The heads of a pair of divers could be seen bobbing around the anchor buoys as they loosed the schooner's cables. It was almost time now: in a matter of moments they would be pulling away. Mamdoo-tindal tossed back his hair, and closed his long-lashed eyes. Then his lips began to move in prayer, murmuring the first words of the Fatiha. Jodu and Sunker were quick to join in: B'ism'illáh ar-rahmán ar-rahím, hamdu'l'illáh al-rabb al-'alamín… In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Praise to the Lord of all Creation…

'All hands to quarters, ahoy!' The pilot's shout was followed by a cry from the serang: Sab ádmi apna jagah!

As the tug drew closer, the hammering of its engine grew louder and louder, and in the enclosed, airless gloom of the dabusa, it sounded as if some enraged demon were trying to rip apart the wooden planks of the hull in order to devour the people who sat huddled within. It was very dark inside, for the maistries had extinguished the candles and lamps on their way out: there was no need for them, they'd said, now that the migrants were all nicely packed in – to keep them burning would only increase the risk of fire. No one had disputed this but everyone understood that the overseers were merely saving themselves an extra expense. With no flame lit and the hatch secured, such light as there was came from cracks in the timber and the openings of the piss-dales. The leaden gloom, combined with the midday heat and the fetid stench of hundreds of enclosed bodies, gave the unstirred air a weight like that of sewage: it took an effort even to draw breath.

Already now, the girmitiyas had moved their mats about to their liking: everyone knew, from the first, that the maistries cared very little about what actually happened below: their chief concern was to escape the heat and stench of the dabusa so that they could settle into their own bunks, in the midships-cabin. No sooner had the overseers departed, shutting the hatch behind them, than the migrants began to disrupt the careful circle of their mats, scuffling and shouting as they fought for space.

As the noise of the tugboat mounted, Munia began to tremble, and Paulette, guessing that she was on the verge of hysteria, drew her closer. Despite her pretence of self-possession, even Paulette was beginning to feel the onset of panic when she heard a voice she knew to be Zachary's: he was right above her, on the main deck, so close that she could almost hear the shuffle of his feet.

'Pay out the cable!' – Hamár tirkao!

'Haul together!' – Lag sab barábar!

The hawsers that connected the Ibis to the steam-tug drew tight and a tremor ran through the schooner as if she were waking suddenly to life, like a bird startled out of a long night's sleep. From below the waterline, the spasms ran upwards, through the dabusa and into the deckhouse, where Steward Pinto crossed himself and dropped to his knees. As his lips began to move, the mess-boys, in all their many faiths, knelt beside him and bowed their heads: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum… Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

On the main deck, Mr Doughty's hands were on the wheel as he shouted: 'Heave, you dogs, heave!'

Habés – habés kutté, habés! habés!

The schooner lurched to its jamna side and down in the darkness of the dabusa, people slipped and slid and tumbled upon each other like crumbs on a tilted tray. Neel put his eye to the air duct, and saw that a riot had broken out in the adjacent dabusa, with dozens of terrified migrants hurling themselves at the ladder, pounding on the fastened hatch, in a belated attempt at escape: Chhoro, chhoro – let us out, let us off…

There was no response from above, except for a series of hookums, ringing across the deck: 'Haul you bastards! Haul!' – Sab barábar! Habés salé, habés!

Exasperated by the futile thrashings of the girmitiyas, Neel shouted through the air duct: Be quiet you fools! There's no escape; no turning back…

Slowly, as the vessel's motion made itself felt in the pit of every stomach, the noise yielded to a pregnant, fearful stillness. Now the migrants began to absorb the finality of what was under way: yes, they were moving, they were afloat, heading towards the void of the Black Water; neither death nor birth was as fearsome a passage as this, neither being experienced in full consciousness. Slowly, the rioters backed away from the ladder and returned to their mats. Somewhere in the darkness, a voice, trembling in awe, uttered the first syllables of the Gayatri Mantra – and Neel, who had been made to learn the words almost as soon as he could speak, now found himself saying them, as if for the first time: Om, bhur bhuvah swah, tat savitur varenyam… O giver of life, remover of pain and sorrow…

'Ready about!' – Taiyár jagáh jagáh!

Up on the foremast, as the shudder of the Ibis's awakening ran from a-low to aloft, Jodu felt a tremor in the trikat-yard and knew that he had arrived at the moment his life had been building towards through many a long year; now, at last, he was leaving behind these muddy shores to meet the waters that led to Basra and Chin-kalan, Martaban and Zinjibar. As the mast began to sway, his chest swelled with pride to see how fine a figure the Ibis cut amongst the craft that clogged the river – the caramoussals and perikoes and budgerows. At this lofty elevation, it seemed as if the schooner had given him a pair of wings to soar above his past. Giddy with exhilaration, he hooked an arm around the shrouds and tore off his headcloth.

My salams to all of you, he shouted, waving to the unheeding shore: Jodu is on his way… oh you whores of Watgunge… you crimps of Bhutghat… Jodu's turned a lascar and he is gone… Gone!

Seventeen

Twilight brought the Ibis back to the Narrows, at Hooghly Point, and there, in the river's broad curve, she dropped anchor to wait out the night. Not till darkness had swallowed the surrounding banks were the girmitiyas allowed on deck; until then the gratings of the hatchway were kept firmly closed. The subedar and the overseers were agreed that the migrants' first taste of shipboard conditions had probably increased the likelihood of attempted break-outs: seen in daylight, the shore might present an irresistible temptation. Even after nightfall, when the attractions of land had been diminished by the howls of foraging jackal-packs, the maistries did not relax their vigilance: past experience had taught them that in every group of indentured migrants there were always a few who were desperate – or suicidal – enough to throw themselves into the water. When it came time to prepare the evening meal, they kept every migrant under watch. Even those who had been designated to serve as bhandaris were kept under guard while they stirred the chattas in the deckhouse chuldan. As for the rest, they were allowed up only in small groups, and were herded back into the dabusa as soon as they had finished their rice, dal and lime-pickle.

While the bhandaris and maistries were seeing to the feeding of the migrants, Steward Pinto and his mess-boys were serving roast lamb, mint sauce and boiled potatoes in the officers' cuddy. The portions were generous, for the steward had laid in two whole sides of fresh mutton before leaving Calcutta, and the meat was not likely to last long in the unseasonable heat. But in spite of the plenitude of food and drink, there was less conviviality in the cuddy than there was around the chuldan, where, from time to time, the migrants could even be heard singing a few snatches of song.