Why so quiet? Nothing to say to me? Bhyro Singh reached for her ghungta: No need to cover up any more. It's just you and me here. Just us.

Pulling her veil down, he tipped her head back with a finger and nodded in satisfaction: The grey eyes; I remember them, filled with witchery. The eyes of a chudail, some people thought – but I always said, no, those are the eyes of a whore.

Deeti tried to strike his hand away from her neck, but it stayed where it was. If you knew who I was, she said, still defiant, why didn't you say something earlier?

His lips curled in derision: And bring shame on myself? Acknowledge a tie with a woman like you? A whore who's run away with a filth-sweeper? An overheated bitch who's brought shame on her family, her village, her in-laws? You take me for a fool? Don't you know I have daughters of my own, to marry off?

Deeti narrowed her eyes and spat back: Be careful. My jora is waiting, above.

Your jora? said Bhyro Singh. You can forget about that scavenging piece of filth. He'll be dead before the year's out.

I ká káhat ho? she gasped. What's this you're saying?

He ran a finger up her neck and tweaked her ear-lobe: Don't you know, he said, that I'm the one who's in charge of your allotments? Don't you know it's me who decides who your master will be in Mareech? I've already set your jora's name down for a plantation up north. He'll never come out from there alive. You can take my word for it: that shit-shoveller you call a husband is as good as dead.

And me? said Deeti.

You? He smiled and stroked her neck again. For you I have other plans.

What?

The tip of his tongue flicked over his lips and there was a rasp in his voice as he said: What does anyone want from a whore? His hand slipped through the neck of her choli and began to fumble for a handhold.

For shame, said Deeti, pushing his hand away. For shame…

There's nothing here that's new to me, he said, smiling. I've seen the grain-bag and I know it's full – dekhlé tobra, janlé bharalba.

Áp pe thuki! cried Deeti. I spit on you and your filth.

He leant forward so that his belly was against her breasts. He smiled again: Who do you think it was who held your legs open on your wedding night? Did you think that green twig of a launda, your brother-in-law, could have done it on his own?

Have you no shame? said Deeti, choking. Is there nothing you won't say? Do you know I'm with child?

Child? Bhyro Singh laughed. A child from that scavenger? By the time I'm done with you, his spawn will be dribbling out of you like an egg-yolk.

Tightening his hold on her neck, he reached up to a shelf with his other hand. His fist came back to brandish a foot-long roti-rolling belan under her nose.

So what do you say, Kabutri-ki-ma? he said. Are you whore enough for this?

It wasn't Deeti's cry for help but Munia's echo of it that was audible on the main deck, where Kalua was squatting between two silahdars with his hands bound by a length of rope. He had stayed quietly in place since Deeti was led away, giving careful thought to what he would have to do if it came to the worst. The silahdars were lightly armed, with knives and lathis, and it would be no great matter, Kalua knew, to break away from them. But after that, what? If he were to storm into the guard's kamra, he would run into many more men, and more armaments too: they would kill him before he could do Deeti any good. Far better to sound an alarm that would be heard in every quarter of the ship – and the perfect instrument for that was no more than a few paces away, the deckhouse ghanta. If he could but set the bell ringing, the migrants would be alerted and the officers and lascars would come on deck in force.

Back at home, in his ox-cart, it had been a habit with Kalua to count the squeaks of his wheel to keep an accurate measure of time and distance. Now, he found that the same purpose was served by counting the swells that were advancing towards the vessel, lifting her bows and setting them down, as they passed. After ten such had gone by, he knew something must be wrong, and it was exactly then that he caught the sound of Munia's voice, shouting: Bhauji? What're they doing…?

The schooner was in a steep roll, so that Kalua could feel the tilted bulwark lying aslant against the soles of his feet. Ahead of him, the deck was like a hillside, sloping upwards. Using the bulwark as a springboard, he jumped forwards, frog-like, covering half the distance to the bell in one leap. His move was so sudden the silahdars had yet to stir when he reached the lanyard that was attached to the bell's clapper. But the line had to be unwound from its eyebolt before it could be tugged, and this pause gave the guards the time they needed to fall upon him; one of them brought a lathi crashing down on his hands, while the other threw himself on his back, trying to wrestle him to the deck.

Kalua made a double fist out of his bound hands and swung out at the lathi-wielding silahdar, knocking him off his feet. Turning with the momentum of the swing, he took hold of the other man's arm and pulled him off his back, headfirst, slamming him down on the deck. Then he caught hold of the bell's lanyard, tore it free, and set the clapper swinging.

As the first, furious chimes were ringing out, another swell took hold of the vessel, tipping her sharply on her side. One of the guards was knocked down as he tried to rise to his feet, and the other, who had been working his way towards Kalua, slipped sideways so that the bulwark caught him in the belly. He lingered on the deck rail for a moment, with half his body hanging overboard, clutching wildly at the slippery stanchions. Then, almost as if to shake him off, the Ibis dipped her flank still further, and a lapping crest of turbulence reached up to claim him for the deep.

Once again, the ringing of the bell transformed the dabusa into a drum. The migrants gathered together in uncomprehending huddles, as the sound of the feet above them rose to a crescendo. Through the percussive tattoo an even more bewildering sound could be heard – a chorus of alarms and hookums: Admi giráh! Man overboard! Look out aft! Peechil dekho! Dekho peechil! Yet despite the shouts and the noise, there was no change in the schooner's movement: she went ploughing on as before.

Suddenly the dabusa's hatch cover flew open and Deeti and Munia came tumbling through. Paulette lost no time in elbowing through the milling crowd that collected around them: What happened? What happened? Are you all right?

Deeti was shaking so much she could hardly speak: Yes, we're all right, Munia and I. It was the ghanta that saved us.

Who rang it?

My husband… there was a fight and one of the silahdars fell… it was an accident, but they're calling it murder… they've tied him to the mast, my jora…

What're they going to do, Bhauji?

I don't know, sobbed Deeti, wringing her hands. I don't know, Pugli: the subedar's gone to speak to the afsars. It's up to the Kaptan now. Maybe he'll have mercy… we can only hope…

In the darkness Munia slipped over to Paulette and took hold of her arm: Pugli, tell me: Azad? How is he?

Paulette glared at her: Munia, after all the trouble you've caused how can you even dare to ask?

Munia began to sob: We weren't doing anything, Pugli, believe me – just talking. Is that so bad?

Bad or not Munia, he's the one who's paying the price. He's so badly hurt he's barely conscious. The best thing now, Munia, is for you to stay well away from him.