As the first, furious chimes were ringing out, another swell took hold of the vessel, tipping her sharply on her side. One of the guards was knocked down as he tried to rise to his feet, and the other, who had been working his way towards Kalua, slipped sideways so that the bulwark caught him in the belly. He lingered on the deck rail for a moment, with half his body hanging overboard, clutching wildly at the slippery stanchions. Then, almost as if to shake him off, the Ibis dipped her flank still further, and a lapping crest of turbulence reached up to claim him for the deep.
Once again, the ringing of the bell transformed the dabusa into a drum. The migrants gathered together in uncomprehending huddles, as the sound of the feet above them rose to a crescendo. Through the percussive tattoo an even more bewildering sound could be heard – a chorus of alarms and hookums: Admi giráh! Man overboard! Look out aft! Peechil dekho! Dekho peechil! Yet despite the shouts and the noise, there was no change in the schooner's movement: she went ploughing on as before.
Suddenly the dabusa's hatch cover flew open and Deeti and Munia came tumbling through. Paulette lost no time in elbowing through the milling crowd that collected around them: What happened? What happened? Are you all right?
Deeti was shaking so much she could hardly speak: Yes, we're all right, Munia and I. It was the ghanta that saved us.
Who rang it?
My husband… there was a fight and one of the silahdars fell… it was an accident, but they're calling it murder… they've tied him to the mast, my jora…
What're they going to do, Bhauji?
I don't know, sobbed Deeti, wringing her hands. I don't know, Pugli: the subedar's gone to speak to the afsars. It's up to the Kaptan now. Maybe he'll have mercy… we can only hope…
In the darkness Munia slipped over to Paulette and took hold of her arm: Pugli, tell me: Azad? How is he?
Paulette glared at her: Munia, after all the trouble you've caused how can you even dare to ask?
Munia began to sob: We weren't doing anything, Pugli, believe me – just talking. Is that so bad?
Bad or not Munia, he's the one who's paying the price. He's so badly hurt he's barely conscious. The best thing now, Munia, is for you to stay well away from him.
For Zachary, the single most disorienting aspect of life at sea was the peculiar cycle of sleep that resulted from the unvarying rhythm of watch-on-watch. With four hours on and four hours off – except for the dogwatches of dawn and dusk – he often found that he had to rouse himself exactly when he was sleeping most soundly. The result of this was that he slept in the way that a glutton eats, gorging greedily when possible, and resenting every minute subtracted from the feast. While asleep, his hearing would shut out any noise that might disturb or distract – shouts and hookums, the sea and the wind. Yet, his ears would still keep count of the chimes of the ship's bell, so that even in his deepest slumber, he was never unaware of how much time was left before his next spell on deck.
That night, being off-watch till midnight, Zachary had taken to his bunk soon after dinner and had drowsed off almost at once, remaining fast asleep until the deckhouse bell began to clang. Waking instantly, he pulled on a pair of trowsers, and went racing to the stern to look for signs of the man who had fallen overboard. The vigil was a short one, for everyone knew that the silahdar's chances of survival in that choppy sea were too slim to warrant taking in the sails or bringing the ship about: by the time either manoeuvre was completed he would be long gone. But to turn your back on a drowned man was not easy, and Zachary stayed at the stern well after there was any purpose to be served by lingering.
By the time he went down to his cabin again, the offender had been roped to the mainmast, and the Captain was down in his state-room, closeted with Bhyro Singh and his translator, Baboo Nob Kissin. An hour later, as Zachary was preparing to go on deck for his watch, Steward Pinto knocked on his door to say that the Captain had sent for him. Zachary stepped out of his cabin to find the Captain and Mr Crowle already seated around the table, with the steward hovering in the background with a tray of brandy.
Once they had all been served, the Captain dismissed Steward Pinto with a nod: 'Off with you now. And don't let me find you lurking about on the quarter-deck.'
'Sahib.'
The Captain waited for the steward to disappear before he spoke again. 'It's a bad business, gentlemen,' he said gloomily, twirling his glass. 'A bad business – worse than I thought.'
'He's a bruiser, that black bastard,' said Mr Crowle. 'I'll sleep easier after I've heard him singing the hempen croak.'
'Oh he'll hang for sure,' said the Captain. 'But be that as it may, it's not my place to sentence him. Case needs to be heard by a judge in Port Louis. And the subedar, in the meanwhile, will have to content himself with a flogging.'
'Flogged and hung, sir?' said Zachary incredulously. 'For the same offence?'
'In the subedar's eyes,' said the Captain, 'the murder is the least of his crimes. He says that if they were at home, this man'd be cut up and fed to the dogs for what he's done.'
'What's he done, sir?' said Zachary.
'This man' – the Captain looked down at a sheet of paper, to remind himself of the name – 'this Maddow Colver; he's a pariah who's run off with a woman of high caste – a relative of the subedar, as it happens. That's why this Colver signed up – so he could carry the woman off to a place where she'd never be found.'
'But sir,' said Zachary, 'surely his choice of wife is not our business? And surely we can't let him be flogged for it while he is in our custody?'
'Indeed?' said the Captain, raising his eyebrows. 'I am amazed, Reid, that you of all people – an American! – should pose these questions. Why, what do you think would happen in Maryland if a white woman were to be violated by a Negro? What would you, or I, or any of us, do with a darkie who'd had his way with our wives or sisters? Why should we expect the subedar and his men to feel any less strongly than we would ourselves? And what right do we have to deny them the vengeance that we would certainly claim as our due? No sir…' The Captain rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the cuddy, as he continued: '… no sir, I will not deny these men, who have served us faithfully, the justice they seek. For this you should know, gentlemen, that there is an unspoken pact between the white man and the natives who sustain his power in Hindoosthan – it is that in matters of marriage and procreation, like must be with like, and each must keep to their own. The day the natives lose faith in us, as the guarantors of the order of castes – that will be the day, gentlemen, that will doom our rule. This is the inviolable principle on which our authority is based – it is what makes our rule different from that of such degenerate and decayed peoples as the Spanish and Portuguese. Why, sir, if you wish to see what comes of miscegenation and mongrelism, you need only visit their possessions…'