River of Smoke - Amitav Ghosh [172]
The slurred voices of the lascars’ limey shipmates could be heard over the hum of the crowd.
‘… look at old Creepin Jesus over there …’
‘… they’s never going to nail him to no cross!’
‘… bleedin blasphemy is what I call it …’
The movements of the condemned man, in the meanwhile, had grown even more frenzied than before. His head was the only part of his body that was not lashed to the chair and his unbraided pigtail was whipping from side to side; thick strands of hair were stuck to his face, glued fast by the drool that was dribbling from his mouth. Now, at a word from the presiding official, an attendant opened a box and took out a pipe.
‘Fuckinell! A nartichoke ripe?’
‘… and I’ll be blowed if it in’t yong that’s going into it …’
‘Opium? But in’that why he’s gettin the horse’s nightcap though?’
The prisoner had caught sight of the pipe too now, and his whole body was straining towards it, the muscles of his face corkscrewing around his open, drooling mouth. As the pipe was put to his lips a silence descended on the crowd; the sound of his thirsty sucking was clearly audible. He closed his eyes, holding the smoke in his lungs, and then, breathing it out, he fastened his lips on the pipe again.
The eerie quiet was dispelled by an indignant cry: ‘Sir, on behalf of my fellow Americans, I must protest …’
Turning his head, Neel saw that three gentlemen, attired in jackets and hats, were approaching the mandarin in the tent. Their words were lost in the ensuing hubbub, but it was clear that the exchange between the mandarins and the Americans was a heated one and it was lustily cheered by the sailors.
‘… that’s the ticket, mate! Donchyoo stand for it …’
‘… you tell’im – put the squeak in his nibs …’
‘… in’t he ever so pleased with his little self?’
The dispute ended with the three Americans marching over to the flagpole and hauling down the flag. Then one of them turned to the crowd and began to shout.
‘Do you see what is happening here, men? It is an outrage the like of which has never been seen in the history of this enclave! They are planning to stage an execution right under our flags! The intent is perfectly clear – they are pinning the blame for this man’s death upon us. They are accusing us of being his accomplices! Nor is that all. By doing this here, in the Square, they are linking our flags with smuggling and drug running. These long-tailed savages are accusing us – the United States! England! – of villainy and crime! What do you say to that, men? Are you going to stand for it? Are you going to allow them to desecrate our flags?’
‘… not on yer life …’
‘… if it’s a bull-and-cow they want, they can’ave it …’
‘… got a porridge-popper waitin for whoever wants it …’
While the voices in the crowd were getting louder, the condemned man had fallen so quiet that he appeared to have become oblivious to his fate: his head had slumped on to his shoulders and he seemed to have lost himself in a dream. When two soldiers untied his bindings and pulled him to his feet, he rose without protest and went stumbling towards the apparatus that had been erected for his execution. He was almost there when he tipped his head back to look at it, as if for the first time. A choked cry bubbled up in his throat and his knees buckled.
‘… don’t he look like a dog’s dinner …?’
‘… like a birchbroom in a fit …’
The voices were right behind Neel. Turning to look, he saw a burly seaman with an empty bottle in one hand. Slowly the man drew his arm back and then the bottle went curling over the crowd. It exploded near the soldiers, who spun around to face the crowd, arms at the ready. Their raised weapons elicited a howl from the sailors. ‘Fucking peelers!’
The shouts of the two lascars were loud in Neel’s ears: banchodgulake maar, maar …!
Neel too was shouting obscenities now. His voice was no longer