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In the meanwhile, it was still raining hard, and one day Paulette got caught in a ferocious monsoonal downpour. Either because of the drenching or by reason of her state of mind, she fell ill. It was beyond Jodu's power to nurse her back in the boat, so he decided instead to take her to a family who had known her father welclass="underline" they had long been malis at the Botanical Gardens, and had benefited greatly from Mr Lambert's generosity. With them she would be safe and well looked after.

The family lived in a village a little to the north of Calcutta, in Dakshineshwar, and on arriving at their door, Paulette received a welcome that was warm enough to allay any remaining qualms that Jodu may have had. Rest and get better, he said to her as he was leaving. I'll be back in two-three months and we can decide then what to do next. She answered with a wan nod, and that was where they left the matter.

Jodu rowed back to Calcutta, hoping to make some quick money with his boat. This was not to be, for the last few rainstorms of the monsoons proved to be the most furious of the season, and he had to spend almost all his time moored at the ghats. But when at last the rains ended, the air was cleaner and crisper than ever before, and the winds brisk and redolent of renewaclass="underline" after the rain-slowed months of the monsoons, the rivers and roadways quickly filled up with traffic, as farmers hurried to bring their freshly harvested crops to the markets, and shoppers swarmed to the bazars, to buy new clothes for Durga Puja, Dussehra and 'Id.

It was on one such busy evening, while ferrying passengers in his boat, that Jodu looked downriver and caught sight of the Ibis, freshly released from dry dock: she was at a berth, moored between two buoys, but even with her masts bare, she looked like a token of the season itself, scrubbed and refreshed, with a new sheathing of copper along her watermark, her masts taunt and a-gleam. Wisps of smoke were curling out of the chuldan chimney, so Jodu knew that many of the lascars were already on board, and for once he wasted no time in haggling over fares and taunting the miserly: he got rid of his passengers as soon as he could, and rowed over to the schooner at full speed.

And there they were, lounging around the deckhouse, all the old familiar faces, Cassem-meah, Simba Cader, Rajoo, Steward Pinto, and the two tindals, Babloo and Mamdoo. Even Serang Ali unbent far enough to give him a smile and a nod. After the slapping and the gut-punching, his boat became the focus of much laughter – Is its roof made from old jharus? Is that an oar or a punkha? No one, he was told, had expected him to return: they thought he'd been lost to the stick-men – wasn't it common knowledge that no dandi-wala could ever be happy without a stick in his stern?

And the malums? The Kaptan? Where are they?

Not aboard yet, said Rajoo.

This delighted Jodu, for it meant that the lascars had the run of the vessel. Come on, he said to Rajoo, let's look the ship over while we can.

They headed first for the officers' section of the vessel, the peechil-kamre – the after-cabins – which lay directly beneath the quarter-deck: they knew they would never again set foot there, except as topas or mess-boy, and were determined to make the most of it. To get to the peechil-kamre they had to go through one of two companionways that were tucked under the overhang of the quarter-deck: the entrance on the dawa side led to the officers' cabins and the other to the adjoining compartment, which was known as the 'beech-kamra' or midships-cabin. The dawa companionway opened into the cuddy, which was where the officers ate their meals. Looking around it, Jodu was astonished by how carefully everything was made, how every eventuality had been thought of and provided for: the table at the centre even had rims around its sides, with little fenced enclosures in the middle, so that nothing could slip or slide when the schooner was rolling. The mates' cabins were on either side of the cuddy, and they were, in comparison, somewhat plain, just about large enough to turn around in, with bunks that were not quite long enough for a man to stretch out his legs in comfort.

The Kaptan's stateroom was furthest aft, and there was nothing about this kamra that was in the least bit disappointing: it extended along the width of the stern and its wood and brass shone brightly with polish; it seemed grand enough to belong in a Raja's palace. At one end of it there was a small, beautifully carved desk, with tiny shelves and an inkwell that was built into the wood; at the other end was a spacious bunk with a polished candle-holder affixed to one side. Jodu threw himself on the mattress and bounced up and down: Oh, if only you were a girl – a Ranee instead of a Rajoo! Can you think what it would be like, on this…?

For a moment they were both lost in their dreams.

One day, sighed Jodu, one day, I'll have a bed like this for myself… And I'll be the Faghfoor of Maha-chin…

Forward of the after-cabins lay the midships-cabin – the beech-kamra, where the overseers and guards were to be accommodated. This part of the schooner was also relatively comfortable: it was equipped with bunks rather than hammocks, and was fairly well lit, with portholes to let in the daylight and several lamps hanging from the ceiling. Like the after-cabins, this kamra was connected to the main deck by its own companionway and ladder. But the ladder to the midships-cabin had an extension that led even further into the bowels of the vessel, reaching down to the holds, storerooms and istur-khanas where the ship's provisions and spare equipment were stored.

Next to the beech-kamra lay the migrants' part of the ship: the 'tween-deck, known to the lascars as the 'box', or dabusa. It was little changed since the day Jodu first stepped into it: it was still as grim, dark and foul-smelling as he remembered – merely an enclosed floor, with arched beams along the sides – but its chains and ring-bolts were gone and a couple of heads and piss-dales had been added. The dabusa inspired a near-superstitious horror in the crew, and neither Jodu nor Rajoo remained there for long. Shinning up the ladder, they went eagerly to their own kamra, the fana. This was where the most startling change was found to have occurred: the rear part of the compartment had been boxed off to make a cell, with a stout door.

If there's a chokey, said Rajoo, it can only mean there'll be convicts on board.

How many?

Who knows?

The chokey's door lay open so they climbed into it. The cell was as cramped as a chicken coop and as airless as a snake-pit: apart from a lidded porthole in its door, it had only one other opening, which was a tiny air duct in the bulwark that separated it from the coolies' dabusa. Jodu found that if he stood on tiptoe, he could put his eye to the air duct. Two months in this hole! he said to Rajoo. With nothing to do but spy on the coolies…

Nothing to do! scoffed Rajoo. They'll be picking istup till their fingers fall off: they'll have so much work they'll forget their names.