By the time B Company reached the shore the landing of troops was almost complete: there were around fourteen hundred soldiers assembled on the beach, along with a couple of hundred camp-followers and auxiliaries, almost all of whom were Indians. Of the fighting men about half were sepoys: six hundred and seven from the 37th Madras and seventy-six from B Company. Amongst the British troops the largest contingent was a five-hundred-strong battalion of Royal Marines; the rest consisted of artillerymen and a detachment of convalescents who had been evacuated from Chusan.
In command was an officer of the Royal Irish, Major Pratt. At his orders the heavy artillery led the way, with teams of gun-lascars dragging two six-pounders and one massive twenty-four-pound howitzer up the road that led to the top of the island’s second hill. After them came the marines and then the Madras sepoys. The Bengal detachment brought up the rear. The fifers and drummers were grouped together at the centre of the column, flanked by sepoys on either side.
As they marched up the hill clouds of dust rose from the sepoys’ stamping feet, blowing straight into the fifers’ faces. Raju was flustered at first and missed several notes, but only Dicky seemed to notice. He flashed Raju a nod and a wink which did much to settle his nerves.
Soon, absorbed in the effort of keeping his fingers and feet moving in correct time, the flutters in Raju’s stomach abated and he fixed his eyes on the back of the fifer in front, making sure that he was neither too far nor too close. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the sound of cannon-fire in the distance; it was Dicky who alerted him to it by jogging his elbow.
Kesri was at the head of the Bengal detachment with Captain Mee. Just as they reached the top of the ridge the guns on the opposite hill opened up. But the shells fell well short and they had no reason to seek shelter. Kesri was able to take careful stock of the island’s defences and he saw at once that its newly built fortifications were vulnerable on many counts: although the ramparts were tall and solid, they were constructed in an old-fashioned way. They ran straight, like curtain walls: there were no projections to create interlocking fields of fire; nor were there any angles or buttresses to provide additional stability. The breastworks that ran along the walls were also of an antique variety, known to sepoys as bãs-ke-zanjeer — ‘bamboo chains’. They were made of sharpened staves, nailed together to form a continuous barrier: the officers called them ‘Frisian horses’.
The fire from the fort’s guns and ginjalls had grown steadily heavier as Kesri and Captain Mee stood on the crest of the hill, surveying the defences. But the barrage continued to be ineffective with most of the shots going awry, slamming into the hillside and throwing up geysers of dirt. The landing-party’s artillerymen were able to go unhurriedly about their business as they assembled their own field-pieces and howitzers.
At a signal from Captain Mee, B Company’s golondauzes and gun-lascars stepped ahead to set up their own artillery pieces. Maddow was, as usual, carrying two wheels of a gun-carriage; after slinging them off his shoulders he fell in with the other loaders, each of whom was holding a projectile, ready to reload.
There was a moment of stillness as the gun-crews awaited the order to fire. Then a cry went echoing down the line and the golondauzes lowered their smoking fusils to the touch-holes of their weapons. Suddenly, with a great roar, the guns erupted and the hillside was blanketed in black smoke.
In the meantime two steamers, Queen and Nemesis, had also manoeuvred themselves into shelling distance of the battlements on the hill. Now a jet of flame spurted out of the muzzle of the Queen’s enormous sixty-eight-pounder; at the same time the two pivot-guns of the Nemesis began to rattle, shooting canister. These were powerful anti-personnel weapons — cans filled with musket-balls. When fired, the canisters would explode in the barrel, creating hailstorms of bullets.
It was as if a tempest of fire and iron were pouring up the hill; within minutes pillars of smoke began to rise out of the forts.
*
Shireen was at the breakfast table, eating a plate of akoori, when the first dull thuds of distant cannon-fire were heard in Macau. Dinyar was sitting across from her, and he glanced up with an expression of surprise.
Oh! Seroo thie gayou — so it’s started after all! I didn’t think they’d go through with it.
With what?
The offensive. I’d wagered that the Plenipotty would find some excuse to dither again.
Shireen could think of nothing to say: with trembling hands she reached into the folds of her dress, to touch her kasti, for reassurance.
You should be glad, Shireen-auntie, said Dinyar cheerfully. It’s good news for all of us. It’ll speed up our compensation.
Fond as Shireen was of Dinyar, she could not let this pass.
But Dinyar, think of the men! And the boys too!
Oh they’ll be all right, said Dinyar with a laugh. No harm will come to them — not while they have the Nemesis for protection.
Picking up a bell, Dinyar called for his hat and cane; now that the battle had started he would have to settle his lost wager. On his way out, he stopped at the door. Don’t worry, Shireen-auntie, he said. We’re perfectly safe here. Look!
Shireen saw that he was pointing to the Inner Harbour, where a British sloop-o’-war lay at anchor, bristling with guns.
With Dinyar gone the sound of cannon-fire seemed to grow even louder. Abandoning her breakfast, Shireen went to her bedroom and seated herself in front of the small altar that she had set up in one corner, with a lamp burning under a picture of Zarathustra. Opening her Khordeh Avesta prayer-book Shireen began to recite the ‘Srosh Bãz’ prayer: Pa name yazdan Hormazd … May the Creator, Ahura Mazda, Lord of the Universe …
This prayer had always been her first recourse in times of trouble. Often in the past it had helped to lighten the load of whatever was weighing on her mind — but now, with the sound of gunfire drumming in her ears, she found it hard to recite the words properly. Faces she had come to know on the Hind kept appearing before her: Captain Mee, the fifers, Kesri Singh.
As she was coming to the last lines of the prayer Shireen heard a squeak from the front gate. Thinking that it was Zadig Bey she put away the prayer-book and moved to her sitting room.
But when the steward opened the door it was not Zadig Bey who stepped inside but a woman in a veil.
‘Mrs Burnham! Cathy! This is a surprise.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, Shireen …’
It turned out that Mrs Burnham had just moved into a house that her husband had rented, at the end of the road. But he was away on the commodore’s ship so she was on her own.
‘I thought it would be nice to have a little gup-shup, Shireen-dear, and couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’
‘Of course. I’m glad you came.’
When Mrs Burnham’s veil came off Shireen saw that she was deathly pale, as she had been on her first visit to the villa.
‘Are you feeling poorly again, Cathy?’
‘No, it’s not that …’ Mrs Burnham closed her eyes.
‘It’s the guns, isn’t it?’
Mrs Burnham nodded. ‘My head went into a chukker the moment the firing began.’
‘It’s distressing, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it shouldn’t be for me,’ said Mrs Burnham. ‘I grew up with cannon-fire, you know. It was always in the background in the cantonments where we lived; artillerymen were forever doing live drills, so the sound was all too familiar. But it’s a different kind of tumasher, isn’t it, when it’s a real battle, and the men who are in harm’s way are known to you?’