Here the Captain came abruptly to a stop and planted himself behind a chair: '… And while I am about this, let me speak plainly with both of you: gentlemen, what you do in port is your affair; I hold no jurisdiction over you onshore; whether you spend your time in bowsing-kens or cunny-warrens is none of my business. Even if you should choose to go a-buttocking in the blackest of shoreside holes, it is none of my concern. But while at sea and under my command, you should know that if any evidence of any kind of intercourse with a native, of any mould, were ever to be brought against one of my officers… well, gentlemen, let me just say that man could expect no mercy from me.'
Neither mate had any response to this and both averted their eyes.
'As for this Maddow Colver,' the Captain continued, 'he will be flogged tomorrow. Sixty strokes, to be administered by the subedar at noon.'
'Did you say sixty, sir?' said Zachary in awed disbelief.
'That's what the subedar's asked for,' said the Captain, 'and I have awarded it to him.'
'But might he not bleed to death, sir, the coolie?'
'That remains to be seen, Reid,' said Captain Chillingworth. 'Certainly the subedar will be none too sorry if he does.'
Shortly after daybreak Paulette heard her name being whispered through the air duct: Putli? Putli?
Jodu? Rising to her feet, Paulette put her eye to the duct. I want to get a good look at you, Jodu; move back.
He stepped away and she gave an involuntary gasp. In the scant light from the cracks in the bulwarks, she saw that his left arm was suspended from his neck by an improvised sling; his eyes were swollen and blackened, the whites barely visible; his wounds were still oozing blood and the fabric of his borrowed banyan was striped with stains.
Oh Jodu, Jodu! she whispered. What did they do to you?
It's only my shoulder that hurts now, he said, with an attempt at a smile. The rest looks bad but it doesn't hurt as much.
Suddenly angry, Paulette said: It's that Munia; she's such a…
No! Jodu broke in. You can't blame her; it's my own fault.
Paulette could not deny the truth of this. Oh Jodu, she said. What a fool you are: why did you do something so stupid?
There was nothing to it, Putli, he said offhandedly. It was just a harmless time-passing thing. That's all.
Didn't I warn you, Jodu?
Yes, you did, Putli, came the answer. And others did too. But let me ask you: didn't I warn you about trying to get on this ship? And did you listen? No – of course not. You and I, we've always been like that, both of us. We've always been able to get away with things. But I suppose some day it stops, doesn't it? And then you have to start all over again.
This alarmed Paulette, not least because introspection had always been utterly foreign to Jodu; never before had she heard him speak in this vein.
And now, Jodu? she said. What's going to happen to you now?
I don't know, he said. Some of my shipmates say the whole tamasha will be forgotten in a day or two. But others think I'll be a target for the silahdars until we get into port.
And you? What do you think?
He took his time in answering, and when he spoke it was with an effort. For myself, Putli, he said, I'm done with the Ibis. After being beaten like a dog in front of everyone, I would rather drown than stay afloat in this cursed ship.
There was something implacable and unfamiliar in his voice and it made her glance at him again, as if to reassure herself that it was indeed Jodu who had spoken. The sight that met her eyes offered no such comfort: with his bruises and his swollen face and bloody clothes, he looked like the chrysalis of a being new and unknown. She was reminded of a tamarind seed that she had once wrapped in layers of damp cloth: after a fortnight of watering, when a tiny shoot had poked its head through, she had undone the wrappings to look for the seed – but in vain, for nothing remained of it but tiny shell-like fragments.
What will you do then, Jodu? she said.
He came closer and put his lips to the duct. Look, Putli, he whispered, I shouldn't be telling you this – but it's possible that some of us may be able to get off this ship.
Who? And how?
In one of the boats – me, the qaidis, some others too. Nothing's certain yet, but if it happens it'll be tonight. And there's something you may have to do for us – I don't know for sure yet, but I'll tell you when I do. In the meanwhile, not a word, to anyone.
Habés-pál!
The hookum to heave-to was called in the middle of the morning. Below, in the dabusa, everyone knew that the ship would take in her sails when it was time for Kalua's flogging, and it was the change in the sound of the canvas, as much as the slowing of the vessel, that told them the moment was imminent: with the masts stripped almost bare, the wind had begun to whistle as it tore through the rigging. The wind had held steady overnight, and the Ibis was still wallowing through heavy, foam-flecked swells. The sky had darkened in the meanwhile, with waves of grey cloud tumbling over each other.
Once the ship had slowed, the maistries and silahdars went about the business of mustering the migrants with a grim, almost salacious relish: the women were told to remain in the dabusa, but of the men, apart from a few who were too unwell to stand, all the rest were made to go above. The men stepped on deck expecting to find Kalua at the mast, in chains, but he was nowhere to be seen: he had been removed to the fana and would not be produced till later, when his entrance would have the greatest possible effect.
The schooner was pitching so hard that the migrants could not be kept on their feet, as at their last muster at Saugor Roads. The guards made them sit in rows, facing the quarter-deck, with their backs to the stern. As if to underline the exemplary nature of what they were about to witness, the guards and overseers were meticulous in ensuring that every man had a clear and unobstructed view of the frame-like contrivance that had been prepared for Kalua's flogging – a rectangular set of gratings that had been set against the centre of the fife-rails, with ropes tied to each corner for the shackling of his ankles and wrists.
Bhyro Singh had placed himself at the head of this assembly and he was wearing his old regimental uniform: a freshly laundered dhoti and a maroon-coloured coattee, with a subedar's stripes on the sleeves. While the guards were organizing the migrants, he sat cross-legged on a pile of ropes, combing the strands of a leather chabuk and pausing, from time to time, to send the lash cracking through the air. He paid no attention to the migrants, but they, on the other hand, could not tear their eyes from the gleaming lash of his whip.