Part 27 (1/2)

This time it took Deeti several whiffs before she recognized what it was: Datura.

Do you know what datura can do? whispered Sarju.

Yes, said Deeti.

Sarju gave her a thin smile. I knew that you, and you alone, would know the value of these things. This most of all ...

Sarju pushed yet another pouch into Deeti's hands. In this, she whispered, there is wealth beyond imagining; guard it like your life - it contains seeds of the best Benares poppy.

Deeti thrust her fingers into the pouch and rubbed the tiny, speck-like seeds between her fingertips. The familiar grainy feel transported her back to the environs of Ghazipur; suddenly it was as if she were in her own courtyard, with Kabutri beside her, making posth out of a handful of poppy seeds. How was it possible that after spending so much of her life with these seeds she had not had the foresight or wisdom to bring some with her - as a keepsake if nothing else?

Deeti extended her hand to Sarju, as if to give back the pouch, but the midwife pushed it back towards her. It's yours; take it, keep it. This, the ganja, the datura: make of them the best use you can. Don't let the others know. Don't let them see these seeds. They'll keep for many years. Keep them hidden till you can use them; they are worth more than any treasure. Inside my bojha, there are some spices, ordinary ones. When I'm gone, you can distribute them to the rest. But these seeds - these are for you alone.

Why? Why me?

Sarju raised a trembling hand to point to the images on the beam above Deeti's head. Because I want to be there too, she said. I want to be remembered in your shrine.

You will be, Sarju-didi, said Deeti, squeezing her hand. You will be.

Now put the seeds away quickly, before the others come.

Yes, didi, yes ...

Afterwards, when Deeti took Sarju's untouched food back to the main deck, she found Kalua squatting under the devis and sat down beside him. As she was listening to the sighing of the sails, she became aware that there was a grain lodged under her thumbnail. It was a single poppy seed: prising it out, she rolled it between her fingers and raised her eyes, past the straining sails, to the star-filled vault above. On any other night she would have scanned the sky for the planet she had always thought to be the arbiter of her fate - but tonight her eyes dropped instead to the tiny sphere she was holding between her thumb and forefinger. She looked at the seed as if she had never seen one before, and suddenly she knew that it was not the planet above that governed her life: it was this minuscule orb - at once bountiful and all-devouring, merciful and destructive, sustaining and vengeful. This was her Shani, her Saturn.

When Kalua asked what she was looking at she raised her fingers to his lips and slipped the seed into his mouth.

Here, she said, taste it. It is the star that took us from our homes and put us on this s.h.i.+p. It is the planet that rules our destiny.

The first mate was one of those men who like to boost their sense of their own worth by coining nicknames for others. As always with those who play this trick, he was careful to thrust his epithets only on those who could not refuse his coin. Thus Captain Chillingworth's cognomen - 'Skipper Nabbs' - was used only behind his back, while Zachary's - 'Mannikin' - was said to his face, but usually out of earshot of others (this being a concession to the collective prestige of sahibs, and thus malums). As for the rest, only a few were notable enough to merit names of their own. Serang Ali - 'Sniplouse' - was one such, but the migrants were indifferently 'sukies' and 'slavies'; the silahdars and maistries were either 'Achhas' or 'Rum-Johnnies'; and the lascars were either 'Bub-dool' or 'Rammer-Sammy' - or just 'Sammy' for short.

Of all the people on the schooner, there was only one whose nickname denoted some measure of camaraderie on the part of the first mate: this was Subedar Bhyro Singh, whom he called 'm.u.f.fin-mug'. Unbeknownst to the mate, the subedar too had a name for him, which he used only in his absence: it was Malum na-Malum (Officer Don't-Know). This symmetry was not accidental, for between these two men there was a natural affinity that extended even to their appearance: although the subedar was much older and darker - heavier in the belly and whiter in the head - both were tall, barrel-chested men. Their mutuality of disposition, too, was such as to transcend the barriers of language and circ.u.mstance, allowing them to communicate almost without benefit of words, so that between them there could be said to exist, if not exactly a friends.h.i.+p, then certainly a joining of interests, and a mutual ease that made possible certain familiarities that would otherwise have been unthinkable in men of their respective stations - for example, the occasional sharing of grog.

One of the many matters in which the subedar and the first mate were perfectly in accord was their att.i.tude towards Neel and Ah Fatt - or the 'Two Jacks' as Mr Crowle liked to call them (Neel being Jack-gagger and Ah Fatt, Jackin-ape). Often, of an afternoon, when Bhyro Singh led the two convicts around the deck on their daily Rogues' March, the first mate would join in the entertainment, urging Bhyro Singh on, as he prodded the convicts with his lathi: 'With a will there, m.u.f.fin-mug! Lay about cheerily now! Rattle their ruffles!'

Occasionally the mate would even step in to take the subedar's place. Flicking a length of rope like a whiplash, he would slash at the convicts' ankles, making them skip and jump, to the tune of: Handy-spandy, Jack o'dandy Loved plum cake and sugar candy Bought some at a grocer's shop And off he went with a hop-hop-hop.

These encounters invariably occurred during the day, when the convicts were up on deck: this being so, both Neel and Ah Fatt were taken unawares when a couple of guards came to the chokey, late one night, to tell them that the Burra Malum had ordered that they be brought above.

What for? said Neel.

Who knows? said one of the silahdars, grumbling. The two of them are up there, drinking grag.

The bandobast for taking the convicts on deck required that their wrists and ankles be bound and chained, which took some doing, and it was soon clear that the silahdars were none too pleased to be called upon to go through the procedures at this late hour.

So what do they want with us? said Neel.

They're must with sharab, said the guard. Out for maza.

Fun? said Neel. What fun can we provide?

What do I know? Keep your hands steady, b'henchod.

It was a time of night when the fana was crowded with lascars, sleeping in their jhulis, and to walk through it was like trying to negotiate a thicket of low-hanging beehives. Because of their long confinement Neel and Ah Fatt were already unsteady on their feet and their clumsiness was now compounded by the motion of the s.h.i.+p and by their chains. Every roll sent them carroming into the hammocks, b.u.t.ting b.u.t.ts and ramming heads, provoking kicks, shoves and outbursts of angry galis.

... B'henchod slipgibbet qaidis ...

... Your b.a.l.l.s aren't meant for walking ...

... Try using your feet ...

Clanking and clattering, the two convicts were led out of the fana and taken up to the fo'c'sle deck, where they found Mr Crowle enthroned on the capstan. The subedar was waiting attendance on him, standing between the bows.

'Where's ye'been, quoddies? It's low hours for the likes of you.'

Neel saw now that both the first mate and the subedar had tin mugs in their hands, and it was clear from the slurred sound of Mr Crowle's voice that this was not his first drink of the night: even when sober, these two men were cause enough for trouble so it was hard to imagine what they might, or might not, do now. Yet, despite a tightening in his guts, Neel did not fail to take notice of the singular spectacle of the moonlit sea.

The schooner was on the starboard tack, and the deck was aslant, dipping and rising as the sails strained in the wind. From time to time, as the tilt lessened, waves would break on the port beam and wash across the deck, dripping out of the starboard scuppers when the schooner leant sidewise again before the wind. The phosph.o.r.escent glow of these whirling runnels of water seemed to add footlights to the masts, illuminating the soaring wings of canvas overhead.

'Where're ye'lookin, Jack-gagger?'

The sting of a rope-end, biting into his calves, brought Neel suddenly back to the moment. 'I'm sorry, Mr Crowle.'

'Sir to you, pillic.o.c.k.'

'Yes, sir.' Neel p.r.o.nounced the words slowly, cautioning himself to keep a hold on his tongue.

Draining his mug, the mate held it out to the subedar, who filled it from a bottle. The mate took another sip, watching the convicts over the rim of the mug. 'Jack-gagger - ye're a ready one with the red-rag. Let's hear it: do y'know why we called yer up on deck?'

'No, sir,' said Neel.

'Here's the gaff then,' said Mr Crowle. 'Me and my good friend Subby-dar m.u.f.fin-mug, we was coguing our noses with a nipperkin of the boosey and he says to me: Jackin-ape and Jack-gagger are as topping a pair of pals as I'se ever seen. So I says to him, I says, never saw a brace of jail-birds who wouldn't turn on each other. And he says to me: not these two. So I says: m.u.f.fin-mug, what'll you bet me that I can talk one o'em into pumping s.h.i.+p on t'other? And blow me if he doesn't show me a quartereen! So there's the nub of it, Jack: ye're here to settle our bet.'

'What's the wager, sir?' said Neel.

'That one o'yer is a-going to empty the Jordan on t'other.'

'The Jordan, sir?'

'Jordan's greek for p.i.s.s-dale, Jack,' said the mate impatiently. 'I'm betting one o'yer is going to squeeze his taters on t'other's phizz. So there y'have it. No blows or beating, mind: nothing but suasion. Yer a-going to do it o'yer own will or not at all.'

'I see, sir.'

'So what do y'make of me chances, Jack-gagger?'

Neel tried to think of himself urinating on Ah Fatt, for the entertainment of these two men, and his stomach turned. But he knew he would have to pick his words carefully if he was not to provoke the mate. He produced an inoffensive mumble: 'I'd say the odds are not good, sir.'