Again the subedar's voice was in his ear, speaking in a mocking whisper: Kãptí ke marlá kuchhwó dokh nahin – To kill a deceiver is no sin…
These words, too, echoed through Kalua's head – kãptí… ke… marlá… kuchhwó… dokh…nahin – each of the syllables marking one of the subedar's paces, going away and then turning around to come thundering back, until the lash flamed across his back, and again he bit through another twist of rope: then it began once more, the enumeration of the syllables, the crack of the lash, and the tightening of his teeth – again, and yet again, until the bindings on his wrist were all but gone, except for a few last threads.
By this time, the drumbeat in Kalua's head had attuned itself so accurately to the subedar's paces that he knew exactly when the lash was uncoiling through the air, and he knew, too, exactly when to pull his hand free. As the subedar came rushing forward, he torqued his torso on the fulcrum of his waist and snatched the lash out of the air as it was curling towards him. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it snaking back so that it looped itself around Bhyro Singh's ox-like neck. Then, with a single, flowing sweep of his arm, he pulled the lash tight, jerking it with such force that before anyone could take a step or utter a sound, the subedar was lying dead on the deck, his neck broken.
Twenty-two
Down below, in the dabusa, the women were holding their breath: so far, the charging sound of Bhyro Singh's run-up had been followed always by the flesh-splitting crack of the lash as it bit into Kalua's back. But this time the rhythm was interrupted before reaching its climax: it was as though an unseen hand had snuffed out the peal of thunder that follows upon a bolt of lightning. And when the silence was broken, it was not by a noise of the kind they had expected, but by a concerted roar, as if a wave had come crashing down upon the vessel, swamping it in chaos: screams, shouts and the thudding of feet merged and grew in volume until the individual elements could not be told apart. The dabusa became once again a giant drum, pounded on by panicked feet above and angry waves below. To the women, it sounded as if the vessel were foundering and the menfolk were fighting to get away in the ship's boats, leaving them behind to drown. Running to the ladder the women scrambled up, towards the sealed exit, but just as the first of them reached it, the hatch flew open. Expecting a wave to come crashing down, the women leapt off the ladder – but instead of a torrent of water, there came first one migrant and then another, and still another, each tumbling over the other to escape the silahdars' flailing lathis. The women pounced on them, shaking them out of their shock, demanding to know what had happened and what was going on.
… Kalua's killed Bhyro Singh…
… with his own chabuk…
… broke his neck…
… and now the silahdars are going to take their revenge…
The welter of witnessing made it hard to know what was true and what was not: one man said the silahdars had already killed Kalua, but another denied this, saying he was alive, although badly beaten. Now, as yet more men came pouring down the ladder, everyone had something new to add, something else to report, so that it was almost as if Deeti were on the main deck herself, watching the events unfold: Kalua, cut loose from the frame to which he had been tethered, was being dragged across the deck by the enraged guards. The Kaptan was on the quarter-deck, with the two malums beside him, trying to reason with the silahdars, telling them it was their right to demand justice, and they would have it too, but only through a lawful execution, properly performed, not a lynching.
But this was not enough to satisfy the maddened mob on the main deck, who began to howclass="underline" Now! Now! Hang him now!
These cries set off a sudden churning, deep inside Deeti's belly: it was as if her unborn child had taken fright and was trying to shut out the voices that were clamouring for its father's death. Clapping her hands over her ears, Deeti staggered into the arms of the other women, who half dragged and half carried her to their corner of the dabusa and laid her prostrate on the planks.
'Stand back, y'bastards!'
An instant after the roar had erupted from Mr Crowle's lips, the air was split by a report from his pistol. On the Captain's instructions, he had aimed the shot just to the left of the starboard davits, where the silahdars had dragged Kalua's almost-senseless body, with the intention of stringing him up from an improvised noose. The sound of the gun brought them abruptly to a halt and they spun around to find themselves facing not one, but three pairs of handguns. The Captain and the two mates were standing shoulder to shoulder on the quarter-deck, with their guns drawn and cocked.
'Stand back! Stand back, I said.'
No muskets had been issued to the guards that morning, and they were armed only with spears and swords. For a minute or two, the scrape of metal on metal could be clearly heard, as they milled about on deck, fidgeting with their hilts and scabbards, trying to decide what to do next.
Later, Zachary was to remember thinking that if the silahdars had made a concerted rush upon the quarter-deck just then, there was little that they, the three officers, could have done to hold them back: they would have been defenceless after they fired their first volley. Captain Chillingworth and Mr Crowle knew this just as well as he did, but they knew also that there could be no backing down now – for if the silahdars were allowed to get away with a lynching, then there was no telling what they'd do next. That Kalua would have to hang for the killing of Bhyro Singh was clear enough – but it was clear also that the execution could not be the work of a mob. All three officers were in unspoken agreement on this: if the silahdars were of a mind to mutiny, then this was when they would have to be faced down.
It was Mr Crowle who carried the day. Squaring his shoulders, he leant over the fife-rail and wagged his guns, in invitation. 'Come on, y'blackguards; don't stand there showing me yer teeth. Let's see if ye've got a pair of ballocks between the lot o'yer.'
No more than anyone else could Zachary deny that Mr Crowle made an imposing figure as he stood astride the quarter-deck, with a pistol in each hand and a stream of obscenities flowing from his lips – '… pack o'mollyfuckin shagbags, let's see which o'yer is going to be the first to take a bullet in yer bacon-hole…' In his gaze there was such a relish for bloodshed that no one could doubt that he would shoot without hesitation. The silahdars seemed to understand this, for after a minute or two, they dropped their eyes and the fight seemed to seep out of them.
Mr Crowle lost no time in pressing home his advantage. 'Stand back; stand back, I say, step away from the coolie.'
Not without some muttering, the silahdars slowly edged away from Kalua's prostrate body and gathered in the middle of the deck. They were beaten now, and they knew it, so when Mr Crowle told them to drop their armaments they made a show of obeying in proper parade-ground fashion, laying their swords and spears in a tidy heap beneath the fife-rails.
The Captain took charge now, muttering a command to Zachary. 'Reid – take those weapons abaft and see they're properly stowed. Get a couple of the lascars to lend a hand.'
'Yes, sir.'
With the help of three lascars, Zachary gathered the weapons together, carried them below and locked them safely away in the armoury. Some twenty minutes passed before he came back up, and by that time an uneasy calm had descended on the quarter-deck. Zachary stepped out of the after-companionway to find the silahdars listening in subdued silence, as the Captain launched into one of his jobations.