Turning away, Zachary peered into the looming darkness upriver: he knew that Paulette was in a village somewhere north of Calcutta - he had been alarmed to hear from Jodu that she had been ill and was being looked after by friends. When the boat pulled up beside the schooner, he was powerfully tempted to jump into it and row off, to go looking for her. The impulse was so strong that he might have obeyed it, if not for one thing: it stuck in his craw that Mr Crowle would imagine that he had succeeded in running him off the Ibis.

Fifteen.

With the rains over, the sunlight turned crisp and golden. The dry weather speeded Paulette's recovery and she decided to leave for Calcutta, to put in motion the plan that had been gestating in her mind through her illness.

The first step required a private meeting with n.o.b Kissin Baboo and she gave the matter much thought before setting off. Burnham Bros.'s main offices were on Calcutta's fashionable Strand Road, but the firm's dockside premises were in a dingy corner of Kidderpore, a half-hour's boat ride away: this distance Baboo n.o.b Kissin Pander was required to traverse almost daily, in the discharge of his duties, and being of a thrifty turn of mind, he chose usually to travel on the crowded kheya-boats that transported people up and down the waterfront.

The Burnham compound in Kidderpore was a large one, consisting of several G.o.downs and bankshalls. The shed that served as the gomusta's private daftar lay in one corner of the compound, adjoining a lane. When prospective clients wished to avail themselves privately of Baboo n.o.b Kissin's services as a bespoke moneylender, it was there, Paulette knew, that they went to meet with him. This, for instance, was what her father had done - but for herself, in her current situation, the risks attendant upon venturing into a property owned by her former benefactor were too great to make this a comfortable option; she decided instead to waylay the gomusta as he stepped off his ferry, at the nearby ghat.

The ghat in question - known as Bhutghat - proved to be ideal for her purposes: it was narrow enough to be kept easily under watch, and sufficiently busy for a lone woman to loiter without attracting attention. Better still, it was overlooked by an ancient tree, growing on a knoll: the tree was a banyan and its hanging roots formed a beard so dense as to offer easy concealment. Slipping inside this tangled thicket Paulette came upon a root that had looped down in such a way as to form a swinging bench. Here she seated herself, rocking gently, and watched the ghat through a gap in the carefully draped folds of cloth that covered her face.

Her vigil almost came to naught, for the gomusta was so changed, with his long, shoulder-length hair, that he was nearly gone before she recognized him: even the way he walked seemed different, with smaller steps and swaying hips, so she took the precaution of following for a minute or two before she accosted him with a sibilant whisper: Gomusta-babu ... shunun ... listen ...

He spun around in alarm, looking from the river's edge to the nearby lane. Although Paulette was well within the ambit of his gaze, his eyes, which were lined with a thin touch of kajal, pa.s.sed without check over her sari-shrouded face.

Paulette hissed again, but in English this time: 'Baboo n.o.b Kissin ... it's me ...'

This surprised him even more but brought him no closer to recognizing her; on the contrary he began to mutter prayers, as if to ward off a ghost: He Radhe, he Shyam ...

'n.o.b Kissin Baboo! It is me, Paulette Lambert,' she whispered. 'I am here, look!' When his bulging eyes had turned in her direction, she whisked her sari momentarily off her face. 'You see? It is me!'

The sight of her made him leap backwards in shock, so that he landed heavily on the toes of several pa.s.sers-by - but the drizzle of abuse that rained down on him went unheeded for his attention was transfixed on Paulette's sari-shrouded face. 'Miss Lambert? Why, I cannot believe! You have turned up in my backside? And wearing native garbs also. So nicely you have hidden your face I could not tell ...'

'Shh!' Paulette pleaded. 'I pray you, Baboo n.o.b Kissin, please abase your voice.'

The gomusta switched to a piercing whisper. 'But Miss, what you are doing in this nook-and-cranny, kindly can you inform? We all are searching you left and right, to no avail. But never mind - Master will rejoice like anything. Let us return back right now-itself.'

'No, Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' said Paulette. 'It is not my intention to go to Bethel. I searched you out for it is with you I must most pressingly speak. May I pray you to spare a little time to sit with me? If it will not too much derange you?'

'Sit?' The gomusta directed a disapproving frown at the mudsplattered, refuse-strewn steps of the ghat. 'But this locality is sorely lacking in furnitures. How to sit? Our saris - I mean, our clothings may become soiled.'

'Do not fear, Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' said Paulette, pointing to the knoll. 'Up on that monticule we can put ourselves in the shelter of the tree. Personne will see us, I a.s.sure you.'

The gomusta eyed the tree with some concern: of late he had developed a housewifely aversion to all creatures that crept and crawled and was at pains to stay away from anything that might harbour these forms of life. But today his curiosity prevailed over his distrust of greenery: 'Very well,' he said reluctantly. 'I shall comply your demands. Let us put our foot in it.'

With Paulette in the lead, they climbed up the slope and made their way into the thicket of tangled roots; although Baboo n.o.b Kissin's pace was slow, he made no complaint until Paulette ushered him towards the swinging root that had served as her seat. Having inspected this gnarled offshoot, he made a dismissive gesture. 'This place is not apt for sitting,' he announced. 'Insects are indulging in all type of activities. Ferocious caterpillars may also be there.'

'But caterpillars do not habitate on the roots of such trees,' said Paulette. 'It is safe to sit, I a.s.sure you.'

'Kindly do not persist,' said Baboo n.o.b Kissin. 'I prefer to opt out for foot-standing.' Thus having spoken, he crossed his arms over his bosom and positioned himself so that no part of his clothing or person was in contact with any kind of foliage.

'As you please, Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' said Paulette. 'I do not wish to impose ...'

She was interrupted by the gomusta, who could no longer restrain his curiosity. 'But so tell, no? Where you have been putting up all this time? Which side you went?'

'It is not important, Baboo n.o.b Kissin.'

'I see,' said the gomusta, narrowing his eyes. 'So then must be true what everyone is telling.'

'And what is that?'

'I do not like to wash dirty linens, Miss Lambert,' said the gomusta, 'but actually, all are saying that you have indulged in unproper behaviours and are now expecting. That is why you have absconded.'

'Expecting?' said Paulette. 'Expecting what?'

'Infructuous issue. You only told to Mrs Burnham, no, that native-bread is cooking in the coal-oven?'

Paulette went bright red and clapped her hands to her cheeks. 'Baboo n.o.b Kissin!' she said. 'I have indulged in nothing and am expecting nothing. You must believe me: I left Bethel of my own will; it was my decision to escape.'

The gomusta leant closer. 'You can freely admit - with me, formalities need not be there. Chast.i.ty is highly depleted, no? Maiden's-head has also been punctured, isn't it?'

'Not at all, n.o.b Kissin Baboo,' said Paulette indignantly. 'I do not know how you can imagine such things.'

The gomusta mulled this over for a moment and then leant furtively forward, as if to give voice to a thought that he could scarcely bring himself to articulate: 'So tell then: is it because of Master you are absconding?'

Paulette slipped her ghungta down so as to bare her eyes, and looked him full in the face. 'Maybe.'

'Oh my, my!' said the gomusta, pa.s.sing his tongue over his lips. 'Must be then hanky-pankies were taking place?'

It was clear to Paulette that a desire to learn of his employer's private compulsions was smouldering brightly in the gomusta's head: what use he would make of this knowledge she could not tell, but she understood that his curiosity might well be turned to her advantage. 'I cannot say any more, n.o.b Kissin Baboo. Not unless ...'

'Yes. Kindly proceed.'

'Not unless you are able to provide me with a little morceau of help.'

Ever alert to the hint of a bargain, the Baboo was suddenly watchful. 'And what morsel of a.s.sistance is required? Please to spell it out.'

Paulette gave him a long, steady look. 'Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' she said. 'Do you recall why my father came to see you? And when?'

'Just before departure for heavenly abode, no?' said the gomusta. 'How I could forget, Miss Lambert? You think I am a ninnyhammer? What is said with dying breaths cannot be lightly disposed off.'

'You recall that he wanted to procure me a pa.s.sage to the Mauritius?'

'Naturally,' said Baboo n.o.b Kissin. 'This item I only conveyed, no?'

Paulette's right fist crept slowly out of her sari. 'And you told him, did you not, that you could do it in exchange for this?' Opening her palm she thrust towards him the locket he had handed to her a few weeks before.

Baboo n.o.b Kissin glanced briefly at her palm. 'What you are intimating is correct. But what is the relevance I do not see.'

Paulette took a deep breath. 'Baboo n.o.b Kissin - I propose to hold you to your words. In exchange for this locket I wish to obtain a pa.s.sage on the Ibis.'

'Ibis!' Baboo n.o.b Kissin's mouth dropped open. 'You are mad or what? How you shall go on Ibis? Only coolies and quoddies may be accommodated on said vessel. Pa.s.senger traffic is not existing.'

'That matters nothing to me,' said Paulette. 'If I could join the labourers I would be content. It is you who is in charge of them, are you not? No one will be advised of it if you add another name.'

'Miss Lambert,' said the gomusta frostily. 'I daresays you are trying to pull out my legs. How you could forward such a proposal I cannot realize. At once you must sc.r.a.p it off.'

'But Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' Paulette beseeched him, 'tell me: what difference will arrive to you if you add one more name to the list? You are the gomusta and there are so many labourers. One more will not be remarked. And as you can see, you yourself would not have recognized me in this sari. No one will learn of my ident.i.ty: you need have no fear, I a.s.sure you, and in return you will have the locket.'

'No, by Jupiter!' Baboo n.o.b Kissin shook his head so violently that his huge ears flapped like wind-blown ferns. 'Do you know what Master shall do if this scheme is exposed and I am spotted out as the culprit? He shall break my head. And Captain Chillingworth is too much colour-conscious. If he finds I have consigned one memsahib as coolie, he will strangulate and make into tiffin for sharks. Baba-re ... no, no, no ...'

Spinning around, the gomusta went crashing through the curtain of hanging roots. His voice carried back to Paulette as his steps receded: '... No, no, this scheme will lead only to a big-big mischief. Must immediately be scotched ...'

'Oh please, Baboo n.o.b Kissin ...'

Paulette had invested all her hopes in this meeting and her lips began to tremble now as she contemplated the failure of her plan. Just as the tears were beginning to trickle from her eyes, she heard Baboo n.o.b Kissin's heavy tread coming back through the thicket. There he was again, standing before her, sheepishly twisting the fringe of his dhoti.

'But listen, one thing,' he said. 'You have overlooked to inform about the escapade with Master ...'

Under the cover of her ghungta, Paulette quickly dabbed her eyes and hardened her voice. 'You will learn nothing from me, Baboo n.o.b Kissin,' she said. 'Since you have offered me no a.s.sistance nor any recourse.'

She heard him swallow and looked up to see his Adam's apple bobbing pensively in his throat. 'Might be, one recourse is there,' he muttered at last. 'But it is endowed with many pitfalls and loopholes. Implementation will be extremely difficult.'

'Never mind, n.o.b Kissin Baboo,' said Paulette eagerly. 'Tell me, what is your idee? How can it be done?'

Through the season of festivities, the city resounded with celebrations, which made the silence within the camp all the more difficult to bear. When Diwali came, the migrants marked it by lighting a few lamps, but there was little cheer in the depot. There was still no word of when they would leave and every new day sent a fresh storm of rumours blowing through the camp. There were times when it seemed that Deeti and Kalua were the only people there who believed that a ship really would come to take them away; there were many who began to say, no, it was all a lie, that the depot was just a kind of jail where they had been sent to die; that their corpses would be turned into skulls and skeletons, so that they could be cut up and fed to the sahibs' dogs, or used as bait for fish. Often these rumours were started by the spectators and camp-followers who lurked perpetually outside the fence - vendors, vagrants, urchins, and others in whom the sight of the girmitiyas inflamed an inexhaustible curiosity: they would stand around for hours, watching, pointing, staring, as if at animals in a cage. Sometimes they would bait the migrants: Why don't you try to escape? Come, we'll help you run away; don't you see they're waiting for you to die so they can sell your bodies?

But when a migrant did run off, it was those very spectators who brought him back. The first to try was a grizzled, middle-aged man from Ara, a little weak in the head, and he had no sooner broken through the fence than they caught hold of him, tied his hands and dragged him back to the duffadar: they received a nice little reward for their pains. The would-be escapee was beaten and made to go without food for two days.

The climate of the city - hot, humid and damp - made things worse, for many people fell ill. Some recovered, but others seemed to want to sicken and fade away, so disheartened were they by the waiting, the rumours, and the disquieting feeling of being held captive. One night a boy became delirious: although very young, he had long, ash-smeared locks, like a mendicant's; people said he had been kidnapped and sold off by a sadhu. When the fever took hold of him, his body became scalding hot, and horrible sounds and imprecations began to pour from his mouth. Kalua and some of the other menfolk tried to fetch help, but the sirdars and maistries were drinking toddy and would pay no attention. Before daybreak there was a final outbreak of shouts and curses, and then the boy's body went cold. His death seemed to arouse much more interest among the overseers than his illness had done: they were unaccustomedly prompt in arranging to have the corpse carried away - for cremation, they said, at the nearby burning ghats - but who could know for sure? None of the girmitiyas was allowed to leave the depot to see what happened, so no one could say anything to the contrary when a vendor whispered through the fence that the boy had not been cremated at all: a hole had been bored in his skull and his corpse had been hung up by the heels, to extract the oil - the mimiai-ka-tel - from his brain.

To counter the rumours and ill auguries, the migrants spoke often of the devotions they would perform the day before their departure: they talked of pujas and namazes, of recitations of the Qur'an and the Ramcharitmanas and the Alha-Khand. When they spoke of these rituals, it was in eager tones, as though the occasion was much to be looked forward to - but this was only because the dread inspired by the prospect of departure was so profound as to be inexpressible, the kind of feeling that made you want to squat in a corner, hugging your knees and muttering aloud, so that your ears would not be able to hear the voices in your head. It was easier to speak of the details of rituals, and to plan them minutely, comparing them all the while with the pujas and namazes and recitations of the past.

When the day finally came, it was not as they had envisioned: the only augury of their departure consisted of the sudden arrival at the camp of the gomusta, n.o.b Kissin Baboo. He hurried into the overseers' hut and was closeted with them for a while; afterwards, the sirdars and maistries gathered everyone together and then Ramsaranji, the duffadar, announced that the time had come for him to take his leave of them: from here on, until they reached Mareech and were each allotted to a plantation, they would be in the custody of a different set of guards, overseers and supervisors. This team had boarded their ship already and had made sure that the vessel was ready to receive them: they themselves would be boarded tomorrow. He ended by wishing them sukh-shanti, peace and happiness, in their new home and said he would pray to the Lord of Crossings to keep them safe: Jai Hanuman gyan gun sagar ...

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 Bishuji 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, Bishuji 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 pa.s.sed 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 ban, 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 pa.s.sengers 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 s.p.a.ced 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 pa.s.sing 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 sh.o.r.e, had cheered and shouted, without quite knowing why, and afterwards, like everyone else, he had felt a little twinge of embarra.s.sment 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 ash.o.r.e, 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 ash.o.r.e, 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 onsh.o.r.e 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 anch.o.r.ed 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.'