In the distance a crowd of local people had gathered and were being held back at gunpoint by a line of sepoys.
Kesri caught a whiff of putrefaction: evidently some of the exhumed graves were quite new. A shiver — brought on by both disgust and fear — went through Kesri. The idea of disturbing the dead filled him with dread; his instincts told him to get away from there as quickly as possible.
With a hand over his nose Kesri spun around but only to find Captain Mee coming towards him, down the corridor. The captain’s eyes went from Kesri to the graveyard and back again.
‘Don’t get the wrong idea, havildar,’ said the captain. ‘Nothing is being taken from these graves. Lieutenant Hadley over there’ — he nodded at the officer with the notepad — ‘is a scholar of sorts. He’s making a study of Chinese customs and practices. That’s all.’
Ji, Kaptán-sah’b.
‘You’d better be on your way now.’ The captain dismissed him with a nod.
*
As the foraging party marched away from the pagoda Kesri spotted a bank of dark clouds moving towards them, trailing sheets of rain. This was not the long-awaited storm, he guessed, just a preliminary shower: it would pass soon.
A short way ahead lay a compound that looked as though it belonged to a family of farmers: a small dwelling and several storehouses were grouped around a paved courtyard and a well. There was no placard at the gate to indicate that the house had already been visited: it seemed as good a place to start as any.
Seeing no one around, Kesri sent the followers to the well, to fill their mussucks and chagals. The main doorway was to the left: Kesri rapped on it several times without receiving an answer, although he knew that there were people inside — he could see their eyes glinting behind a crack in a window.
Kesri was thinking of what to do next when one of the followers came running up to tell him that two men had been found in one of the storehouses. Crossing the courtyard, Kesri went to the open door: inside were two terrified men, cowering in a corner. Beside them lay several sacks of rice and baskets of freshly picked bananas, green beans and a vegetable that looked like karela — it was a plumper, smoother version of the bitter gourd that was so beloved of the sepoys.
The two men were dressed in threadbare tunics and pyjamas; Kesri decided they looked like servants or field-hands. When he stepped into the storehouse they began to whimper in fear, rocking back and forth on their heels. It was clear that they were frightened half out of their minds; their faces were twisted into almost comical masks of terror.
Kesri made a half-hearted effort to signal to them that he had come in search of food. But the men wouldn’t so much as glance at his clumsy attempts at mime; they kept their eyes averted as though he were an apparition too terrifying to behold.
What to do now?
Kesri spat on the ground, in exasperation.
What sense did it make to ask these men for donations? The food in this storeroom was probably not theirs to give away in any case — and even if it were, why would they willingly part with things they had laboured hard to produce? No farmer would do that, Kesri knew, not here nor in his native Nayanpur — not unless the request was tendered at the point of a gun, by a dacoit or soldier, and it was a matter of saving one’s skin. Yes, that was what this was, dacoity, banditry, and why should it fall on him, a mere havildar, to pretend otherwise, just because Captain Mee had asked him to? Kesri decided that to leave quickly was the most considerate thing he could do for these people.
Kesri signalled to the camp-followers to pick up five sacks of rice and two baskets of vegetables.
Cover them with tarpaulin, he told them, in case it rains.
Going back to the courtyard Kesri was taken aback to find that a group of men, dressed in the usual clothing of Cantonese villagers — tunics, pyjamas and conical hats — had collected around the entrance to the compound. That was not surprising in itself; what was really startling was that Maddow appeared to be conversing with one of those men.
A roar burst from Kesri’s throat — eha ka hota? What’s going on here? — and he went striding across the courtyard.
At Kesri’s approach the men melted away; he would have given chase except that they had vanished by the time he reached the courtyard’s entrance.
Turning on Maddow, Kesri snapped: Wu log kaun rahlen? Who were they? Did you know them?
There was no change in Maddow’s usual sleepy expression.
They were lascars, havildar, he said. Chinese lascars. I had sailed on a ship with one of them. He was my serang. That’s all.
Kesri glared at him: Saach bolat hwa? Are you telling the truth?
Ji, havildar-sah’b, said Maddow. It’s the truth — I swear it.
Kesri sensed that there was more to thisthan Maddow had said but there was no time to pursue the matter: it had already begun to drizzle.
‘Fall in!’
The foraging party had gone only a few hundred yards when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down.
It was quite late now and the light was poor. Glancing over his shoulder, Kesri caught sight of a couple of conical hats, a little to the rear of the foraging party. It occurred to him to wonder whether the men who had been speaking to Maddow were following them. But when he ran his eyes over the party he saw that Maddow was nowhere near those men: he was marching close to the front, with an enormous sack slung over his shoulder; with his free hand he was helping Raju with a chagal of water.
Reassured, Kesri turned his eyes ahead again.
*
It wasn’t long before Raju realized that Maddow was slowing down. The change of pace did not surprise him for Maddow’s burden seemed enormously heavy.
Thak gaye ho? Raju whispered. Are you tired?
Maddow shook his head without answering — and this too did not surprise Raju for he knew that Maddow was not a man of many words. The night before, when a couple of the older boys had set upon Raju, threatening to take him down a peg or two, Maddow had appeared out of nowhere and somehow his very presence had scared them away — yet the gun-lascar had uttered hardly a word to Raju, even though he had stayed beside him all through the night. If not for that, Raju would have had a difficult time of it, he knew: in the hours after Dicky’s death he had discovered very quickly that Dicky had been not just a friend but also a protector. With him gone it was as if Raju had become fair game for the louts and bullies. Even today they had picked on him whenever Maddow was out of sight — which was why he was grateful to be walking beside him now.
Raju thought nothing of it as he and Maddow slowly dropped back to the rear of the party.
It was still raining hard when Maddow bent down to talk into his ear: Listen, boy, there is someone here for you. Look behind.
Glancing through the rain, Raju glimpsed the outline of a figure in a conical hat. Who is he? he whispered fearfully.
Don’t be afraid, said Maddow. He is a friend. He will take you to your father.
My father?
Even though he had dreamt of receiving a message from his father, Raju had never imagined that it would happen like this.
You must go with him, Maddow whispered. You’ll be safe. Don’t worry.
But who is it? said Raju. What’s his name?