Sea Of Poppies Part 20

'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 sh.o.r.ewards, 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.

This much was clear: it wouldn't do to remain in the foundering gig. Using his toes and heels, Zachary worked his sodden shoes off his feet and tore off his canvas shirt. Just as he was about to jump, he saw a boat sliding down the mudbank: the slim, long craft hit the water with such force that its momentum carried it halfway to Zachary.

The sight of the boat lent Zachary's arms a burst of strength, and he did not pause for breath until he heard a voice, shouting: 'Zikri Malum!' He raised his head from the water and looked up to see a hand reaching towards him; looming behind it was Jodu's face; he was stabbing a finger to point downriver, where the sound of the wave had risen to a rumble. Zachary didn't stop to listen; s.n.a.t.c.hing at Jodu's hand, he tumbled into the boat. Pulling him upright, Jodu thrust an oar into his hands and pointed to the buoy ahead: the wave was too close now to think of rowing back to sh.o.r.e.

As he dug his oar into the water, Zachary threw a glance over his shoulder: the wave was streaking towards them and its foaming crest was a blur of white. He turned away, rowing furiously, and did not look back again till they had drawn level with the buoy. Behind them, the bore was rearing out of the water at an impossible angle, as if springing into a leap.

'Zikri Malum!' Jodu had already leapt on the buoy and was knotting the boat's rope to the hooped holdfast on its crown. He gestured to Zachary to leap too, extending a hand to steady him as he stepped on the slippery, algae-covered surface.

Now, with the wave almost upon them, Zachary threw himself flat, beside Jodu. There was just enough time to pa.s.s a rope around their bodies and loop it through the holdfast. Linking one arm with Jodu's, Zachary hooked the other through the iron hoop and sucked a huge draught of air into his lungs.

Suddenly everything went quiet and the wave's deafening sound was transformed into an immense, crushing weight, flattening them against the buoy, holding them down so hard that Zachary could feel the barnacles on its surface slicing into his chest. The heavy float strained against its cable, spinning around and around as the water swept past. Then suddenly, like a windswept kite, it changed direction and shot upwards, with a momentum that lifted it out of the water with a skip and a bounce. Zachary shut his eyes and let his head fall against the metal.

When his breath returned, he extended his hand to Jodu. 'Thank you, my friend.'

Jodu flashed him a grin and grasped his hand with a slap: eyebrows dancing wildly in his face, he said, 'Cheerily there! Alzbel!'

'Sure,' said Zachary with a laugh. 'Alzbel that's end's well.'

Miraculously Jodu's boat had survived unscathed and he was able to row Zachary back to the Ibis before going off to return the hired craft to its owner.

Zachary hauled himself aboard the schooner to find the first mate waiting, with his arms crossed over his chest. 'Had enough, Reid? Changed yer mind yet? Still time to turn around and get y'self ash.o.r.e.'

Zachary glanced down at his dripping clothes. 'Look at me, Mr Crowle,' he said. 'I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere the Ibis isn't going.'

PART III.

Sea.

Sixteen.

It happened that Deeti went early to the nullah next morning, so she was among the first to come upon the rowboats that were moored around the camp's jetty: the scream that broke from her lips - nayya a gail ba! - was such as to freeze your liver, and by the time its echoes had faded, there was not a soul in the campsite who was still at rest. In twos and threes they came creeping out of their huts to ascertain that the boats were real and that this was indeed the day when they would take leave of the camp. Now that disbelief was no longer possible, a great uproar broke out and people began to mill around, gathering together their belongings, taking down their washing, and hunting for their pitchers, lotas and other necessary utensils. The long-planned-for rituals of departure were forgotten in the confusion, but strangely, this great outburst of activity became itself a kind of worship, not so much intended to achieve an end - their bundles and bojhas were so small and so many times packed and unpacked that there was not much to be done to them - but rather as an expression of awe, of the kind that might greet a divine revelation: for when a moment arrives that is so much feared and so long awaited, it perforates the veil of everyday expectation in such a way as to reveal the prodigious darkness of the unknown.

Within minutes the maistries were going from hut to hut, swinging their lathis, rooting out those who had shrunk fearfully into corners, and kicking loose the knots of whispering men who were blocking the campsite's paths and doorways. In the women's hut, the prospect of departure caused such a rout that Deeti had to put aside her own fears in order to organize the evacuation: Ratna and Champa could do little but cling to each other; Heeru had prostrated herself on the floor and was rolling from side to side; Sarju, the midwife, had buried her face in her precious bundles and bojhas; Munia could think of nothing but braiding ta.s.sels into her hair. Fortunately, Deeti's own bundle of possessions was packed and ready, so she could apply herself fully to the task of organizing the others, prodding, slapping and shouting as was necessary. To such good effect did she apply herself that by the time Kalua appeared in the doorway, every last belonging, the smallest pot and the thinnest shred of cloth, had been accounted for and packed away.

A pile of baggage was cl.u.s.tered around the doorway: picking up her own, Deeti led the women out of the hut with their saris draped carefully over their heads and faces. The women kept close to Kalua's giant frame, as they made their way through the milling migrants. Nearing the jetty, Deeti caught sight of Baboo n.o.b Kissin: he was in one of the boats, wearing his hair loose so that it fell to his shoulders in shining ringlets. He greeted the women almost as if he were an elder sister, ordering the maistries to let them through first.

When Deeti had crossed the quaking gangplank, the gomusta pointed her to a thatched section at the rear that had been screened off for the women: there was someone already seated inside, but Deeti did not notice her - she had no eyes now but for the pennant-topped temple at the edge of the camp, the sight of which filled her with remorse for her unperformed devotions. No good could come, surely, of a journey embarked upon without a puja? She joined her hands together, closed her eyes, and was soon lost in prayer.

The boat's moving! squealed Munia, and her cry was quickly echoed by another voice, an unfamiliar one: H, chal rahe hi! Yes, we're on our way!

It was only now that Deeti realized that there was a stranger in their midst. Opening her eyes, she saw, sitting opposite her, a woman in a green sari. Deeti's skin began to p.r.i.c.kle, as if to tell her that this was someone she had seen before, perhaps in a dream. Seized by curiosity, she pulled her own ghungta back from her head, laying bare her face. We're all women here, she said; ham sabhan merharu. We don't need to be covered up.

Now the stranger too pulled back her sari, revealing a face that was long and finely shaped, with an expression in which innocence was combined with intelligence, sweetness with resolution. Her complexion had a soft, golden glow, like that of the cosseted daughter of a village pandit, a child who had never worked a day in the fields and had never had to endure the heat of the sun.

Where are you travelling to? said Deeti, and such was her sense of familiarity with the stranger, that she had no hesitation in addressing her in her native Bhojpuri.

The girl answered in the b.a.s.t.a.r.dized Hindusthani of the city: I'm going where you are going - jah ap jata ...

But you aren't one of us, said Deeti.

I am now, said the girl smiling.

Deeti was not so bold as to ask the girl directly about her ident.i.ty, so she chose instead the more circuitous course of revealing her own name and those of the others: Munia, Heeru, Sarju, Champa, Ratna and Dookhanee.

I'm called Putleshwari, said the girl in response, and just as everyone was beginning to wonder how they were ever going to p.r.o.nounce this tongue-tripping Bengali farrago, she rescued them by adding: But my nickname is Pugli, and that's what people call me.

'Pugli?' Why, said Deeti, with a smile. You don't look at all mad.

That's just because you don't know me yet, said the girl, with a sweet smile.

And how is it that you are here with us? Deeti asked.

Baboo n.o.b Kissin, the gomusta, is my uncle.

Ah! I knew it, said Deeti. You are a bamni, a Brahmin's daughter. But where are you travelling to?

To the island of Mareech, said the girl, just like you.

But you're not a girmitiya, said Deeti. Why would you go to such a place?

My uncle has arranged a marriage for me, said the girl. With a maistry who is working on a plantation.

A marriage? Deeti was amazed to hear her speaking of crossing the sea for a wedding, as if it were no different from going to another village downriver. But aren't you afraid, she said, of losing caste? Of crossing the Black Water, and being on a ship with so many sorts of people?

Not at all, the girl replied, in a tone of unalloyed certainty. On a boat of pilgrims, no one can lose caste and everyone is the same: it's like taking a boat to the temple of Jagannath, in Puri. From now on, and forever afterwards, we will all be ship-siblings - jahazbhais and jahazbahens - to each other. There'll be no differences between us.

This answer was so daring, so ingenious, as fairly to rob the women of their breath. Not in a lifetime of thinking, Deeti knew, would she have stumbled upon an answer so complete, so satisfactory and so thrilling in its possibilities. In the glow of the moment, she did something she would never have done otherwise: she reached out to take the stranger's hand in her own. Instantly, in emulation of her gesture, every other woman reached out too, to share in this communion of touch. Yes, said Deeti, from now on, there are no differences between us; we are jahaz-bhai and jahazbahen to each other; all of us children of the ship.

Somewhere outside, a man's voice was shouting: There she is! The ship - our jahaz ...

And there she was, in the distance, with her two masts and her great beak of a bowsprit. It was now that Deeti understood why the image of the vessel had been revealed to her that day, when she stood immersed in the Ganga: it was because her new self, her new life, had been gestating all this while in the belly of this creature, this vessel that was the Mother-Father of her new family, a great wooden mai-bap, an adoptive ancestor and parent of dynasties yet to come: here she was, the Ibis.

From his perch on the foremast, high up in the kursi of the crosstrees, Jodu had as fine a view as ever he could have wished: the wharves, the river and the schooner were spread out beneath him like treasure on a moneylender's counter, waiting to be weighed and valued. On deck, the subedar and his men were busy making preparations for the embarkation of the convicts and the migrants. All around them, lascars were swarming about, coiling hansils, rolling bimbas, penning livestock and stowing crates, trying to clear the deck of its last-minute clutter.

The convicts arrived first, preceding the migrants by some fifteen minutes: they came in a jel-bot, a large vessel of the budgerow type, except that all its windows were heavily barred. It looked as if it could hold a small army of cutthroats, so it came as a surprise when it disgorged only two men, neither of whom looked very threatening despite the chains on their ankles and wrists. They were wearing dungaree pyjamas and short-sleeved vests, and each had a lota under one arm and a small cloth bundle in the other. They were handed over to Bhyro Singh without much ceremony, and the jail-boat left almost immediately afterwards. Then, as if to show the convicts what they were in for, the subedar took hold of their chains and herded them along like oxen, prodding them in the a.r.s.e and occasionally flicking the tips of their ears with his lathi.

On the way to the chokey, before stepping into the fana, one of the convicts turned his head, as if to catch a last glimpse of the city. This brought Bhyro Singh's lathi crashing down on his shoulder with a thwacking sound that made the trikat-wale wince, all the way up in their perch.

Haramzadas, these guards and maistries, said Mamdootindal. Squeeze your b.a.l.l.s at any chance.

One of them slapped Ca.s.sem-meah yesterday, said Sunker. Just for touching his food.

I'd have hit him back, said Jodu.

You wouldn't be here now if you had, said the tindal. Don't you see? They're armed.

In the meantime, Sunker had pulled himself upright, so that he was standing on the footropes. Suddenly he called out: They're here!

Who?

The coolies. Look. That must be them in those boats.

They all rose to their feet now, and leant over the purwan to look down below. A small flotilla of some half-dozen dinghies was coming towards the schooner, from the direction of Tolly's Nullah; the boats were filled with groups of men, uniformly clad in white vests and knee-length dhotis. The dinghy in the lead was a little different from the rest in that it had a small shelter at the back: when it pulled up alongside the side-ladder, a sunburst of colour seemed to explode inside it, with eight sari-clad figures stepping out of the shelter.

Women! said Jodu, in a hushed voice.

Mamdootindal was not impressed: so far as he was concerned, few indeed were the women who could match the allure of his alterego. Hags the lot of them, he said darkly. Not one a match for Ghaseeti.

How do you know, said Jodu, with their faces hidden?

I can see enough to know they're bringing trouble.

Why?

Just count the number, said the tindal. Eight women on board - not counting Ghaseeti - and over two hundred men, if you include the coolies, silahdars, maistries, lascars and malums. What good do you think will come of it?

Jodu counted and saw that the tindal was right: there were eight sari-clad figures advancing towards the Ibis. It was the number that led him to suspect that they might be the same people he had rowed to the camp: had there been seven women in the group that day, or eight? He could not remember, for his attention had been focused mainly on the girl in the pink sari.

Suddenly, he leapt up. Stripping the bandhna from his head, he began to wave, with a foot in the tanni and an elbow hooked through the labran.

What're you doing, you crazed launder? snapped Mamdootindal.

I think I know one of the girls, said Jodu.

How can you tell? said Mamdootindal. Their faces are all covered up.

Because of the sari, said Jodu. See the pink one? I'm sure I know her.

Shut your chute and sit down! said the tindal, tugging on his pants. You're going to be lundbunded if you don't take care. The Burra Malum's already got it in for you after your stunt with Zikri Malum yesterday. If he sees you honeying up to those coolie girls you're going to be a launder without a mast.

Down by the boat, the sight of Jodu, rising to his feet to wave, gave Paulette such a scare that she nearly fell into the water. Although her ghungta was certainly her most important means of concealment, it was by no means the only one; she had also disguised her appearance in a number of other ways: her feet were lacquered with bright vermilion alta; her hands and arms were covered with intricate, hennaed designs that left very little of her skin visible; and under the cover of her veil, the line of her jaw was obscured by large, ta.s.selled earrings. In addition, she was balancing her cloth-wrapped belongings on her waist, in such a fashion as to give her the gait of an elderly woman, shuffling along under the weight of a crushing burden. With these many layers of masking, she had felt reasonably confident that not even Jodu, who knew her as well as anyone in the world, would harbour any suspicions about who she was. Yet, evidently, all her efforts had been in vain, for no sooner had he set eyes on her than he had begun to wave, and from a long way off, at that. What was she to do now?

Paulette was convinced that Jodu, whether out of a misplaced brotherly protectiveness, or by reason of the compet.i.tiveness that had always marked their quasi-siblingship, would stop at nothing to prevent her from sailing on the Ibis: if he had recognized her already, then she might as well turn back right now. She was contemplating exactly that when Munia took hold of her hand. Being close in age, the girls had gravitated towards each other on the boat; now, as they were going up the stepladder, Munia whispered in Paulette's ear: Do you see him, Pugli? Waving at me from all the way up there?

Who? Who do you mean?

That lascar up there - he's crazy for me. Do you see him? He's recognized my sari.

You know him then? said Paulette.

Yes, said Munia. He rowed us to the camp when we came to Calcutta. His name's Azad Lascar.

Oh, is that so? Azad Lascar, is he?

Paulette smiled: she was halfway up the stepladder now, and as a further test of her disguise, she tilted her face upwards so that she was looking directly at Jodu, through the cover of her ghungta. He was hanging from the shrouds in an att.i.tude she knew all too well: exactly so had they played together in the tall trees of the Botanical Gardens across the river. She was aware of a twinge of envy: how she would have loved to be up there, hanging on the ropes with him; but instead, here she was, on the stepladder, swathed from head to toe, while he was free and at large in the open air - the worst of it was that it was she who had always been the better climber. Ushered along by the maistries, she stepped on deck and paused to look up again, defiantly, daring him to expose her - but he had no eyes except for her companion, who was giggling as she clung to Paulette's arm: See? Didn't I tell you? He's mad for me. I could make him dance on his head if I liked.

Why don't you? said Paulette tartly. He looks like he needs a lesson or two.

Munia giggled and glanced up again: Maybe I will.

Be careful, Munia, Paulette hissed. Everyone's watching.

And so they were: not just the lascars and mates and maistries, but also Captain Chillingworth, who was standing at the weather end of the quarterdeck, with his arms folded over his chest. As Paulette and Munia approached, the Captain's lips curled into an expression of disgust.

'I tell you, Doughty,' he declared, in the confident voice of a man who knows that his words will be understood only by the person for whom they are intended: 'The sight of these miserable creatures makes me long for the good old days, on the Guinea Coast. Look at these hags, treading five over five to Rotten Row.'

'Theek you are,' boomed the pilot, who was standing beside the wheelhouse. 'About as sorry a lot of pootlies as I ever did see.'

'This old crone here, for instance,' said the Captain, looking directly at Paulette's hooded face. 'A virgin-pullet if ever I saw one - often trod and never laid! What conceivable purpose is served by transporting her across the sea? What will she do there - a bag of bones that can neither bear a burden nor warm a bed?'

'd.a.m.ned shame,' agreed Mr Doughty. 'Probably ridden with disease too. Shouldn't be surprised if she spreads it through the herd.'

'If you ask me, Doughty, it'd be a mercy to have her put down; at least she'd be spared the pains of the journey - why tow a frigate on fire?'

'Save on provisions too: I'll wager she eats like a luckerbaug. The scrawny ones always do.'

And, at this very moment, who should appear before Paulette but Zachary? And he too was looking directly into her ghungta, so that she could see his eyes fill with pity as they took in the bent shape of the ageless hag in front of him. 'A ship's no place for a woman,' she remembered him saying: how smug he had looked then, just as he did now, doling out his sympathy from on high; it was as if he'd forgotten that he owed his mate's berth to nothing more than the colour of his skin and a few misbegotten muscles. Paulette's fingers quivered in indignation, loosening her hold on her load. Suddenly the bundle slipped from her grasp and landed heavily on the deck, so close to Zachary's feet that he leant over instinctively to help her pick it up.