee â Malum Zikri have too muchi chest opium, no? He answer my question; he get very good price. One thousand dollar.' He paused to let this sink in. âGood, no-good, ah?'
âYou mean one thousand dollars per chest?'
âYes,' said Serang Ali. âOne thousand. In silver.'
Zachary began to chew his lip; the offer was almost too good to be true. At this price after ten chests everything else would be profit.
âSo what do you want of me then, Serang Ali?'
âNothing, Malum Zikri,' said Serang Ali. âJust wanchi ask one-two question. Come, we shake on it.'
Serang Ali stuck out his hand but Zachary ignored it.
âNo, Serang Ali. Nothing's settled yet, and it's not gon'a be until I've sold you ten chests of opium at the price you've promised: a thousand silver dollars per chest. If we're going to do any talking, it'll be after that.'
Serang Ali's eyes lit up. Clapping Zachary on the back, he said: âGood! Malum Zikri still too muchi smart bugger! So-fashion only must do busy-ness. Money down, allo straight.'
May 30, 1840
Honam
This morning I arrived at the print-shop to find Zhong Lou-si seated inside. This had never happened before so I knew something unusual was going on.
Zhong Lou-si and Compton were leafing through a stack of papers. Their faces were sombre, yet incredulous; they looked as though they had received news that they could not quite believe.
Mat liu aa?
I said to Compton and he shook his head despondently.
Maa maa fu fu Ah Neel
â things are not so good.
What's happened?
Ah Neel, we have received word from Singapore, he said. A British fleet has arrived there, from Calcutta. There are six warships including one that is very big, armed with seventy-four guns. There are also two steamers and twenty transport ships, carrying soldiers and stores. Many of the soldiers are Indians, some from Bang-gala and some from Man-da-la-sa, in the southern part of Yindu. The transport ships all belong to Indian merchants.
How do you know? I asked, and Compton explained that Zhong Lou-si had sent an agent to Singapore, to keep an eye on what was going on. This man is apparently a master-mariner and was once a pirate; he is said to be very well-informed.
And where were the ships heading? I asked, and Compton told me then that their destination is China. As proof of this he showed me a copy of the
Singapore Chronicle
that had been forwarded to Zhong Lou-si by his agent: it was clearly stated in the paper that the fleet would soon be proceeding to southern China. From there the expedition would sail northwards, to some point from which it could exert pressure directly on Beijing.
Apparently all of this is now public knowledge in Singapore.
The news has come as a great shock to both Compton and Zhong Lou-si. Despite all the warnings, in their hearts I think neither of them believed that the British would actually attack China. Commissioner Lin himself has been known to say that he does not think that it will come to war â I suspect he finds it impossible to conceive that any country would send an army across the seas to force another country to buy opium.
I asked if they knew how many soldiers had reached Singapore. They said that by their agent's reckoning there were about three thousand, of whom about half are Indian. Zhong Lou-si has taken some reassurance from the size of the force; he thinks the British would have brought more troops if they really intended to wage war. He cannot believe that they would attempt to attack a country as large and as populous as China with such a small army. He thinks the British want only to make a show of force, as they have done twice before â in 1816 and 1823 â when they sent sepoys to Macau.
Surely, said Zhong Lou-si, if they were planning to make war they would send mostly English troops?
He finds it hard to imagine that they would depend on sepoys for something so serious â in similar circumstances the Chinese would never use
yi
troops.
I pointed out, as I have before, that the British have always relied heavily on Indian sepoys in their Asian campaigns â they did so in the Arakan, in Burma, in the Persian Gulf and so on. I told them also that the number of troops signified nothing: the main thrust of the attack would come from their warships, not their infantry. They would be relying on their navy to overwhelm the Chinese fleet.
Zhong Lou-si conceded that on the water it would be hard for the Chinese forces to resist the English fleet. But he added that at some point the English would also have to fight on land. There they would find themselves at a huge disadvantage in numbers. They would be taught a lesson if they made such a great mistake as to launch a ground assault.
But it appears that the British troops are preparing to do exactly that. According to the agent's reports from Singapore, the soldiers have been conducting many drills, on land as well as water. One of their weapons has made a great impression on the townsmen because it bears a resemblance to the fireworks that light up the sky on Chinese New Year. The agent has learnt from an informer that the weapon is called a âCongreve rocket' (these two words were written in English, on the margins of the letter, no doubt by the informer).
Zhong Lou-si asked if I knew anything about this weapon and I said no. He then asked if I could find out about it.
At first I was dumbfounded: where on earth was I going to find out about rockets?
But then I had an idea: I remembered hearing that there was a large library in the British Factory in Canton, with books on all manner of subjects.
The factory's residents are all gone of course, but the building is still looked after by its Chinese servants, many of whom are employees of the merchants of the Co-Hong guild. It struck me that if prodded by Zhong Lou-si they might be able to arrange for Compton and myself to visit the library.
I put the idea to Zhong Lou-si and he was much taken with it: within a few hours we received word that the requisite arrangements had been made.
Shortly after sunset Compton and I went to the British Factory and were led through its deserted interior to the shuttered library, which is on the building's highest floor.
The lib rary is much larger than I had thought, with comfortable leather armchairs, large desks, and rows and rows of glass-fronted bookcases. There were so many books that we were dismayed; we thought it would take us days to go through each of the shelves.
Fortunately there was a catalogue, lying on a desk. With its help I quickly located a treatise called
The Field
Officer's Guide to Artillery
: sure enough it contained a section on the Congreve rocket.
Turning to it, I discovered to my amazement that this rocket is actually a refinement of a weapon that was invented in India. Of course the Chinese have had rockets for centuries, but apparently they've only ever used them as fireworks, not for military purposes: rockets were first used as military weapons by Sultan Haider Ali of Mysore and his son Tipu, some forty years ago, during their wars with the East India Company. It was in south India, in the fortress of Bangalore, that rockets were adapted to carry explosives. Haider Ali used them to spread terror and confusion and caused the present Duke of Wellington some notable setbacks. Although the Mysore sultans were eventually defeated the British recognized the value of their innovation and sent a number of captured rockets to the Royal Arsenal in Woolwich, where one Mr William Congreve (a descendant of the playwright no doubt) then refined and improved the weapon. Since that time the British have used Congreve rockets in the Napoleonic wars and in the war of 1812. Now evidently they are planning to use them in China.
Compton and I lingered for hours in the library. We found several other âuseful' books â one on fortifications for example, and another on navigation â but to our disappointment there was nothing on steamships or boiler engines.
On our way out, I helped myself to a few books of my choice. It has been a long time since I last read a novel, romance or play: I scooped them off the shelves and stuffed them into my bag â
Pamela, Love in Excess, Robinson Crusoe, The Vicar of Wakefield, Tristram Shandy
, a translation of Voltaire's
Zadig
, and a half-dozen more.
As we were about to leave my eyes fell on a book that stood out among the library's sober tomes because of its brightly embossed spine:
The Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast
by William Roscoe.
It was the very edition that I'd bought for Raju in Calcutta when I started teaching him English, years ago; it cost a guinea as I recall, even though it was the cheaper, American edition. I could not resist it â I pulled it off the shelf and dropped it in the bag.
When I returned to my lodgings, the first book I took out of the bag was
The Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast
. I have read it to Raju so many times that I know it almost by heart. As I ran my eyes over the familiar illustrations, Raju's voice filled my ears, lisping over the words:
Come take up your Hats, and away let us haste âTo the Butterfly's Ball â¦
I could feel my son's weight on my lap and I could hear myself, correcting his pronunciation: âNo, Raju â this is how you say it â¦'
The memories were so vivid that the book dropped from my hand and my eyes filled with tears.
To brood uselessly serves no purpose â that is why I do not dwell on the past; that is why I try not to think too much of Raju and Kamala. But
The Butterfly's Ball
took me unawares and pierced my defences. It was as if an embankment had been swept away and I were floundering in a flood, trying not to drown in my own grief.
The eastern expedition's fleet grew steadily larger as the days lengthened into weeks. The vessels from Madras trickled in slowly, bringing not only sepoys from the 37th Regiment but also two companies of sappers and miners and a substantial corps of engineers. But there were other ships still to come from Madras, notably the
Golconda
, which was carrying the regiment's commanding officer, as well as the equipment, supplies and personnel for its headquarters establishment. The tardiness of these vessels kept the expedition at anchor in Singapore even as the men grew increasingly impatient to move on.