It was a warm day and as noon approached it became scorching hot on the fo’c’sle deck, which was exposed to the sun. Conical hats no longer sufficed to keep the gun-crews cool so they rigged up a canvas awning over the forward gun-ports. But as the sun mounted the sweat continued to pour off their bodies; many of the lascars stripped down to their banyans, draping chequered gamchhas around their necks.
At noon the breeze died away and the air became very still. Soon word arrived that the British ships were becalmed nine li short of the First Bar; only the Nemesis was still moving upriver.
This set off a hopeful murmur among the gun-crews: if the ‘devil-ship’ could be caught in a cross-fire, between the fort and the Cambridge, then there was a chance that she might be taken down.
Hopes rising, the gunners kept their eyes ahead, on the river. In a while, sure enough, puffs of black smoke appeared in the distance; then they heard the thudding of the steamer’s engine, growing steadily louder.
Across the river too, on the ramparts of the mud fort, there were many who were looking out for the steamer. The fort commanded a better view of the channel so its lookouts spotted the Nemesis first. A signal was flashed to alert the crew of the Cambridge and a minute later Jodu pointed ahead: There! Okhané! And through a stand of acacia and bamboo Neel caught sight of a towering smokestack.
The Nemesis cut her speed as she came around the bend. She was almost within range when the Cambridge’s gunners got their first good look at her long black hull and her two giant paddle-wheels. Between the wheels was a broad, bridge-like platform: a row of Congreve rockets could be seen lined up on it, ready for launching.
The steamer’s appearance had changed since Neel had last seen her: on her bows there were two large, freshly painted eyes, drawn in the Asian fashion. Neel had never imagined that this familiar symbol could appear so sinister, so imbued with evil intent.
Jodu too was studying the steamer intently, his scarred eyebrows knitted into a straight line. He raised a finger to point to the base of the smokestack. That’s where the steam-chest is, he said. If we can hit her there, she’ll be crippled.
In the meantime, the steamer’s pivot guns had already begun to swivel; one turned towards the fort and the other to the Cambridge. Suddenly the stillness was shattered by the report of a gun; it wasn’t clear who had fired the first shot, but within seconds the steamer and the fort were hurling volleys at each other.
On the Cambridge a few more minutes passed before the steamer was properly within range. When the order to fire rang out, Neel and the rest of the gun-crew threw themselves at the tackles of their gun-carriage. Heaving in unison, they pushed the carriage against the bulwark, thrusting the muzzle out of the gun-port. Now, as Jodu squinted along the barrel, taking aim, the rest of the team armed themselves with levers and crowbars so that they could adjust the barrel as directed.
When the gun was angled exactly as he wanted, Jodu punched a quoin under the trunnion, to hold it steady. Waving the others back, he lowered a smouldering fusil to the touch-hole.
Only in the instant before the blast did Neel realize that the Nemesis had also opened fire and that the whistling noise in his ears was the sound of grapeshot. Then the recoil of their own eight-pound shot brought the gun-carriage hurtling backwards, till it was stopped by the breech-ropes that were knotted around the base of its cascabel.
After that there was no time to think of anything but of reloading: dipping his rammer into a bucket of seawater, Neel plunged the head into the smoking barrel, to extinguish any lingering sparks and embers. Then their powder-monkey — Chhotu Mian the lascar — placed a fresh packet of powder in the muzzle, followed by a handful of wadding. Another thrust of the rammer drove the cartridge to the end of the bore and into its chamber; then the ammunition-loader pushed a ball into the muzzle, to be rammed in again, with yet more wadding.
This time Jodu was slow and deliberate in his sighting. He had stripped off his banyan and was bare-bodied now; lithe, slight and deft in his movements, he snatched up a crowbar and began to make minute adjustments in the angle of the barrel, his coppery skin gleaming with sweat.
What are you aiming at? said Neel.
The steam-chest, grunted Jodu. What else?
Murmuring a prayer, Jodu lowered the fusil and stepped back.
An instant later the Nemesis shuddered and Neel saw that a jagged gash had appeared under the smokestack, roughly where the steam-chest lay.
A hit! shouted Jodu. Legechhe! We’ve hit it!
Amazed, almost disbelieving, the crew raised a cheer — but soon the steamer’s giant paddle-wheels began to turn again, making it clear that the vessel was merely damaged, not disabled.
Yet to force the Nemesis to turn tail was no small thing either. The gunners on the Cambridge paused to catch their breath, giddy with excitement, savouring the moment.
But their elation was short-lived.
Even as the Nemesis was withdrawing, the masts of several other warships were seen in the distance, moving quickly towards them. The squadron hove into view with the steamer Madagascar in the lead; under heavy fire from the fort and the Cambridge the British ships began to deploy around the channel.
The warships held their fire as they manoeuvred into position; in tandem with the Madagascar a corvette pulled very close to the raft and turned broadside-on to the Cambridge. Then there was a rattling sound, as the wooden shutters of the vessels’ gun-ports flipped open. Suddenly Neel found himself looking into the muzzles of dozens of British guns.
The two ships delivered their broadsides in unison, with a blast that shook the planks under Neel’s feet.
Stay low! Jodu shouted over the din. They’re shooting canister.
As the musket-balls whistled past, Neel looked up. He saw that the awning above the deck had been shot to shreds; a patch of canvas, smaller than a kerchief, lay at his feet, pierced in a dozen places.
Crouching low, the gun-crew pushed the carriage against the bulwark again. They were preparing to fire when Chhotu Mian toppled over with a powder-cartridge in his hands. Glancing at his body Neel saw that he had been hit by a cluster of grapeshot; his banyan was riddled with holes; blood was spreading in circles around the punctures in the fabric.
Don’t stop! shouted Jodu. Load the cartridge.
Neel snatched up the packet of powder and rammed it in. After the ball had been loaded, Jodu shouted to Neel to fetch the next cartridge; he would have to take over as powder-monkey now that Chhotu Mian was dead.
Racing to the companion-ladder, Neel saw that the maindeck of the Cambridge was shrouded by a pall of smoke. As he stepped off the ladder his foot slipped on excrement, voided by some mortally wounded sailor. When he picked himself up again, Neel found that he was in the midst of a blood-soaked shambles: men lay sprawled everywhere, their clothes perforated with grapeshot. A cannonball had knocked down a heavy purwan and in falling on the deck it had pinned several men under it. The smoke was so thick that Neel could not see even as far as the quarter-deck, less than thirty feet away.