On his way up the general had a narrow escape: a bullet flew right past his ear to hit the officer behind him.
Soon after his arrival the general called a meeting at his headquarters. Captain Mee was among those who attended. On his return Kesri learnt that the morning’s fighting had taken an unexpectedly heavy toll. The British forces had suffered more battlefield casualties than on any other day. The Bengal Volunteers had been lucky not to lose any men.
Feelings were running high among the officers, said the captain. The hotheads were talking of teaching the Celestials a sanguinary lesson by sacking the city’s temples, pagodas and markets: these were known to be vast storehouses of silver and gold — the booty would be beyond calculation.
It had been decided, in any event, that the walled city would be stormed the next day. The northern gates had been studied by the engineers and they had come to the conclusion that it would not be difficult to force an entry. Plans had been drawn up for the attack: it would start early, with all four brigades converging on the northern walls.
Through the afternoon followers kept straggling in, but none belonged to B Company. Their absence was both an inconvenience and a worry for Kesri; a couple of hours before nightfall, he dispatched a squad to look for them. They returned at dusk and only then did Kesri learn of the casualties: a runner, a cook and a bhisti injured; one fifer killed. That was why they had been so slow to arrive; because it had taken a long time to arrange for the injured men and the dead boy to be evacuated to the rear.
The news of Dicky’s death had a powerful effect on Kesri: he remembered that he had himself chosen the boy, thinking that he might become the company’s mascot. And so indeed he had: his ready smile, quick tongue and jaunty step had won the sepoys’ hearts: it was cruel that B Company could not be present at his interment, to bury him with the honour he deserved.
Kesri recalled also that a close friendship had blossomed between Dicky and Raju: his eyes sought out the young lad, who was sitting crouched and red-eyed in one of the muddy, mosquito-infested recesses of the fortress. Kesri felt a pang of sympathy for the boy; he would have gone over to say something had he been able to be sure of keeping his own emotions in check. But instead, seeing Maddow nearby, he said: Keep an eye on that little fellow, will you? It must be hard for him, losing his friend.
*
On hearing that a storm was expected Dinyar decided to move the Mor from Hong Kong Bay to the inner harbour at Macau, which was said to be safer in bad weather. He offered to take the other seths with him but none accepted. Many of them had taken rooms in Hong Kong: a resolution to the conflict seemed so close now that they were loath to absent themselves from the island for so much as a day. It was common knowledge that a land auction would be held soon and they did not want to run the slightest risk of missing it.
The seths gave themselves much of the credit for having persuaded the island’s current administrator, Mr J. Robert Morrison, to hold the auction even before Hong Kong was formally ceded to the British Crown. But Mr Morrison had dragged his feet over the auction and this had aroused their suspicions; they had convinced themselves that he would seize any possible opportunity to keep them from bidding, and being determined to prevent this, they spent their days dogging the tracks of the land surveyors and arguing over which plots they would bid on.
Shireen alone decided to return to Macau with Dinyar, on Zadig’s advice. A south China typhoon was like no storm she’d ever experienced, Zadig told her; she would do well to sit it out within the sturdy walls of Villa Nova.
‘And once the storm blows over,’ Zadig added with a twinkle, ‘maybe we can make the announcement?’
‘Of what?’
‘Our engagement.’
Shireen gasped. ‘Oh Zadig Bey — it’s too soon! I need more time. Please. Nothing can be made public until I’ve spoken to Dinyar — and there just hasn’t been time.’
‘All the more reason then,’ said Zadig, ‘to go to Macau with him. There will be plenty of time to talk during the storm.’
Of late Dinyar had been noticeably cool towards Shireen, as had the other seths. She’d been led to wonder whether they’d heard rumours about Zadig and herself, or whether something else was amiss. She had wanted to probe Dinyar about it, but he had been avoiding her and she hadn’t been able to corner him.
But soon after the Mor hoisted sail Shireen was able to create the opportunity she needed. She had instructed the cook to prepare aleti-paleti — masala-fried chicken gizzards — one of Dinyar’s favourite Parsi dishes. After it was brought to the table she sent the stewards away and served it to Dinyar with her own hands.
Majhanu che? How is it, Dinyar deekro?
He wouldn’t answer and sat sullenly at the table toying with his fork.
After a while Shireen said: Su thayu deekro — what’s the matter, son? Is everything all right?
For the first time since he’d sat down Dinyar looked directly at her. ‘Shireen-auntie,’ he said in English — and this was itself a departure for he usually spoke Gujarati with her — ‘is it true that Mr Karabedian’s godson has been buried next to Bahram-uncle’s grave?’
So that was it: the placement of the graves had made the seths anxious about their own guilty secrets.
Shireen nodded calmly. ‘Yes, deekro,’ she said. ‘It’s true.’
‘But Shireen-auntie!’ he protested. ‘Why should Mr Karabedian’s godson be buried there? That’s not right.’
‘Not right?’
‘No, Auntie — it’s not right.’
Shireen folded her hands together and laid them on the table. Looking Dinyar squarely in the eyes, she said: ‘I think you know, don’t you, Dinyar, that Freddie wasn’t just Mr Karabedian’s godson? He was also my husband’s natural child.’
Evidently Dinyar was completely unprepared for an open acknowledgement of an illicit relationship. He reacted as though he had been hit in the face. Su kaoch thame? What are you talking about, Shireen-auntie? How can you speak of such things?
Do you think, Dinyar, said Shireen patiently, that these things will disappear if you don’t speak of them? But they won’t, you know — because it is impossible to bring children silently into this world. They all have voices and some day they too learn to speak.
Shireen tapped the table loudly, to lend emphasis to what she was about to say.
You should remember all this, Dinyar, she said. Especially in relation to your own children.
There was a sharp intake of breath across the table; Dinyar began to say something but then changed his mind. Staring at his food, he ran a finger around his neck, to loosen his collar.
Shireen-auntie, he said presently, in a shaky, faltering voice: You must remember one thing. Men like Bahram-uncle, like myself — the work we do takes us away from home for years at a time. It’s very lonely — I think you won’t be able to understand how lonely it is.
Kharekhar? Really? said Shireen. You think we don’t know what loneliness is?
At that he turned his face towards her and she saw that he was wearing an expression of genuine perplexity.
How could you understand, Shireen-auntie? he said. Women like you — like my mother and my sisters — you live at home, in Bombay, in the midst of your families, surrounded by children and relatives, with every comfort in easy reach. The reason we travel overseas is so that you can live in luxury. It’s all for our families — to keep all of you comfortable and happy. How could you possibly know what we have to go through for that? How could you know what it’s like for us? How alone we are?