Then Bhyro Singh's voice rang out, signalling the completion of the muster: Sab házir hai! All present!

Turning aft, Paulette saw that Captain Chillingworth had appeared on the quarter-deck and was standing like a statue behind its balustrade of fife-rails. On the main deck, a ring of lascars, maistries and silahdars had been posted around the schooner's bulwarks to keep watch over the assembled girmitiyas.

Facing the assembly, lathi in hand, Bhyro Singh shouted: Khamosh! Silence! The Kaptan is going to speak and you will listen; the first to make a sound will feel my lathi on his head.

Up on the quarter-deck, the Captain was still motionless, with his hands clasped behind his back, calmly surveying the crowd on the deck. Although a light breeze had begun to blow now, it had little or no cooling effect, for the air seemed only to grow hotter under the Captain's gaze: when at last he spoke, his voice carried to the bows with the crackle of a leaping flame: 'Listen carefully to what I say, for none of it will be said again.'

The Captain paused to allow Baboo Nob Kissin to translate, and then, for the first time since he had appeared on the quarter-deck, his right hand came into view and was seen to be holding a tightly coiled whip. Without turning his head, he gestured towards Ganga-Sagar Island, pointing with the weapon's tip.

… In that direction lies the coast from which you came. In the other lies the sea, known to you as the Black Water. You may think that the difference between the one and the other can be seen clearly with the naked eye. But that is not so. The greatest and most important difference between land and sea is not visible to the eye. It is this – and note it well…

Now, as Baboo Nob Kissin was translating, the Captain leant forward and put his whip and his white-knuckled hands on the fife-rails.

… The difference is that the laws of the land have no hold on the water. At sea there is another law, and you should know that on this vessel I am its sole maker. While you are on the Ibis and while she is at sea, I am your fate, your providence, your lawgiver. This chabuk you see in my hands is just one of the keepers of my law. But it is not the only one – there is another…

Here, the Captain held up his whip and curled the lash around the handle to form a noose.

… This is the other keeper of the law, and do not doubt for a moment that I will use it without hesitation if it should prove necessary. But remember, always, there is no better keeper of the law than submission and obedience. In that respect, this ship is no different from your own homes and villages. While you are on her, you must obey Subedar Bhyro Singh as you would your own zemindars, and as he obeys me. It is he who knows your ways and traditions, and while we are at sea he will be your mái-báp, just as I am his. You should know that it is because of his intercession that no one is being punished today; he has pleaded for mercy on your behalf, since you are new to this ship and her rules. But you should know also that the next time there is any disorder on board, the consequences will be severe, and they will be visited upon everyone who plays a part in it; anyone who thinks to make trouble should know that this is what awaits them…

Now the lash of the whip coiled out to make a crack that split the overheated air like a bolt of lightning.

Despite the heat of the sun the Captain's words had chilled Paulette to the marrow. As she looked around her now, she could see that many of the girmitiyas were in a trance of fear: it was as if they had just woken to the realization that they were not only leaving home and braving the Black Water – they were entering a state of existence in which their waking hours would be ruled by the noose and the whip. She could see their eyes straying to the island nearby; it was so close that its attraction was almost irresistible. When a grizzled, middle-aged man began to babble, she knew by instinct that he was losing his struggle against the pull of land. Although forewarned, she was still among the first to scream when this man made a sudden turn, shoved a lascar aside, and vaulted over the deck rail.

The silahdars raised the alarm by shouting – Admi girah! Man overboard! – and the girimitiyas – most of whom had no idea what was happening – began to mill about in panic. Under cover of the commotion, two more migrants broke through and made the leap, hurling themselves over the bulwark.

This sent the guards into a frenzy and they started to flail their lathis in an effort to herd the men back into the dabusa. To add to the confusion, the lascars were busy ripping the covers off the jamna longboat; when they tilted it sideways a flock of squawking hens and roosters descended upon the deck. The malums too had converged upon the boat, shouting hookums and pulling at the devis, raising clouds of chicken-muck that plastered them in feathers, shit and feed.

Temporarily forgotten, the women were left to huddle around the jamna devis. Craning over the deck rail, Paulette saw that one of the three swimmers had already disappeared below water; the other two were thrashing against a current that was sweeping them towards the open sea. Then a great flock of birds appeared above the swimmers, swooping down from time to time, as if to check whether they were still alive. Within a few minutes the swimmers' heads vanished, but still the birds remained, wheeling patiently above, as they waited for the corpses to float back to the surface. Although the bodies were not seen again, it was clear, from the way the birds were circling in the sky, that the corpses had been seized by the outgoing tide and were being swept towards the horizon.

This was why, when at last the long-awaited wind began to blow, the crew was exceptionally slow in making sail: because, after everything that had happened already, the prospect of crossing wakes with the three mutilated corpses had filled the lascars with an unspeakable dread.

Nineteen

Next 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…