As the weight of this responsibility sank in, Zachary sat on the bunk and covered his face. 'You don know the livin deal of what you askin,' he said. 'Six months back I was nothin but the ship's carpenter. Lucked out getting to second mate. Forget Captain: that's way above my bend. Ain gon happen; not bimeby, not ever.'

'Can do,' said Serang Ali, handing him the Dosootie shirt. 'By'm'by can do. Malum Zikri plenty smart bugger inside. Can do 'come genl'man.'

'What makes you think I can do it anyways?'

'Zikri Malum sabbi tok pukka-talk no?' said Serang Ali. 'Hab heard Zikri Malum tok Mistoh Doughty sahib-fashion.'

'What?' Zachary shot him a startled glance: that Serang Ali should have noticed his talent for changing voices struck a chord of alarm. It was true that when called upon, his tongue could be as clipped as that of any college-taught lawyer: not for nothing had his mother made him wait at table when the master of the house, his natural father, was entertaining guests. But nor had she spared him her hand when he'd shown signs of getting all seddity and airish; to watch her son playing the spook would set her turning in her grave.

'Michman wanchi, he can 'come pukka genl'man by'm'by.'

'No.' Having long been compliant, Zachary was now all defiance. 'No,' he said, thrusting the serang out of his cuddy. 'This flumadiddle's got'a stop: ain havin it no more.' Throwing himself on his bunk, Zachary closed his eyes, and for the first time in many months, his vision turned inwards, travelling back across the oceans to his last day at Gardiner's shipyard in Baltimore. He saw again a face with a burst eyeball, the scalp torn open where a handspike had landed, the dark skin slick with blood. He remembered, as if it were happening again, the encirclement of Freddy Douglass, set upon by four white carpenters; he remembered the howls, 'Kill him, kill the damned nigger, knock his brains out'; he remembered how he and the other men of colour, all free, unlike Freddy, had held back, their hands stayed by fear. And he remembered, too, Freddy's voice afterwards, not reproaching them for their failure to come to his defence, but urging them to leave, scatter: 'It's about jobs; the whites won't work with you, freeman or slave: keeping you out is their way of saving their bread.' That was when Zachary had decided to quit the shipyard and seek a berth on a ship's crew.

Zachary got out of his bunk and opened the door, to find the serang still waiting outside. 'Okay,' he said wearily. 'I'll let you get back in here. But you bes do what you gon do blame quick, 'fore I change my mind.'

Just as Zachary had finished dressing, a series of shouts went echoing back and forth between ship and shore. A couple of minutes later Mr Doughty knocked on the door of his cabin. 'Oh I say, my boy!' he boomed. 'You'll never credit it, but the Burra Sahib has arrived in person: none other than Mr Burnham himself! Ridden chawbuckswar from Calcutta: couldn't wait to see his ship. Sent the gig for him: he's in it now, coming over.'

The pilot's eyes narrowed as he took in Zachary's new clothes. There was a moment of silence as he looked him up and down, subjecting his attire to careful examination. Then with a resounding thump of his cane, he announced: 'Tip-top, my young chuckeroo! You'd put a kizzilbash to shame in those togs of yours.'

'Glad to pass muster, sir,' said Zachary gravely.

Somewhere close by, Zachary heard Serang Ali, hissing: 'What I tell you? Malum Zikri no pukka rai-sahib now?'

Three

Kalua lived in the Chamar-basti, a cluster of huts inhabited only by people of his caste. To enter the hamlet would have been difficult for Deeti and Kabutri, but fortunately for them, Kalua's dwelling lay on the periphery, not far from the main road to Ghazipur. Deeti had passed that way many times before and had often seen Kalua lumbering about, in his cart. To her eyes, his dwelling did not look like a hut at all, but had more the look of a cattle-pen; when she was within hailing distance of it, she came to a halt and called out: Ey Kalua? Ka horahelba? Oh Kalua? What're you up to?

After three or four shouts there was still no answer, so she picked up a stone and aimed it at the doorless entrance of his dwelling. The pebble vanished into the unlit darkness of the hut and a tinkle of pottery followed to tell her that it had struck a pitcher or some earthenware object. Ey Kalua-ré! she called out again. Now something stirred inside the hut and there was a deepening of the darkness around the doorway until at last Kalua showed himself, stooping low to make his way out. Following close behind, as if to confirm Deeti's notion that he lived in a cattle-pen, were the two small white oxen that pulled his cart.

Kalua was a man of unusual height and powerful build: in any fair, festival or mela, he could always be spotted towering above the crowd – even the jugglers on stilts were usually not so tall as he. But it was his colour rather than his size that had earned him the nickname Kalua – 'Blackie' – for his skin had the shining, polished tint of an oiled whetstone. It was said of Kalua that as a child he had shown an insatiable craving for meat, which his family had satisfied by feeding him carrion; being leather-makers, it was their trade to collect the remains of dead cows and oxen – it was on the meat of these salvaged carcasses that Kalua's gigantic frame was said to have been nourished. But it was said also that Kalua's body had gained at the expense of his mind, which had remained slow, simple and trusting, so that even small children were able to take advantage of him. So easily was he duped, that on his parents' passing, his brothers and other relatives had not had the least difficulty in cheating him of the little that was his rightful due: he had raised no objection even when he was evicted from the family dwelling and sent to fend for himself in a cattle-pen.

At that time, help had come to Kalua from an unexpected quarter: one of Ghazipur's most prominent landowning families had three young scions, thakur-sahibs, who were much addicted to gambling. Their favourite pastime was to bet on wrestling matches and trials of strength, so on hearing of Kalua's physical prowess, they had sent an ox-cart to fetch him to the kothi where they lived, on the outskirts of town. Abé Kalua, they said to him, if you were to be given a reward, what would you want?

After much head-scratching and careful thought, Kalua had pointed to the ox-cart and said: Malik, I would be glad to have a bayl-gari like that one. I could make a living from it.

The three thakurs had nodded their heads and said that he would get an ox-cart if only he could win a fight and give a few demonstrations of his strength. Several wrestling matches followed and Kalua had won them all, defeating the local pehlwans and strongmen with ease. The young landlords earned a good profit and Kalua was soon in possession of his reward. But once having gained his ox-cart, Kalua showed no further inclination to fight – which was scarcely a surprise, for he was, as everyone knew, of a shy, timid and peaceable disposition and had no greater ambition than to make a living by transporting goods and people in his cart. But Kalua could not escape his fame: word of his deeds soon filtered through to the august ears of His Highness, the Maharaja of Benares, who expressed a desire to see the strongman of Ghazipur pitted against the champion of his own court.

Kalua demurred at first, but the landlords wheedled, cajoled and finally threatened to confiscate his cart and oxen, so to Benares they went and there, on the great square in front of the Ramgarh Palace, Kalua suffered his first defeat, being knocked unconscious within a few minutes of the bout's start. The Maharaja, watching in satisfaction, remarked that the outcome was proof that wrestling was a trial not just of strength, but also of intelligence – and in the latter field Ghazipur could scarcely hope to challenge Benares. All Ghazipur was humbled and Kalua came home in disgrace.