Sea of Poppies (61 page)

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ext morning, under a lamb's-wool sky, the
Ibis
ran into swells and gusts that set her to a frolicsome pitching. Many of the girmitiyas had begun to experience stirrings of discomfort while the
Ibis
was still on the Hooghly, for even at her most placid the schooner was a great deal livelier than the slow river-boats to which they were accustomed. Now, with the
Ibis
tipping all nines in a jabble-sea, many were reduced to a state of infantile helplessness.

Some half-dozen pails and wooden buckets had been distributed through the 'tween-deck, in preparation for the onset of seasickness. For a while, these were put to good use, with the steadier of the migrants helping the others to reach the balties before they spewed. But soon the containers were filled to overflowing, and their contents began to slop over the sides. As the vessel plunged and climbed, more and more of the migrants lost the use of their legs, emptying their stomachs where they lay. The smell of vomit added to the already noxious odours of the enclosed space, multiplying the effects of the vessel's motion. Soon it seemed as if the hold would be swamped by a rising tide of nausea. One night a man drowned in a pool of his own vomit, and such were the conditions that his death went unremarked for the better part of a day. By the time it was noticed, so few migrants could stand upright that the consigning of the corpse to the water was not witnessed by any of them.

Deeti, like many of the others, was oblivious to the fatality that had occurred nearby: even if she had known, she would not have had the strength to look in the dead man's direction. For several days she could not rise to her feet, far less leave the dabusa; it was
a near-intolerable effort even to roll off her mat when Kalua wanted to wipe it clean. As for food and water, the very thought of them were enough to bring her gorge rushing to her lips:
Ham nahin tál sakelan
– I can't bear it, I can't . . .

Yes you can; you will.

As Deeti began to recover, Sarju grew steadily worse. One night her moaning became so piteous that Deeti, who was feeling none too spry herself, took her head into her own lap, and covered her forehead with a piece of moistened cloth. Suddenly she felt Sarju's body growing tense under her fingers. Sarju? she cried: Are you all right?

Yes, whispered Sarju. Hold still for a moment . . .

Alerted by Deeti's cry, some of the others turned to ask: What's happened to her? What's the matter?

Sarju raised a wavering finger to silence them, and then lowered her ear to Deeti's belly. The women held their breath until Sarju opened her eyes.

What? said Deeti. What's happened?

God has filled your lap, Sarju whispered. You are with child!

The one time when Captain Chillingworth was unfailingly present on deck was at noon, when he was joined by the two mates in shooting the sun. This was the part of the day that Zachary most looked forward to, and not even Mr Crowle's presence could diminish his pleasure in the ritual. It wasn't just that he enjoyed using his sextant, though that was no small part of it; for him this moment was a reward for the unceasing tedium of watch-on-watch and the constant aggravation of having to be at close quarters with the first mate: to see the schooner changing position on the charts was a reminder that this was not a journey without end. Every day, when Captain Chillingworth produced the schooner's chronometer, Zachary would go to great pains to synchronize his watch with it: the moving of the minute hand was evidence, too, that despite the unchanging horizon ahead, the schooner was steadily altering her place in the universe of time and space.

Mr Crowle did not possess a watch, and it irked him that Zachary had one. Every noon there was some new jibe: ‘There he goes again, like a monkey with a nut . . .' Captain Chillingworth,
on the other hand, was impressed by Zachary's exactitude: ‘Always good to know where you stand in the world: never does a man any harm to know his place.'

One day, as Zachary was tweaking his watch, the Captain said: ‘That's a pretty little gewgaw you've got there, Reid: would you mind if I took a look?'

‘No, sir – not in the least.' Zachary snapped the cover shut and handed over his watch.

The Captain's eyebrows rose as he examined the filigreed designs. ‘Fine little piece, Reid; Chinese craftsmanship I should think: probably made in Macao.'

‘Do they make watches there?'

‘Oh yes,' said the Captain. ‘Some very good ones too.' He flipped the lid open, and his eye went immediately to the lettering on the inside cover. ‘What's this now?' He read the name out loud – Adam T. Danby – and repeated it, as if in disbelief: ‘Adam Danby?' He turned to Zachary with a frown. ‘May I ask how this came into your possession, Reid?'

‘Why, sir . . .'

Had they been alone, Zachary would have had no hesitation in telling the Captain that Serang Ali had given him the watch: but with Mr Crowle within earshot, Zachary could not bring himself to hand over a fresh load of ammunition to be added to the first mate's armoury of jibes. ‘Why, sir,' he said, with a shrug, ‘I got it at a pawnshop, in Cape Town.'

‘Did you now?' said the Captain. ‘Well, that's very interesting. Very interesting indeed.'

‘Really, sir? How so?'

The Captain looked up at the sun and mopped his face. ‘The tale's a bit of a breezo and will take some telling,' he said. ‘Let's go below where we can sit down.'

Leaving the deck to the first mate, Zachary and the Captain went down to the cuddy and seated themselves at the table.

‘Did you know this Adam Danby, sir?' said Zachary.

‘No,' said the Captain. ‘Never met him in person. But there was a time when he was well known in these parts. Long before your day, of course.'

‘Who was he, sir, if I might ask?'

‘Danby?' the Captain gave Zachary a half-smile. ‘Why he was none other than “the White Ladrone”.'

‘ “Ladrone”, sir . . . ?'

‘Ladrones are the pirates of the South China Sea, Reid; named after a group of islands off the Bocca Tigris. Not much left of them now, but there was a time when they were the most fearsome band of cutthroats on the high seas. When I was a younker they were skippered by a man called Cheng-I – savage brute he was too. Up and down the coast he'd go, as far as Cochin-China, pillaging villages, taking captives, putting people to the sword. Had a wife too – a bit of bobtail from a Canton fancy-house. Madame Cheng we used to call her. But the woman wasn't enough for Mr Cheng-I. Captured a young fisherman on one of his raids and made a mate of him too! Enough to put Madame Cheng's nose out of joint, you'd think? Not a bit of it. When old Cheng-I died, she actually married her rival! Two of them set themselves up as the King and Queen of the Ladrones!'

The Captain shook his head slowly, as if at the memory of an ancient and long-lingering bemusement. ‘You might think this pair would be strung up by their own crew, wouldn't you? But no: in China nothing is ever as you expect; just when you think you've made sense of them, they'll send you up Tom Cox's traverse.'

‘How do you mean, sir?'

‘Well just think of it: not only were Madame Cheng and her rival-turned-husband accepted as the cutthroats' leaders – they went on to build themselves a pirate empire. Ten thousand junks under their command at one time, with over a hundred thousand men! Caused so much trouble the Emperor had to send an army against her. Her fleet was broken up and she surrendered, with her husband.'

‘And what became of them?' said Zachary.

The Captain gave a snort of laughter. ‘You'd think they'd get the hempen habeas, wouldn't you? But no – that would be too straight a course for the Celestials. They put a mandarin's hat on the boy's head and as for Madame Cheng, she was let off with an earwigging and a fine. Still at large in Canton. Runs a snuggery, I'm told.'

‘And Danby, sir?' said Zachary. ‘Was he mixed up with Madame Cheng and her crew?'

‘No,' said the Captain. ‘She'd been beached by the time he came into these waters. Her followers, or what was left of them, had broken up into small bands. You wouldn't know their junks from any other country boat – little floating kampungs they were, with pigs and chickens, fruit trees and vegetable gardens. Had their women and children with them too. Some of their junks were really no better than the usual Canton flower-boat, part gambling-den and part knockingshop. They'd hide in the coves and inlets, raiding coastal vessels and preying on shipwrecks. That's how Danby fell into their hands.'

‘Shipwrecked was he, sir?'

‘That's right,' said the Captain, scratching his chin. ‘Let me see: when did the
Lady Duncannon
run aground? Must have been '12 or '13 – about twenty-five years ago I'd say. Foundered off Hainan Island. Most of her crew managed to get back to Macao. But one of the ship's boats was lost, with some ten or fifteen hands, Danby among them. What happened to the others I can't say, but this much is for sure, that Danby ended up with a band of Ladrones.'

‘Did they capture him?'

‘Either that, or found him washed ashore. Probably the latter, if you think about the course he took afterwards.'

‘Which was . . . ?'

‘Turned into a catspaw for the Ladrones.'

‘A catspaw, sir?'

‘Yes,' said the Captain. ‘Went native, did Danby. Married one of their women. Togged himself up in sheets and dishcloths. Learnt the lingo. Ate snakes with sticks. The lot. Can't blame him in a way. He was just a joskin of a cabin-boy, from Shoreditch or some other London rookery. Packed off to sea as soon as he could walk. No easy thing to be a drudge, you know. Pulley-hauley all day and fighting off the old cadgers all night. Not much to eat but lobscouse and old horse; Gunner's Daughter the only woman in sight. Between the bawdy-baskets and the food, a Ladrone junk must have been a taste of paradise. Shouldn't think it took too much for them to bring him sharp about – probably had him horizontalized under a staff-climber as
soon as he was strong enough to stand. But he was no pawk, Danby, had a good head on him. Invented a devilish clever bit of flummery. He'd get togged out in his best go-ashores and hie off to some port like Manila or Anjer. The Ladrones would slip in after him and they'd pick a vessel that was short-handed. Danby'd sign on as a mate, and the Ladrones as lascars. No one'd suspect a thing, of course. White man playing catskin for a kippage of Long-tails? Last thought to enter any shipmaster's head. And Danby was a fine old glib-gabbet too. Bought himself the best clothes and gewgaws to be found in the East. Wouldn't show his hand till the vessel was safe out at sea – and then suddenly there they were, flying their colours, boarding her in the smoke. Danby would disarm the officers and the Ladrones would deal with the rest. They'd pack their captives into the ship's boats and cut them adrift. Then away they'd go, galing off with their prize. It was the most fiendishly clever ruse. Their luck ran out somewhere off Java Head as I remember. Intercepted by an English ship-o'-the-line while trying to sail off with a prize. Danby was killed, along with most of the gang. But a few of the Ladrones got away. I imagine it was one of them who pawned this watch of yours.'

‘Do you really think so, sir?'

‘Why yes, of course,' said the Captain. ‘Do you think you might remember where you got it?'

Zachary began to stutter. ‘I think . . . I think I might, sir.'

‘Well,' said the Captain, ‘when we get to Port Louis, you must be sure to take your tale to the authorities.'

‘Really, sir? Why?'

‘Oh I should think they'd be very interested in tracing your watch to its last owner.'

Chewing his lip, Zachary looked at the watch again, remembering the moment when the serang had handed it to him. ‘And if they caught the last owner, sir?' he said. ‘What do you think they'd do?'

‘Oh they'd have a lot of questions for him I don't doubt,' said the Captain. ‘And if there was any hint of a connection with Danby I'm sure they'd hang him. Not the least doubt about it: there's a nubbing-chit waiting for any member of the Danby gang who's still on the prowl.'