The bells sounded ending the afternoon watch and calling the first dog
watch. Only four hours since noon, but already the morning's carnage
seemed a memory from a distant lifetime. Sultry tropic air, motionless
and stifling, immersed the _Discovery_ as the gaunt-faced seamen
labored to finish securing the mast of the pinnace. Mackintosh had
ordered the pinnace's sail unrolled on deck, and as he inspected the
stitches for rot he alternately reviled the men, the heat, the Company.
Hawksworth had completed the log and stood in the companionway outside
the Great Cabin to watch the preparations, take the air, and exercise
his leg. All the previous night he had stood on the quarterdeck,
keeping the helm and translating for the pilot. And tonight again there
would be no sleep. There's time for a rest now, his weary mind urged,
till the first bell of this watch, half an hour. Then he cursed himself
for his weakness, his readiness to yield, and shoved open the door of
the Great Cabin.
The oil lamp swayed with each roll of the ship, punctuating the
rhythmic creak of the wood paneling and adding to the sweltering heat.
He locked the door, then strode aft to push ajar the two stern windows.
But the stolid air lay inert, refusing to lift. He would have to
prepare the chest in suffocating misery. So be it.
Brushing the hair back from his eyes, he unlocked a bronzed sea chest
and began to extract one by one the articles entrusted to the Company
by King James. First was the letter, in English with a formal copy in
diplomatic Spanish, both scribed on parchment and sealed in a leather
case secured with His Majesty's impression in red wax. The seal, set in
London over seven months before, was soft in the heat now, pliant to
his touch. He surveyed the room for a moment and then his eye hit on
the pair of formal thigh- length stockings the Company had insisted he
pack. Perfect. He bound his hose around the king's letter, knotted it
protectively over the seal, and tossed the bundle into the smaller
wooden chest he would take ashore.
Then he began to transfer the royal presents: a brace of gold-plated
pistols, a half dozen silver-handled swords, a small silver-trimmed
saddle, a set of delicate Norwich crystal, jeweled rings, a leather-
bound mirror, a silver whistle studded with emeralds, a large cocked
hat trimmed in silk, a miniature portrait of King James, and finally, a
dozen bottles of fine English sack. He checked each item for damage and
then packed them tightly into the small chest. Finally he inserted a
tightly fitting false bottom and covered it with a coarse woolen rug.
Then the second packing began. He started with more gifts, these for
port officials, mainly silver-trimmed knives and rings set with small
inexpensive pearls. He also enclosed several boxed sets of English gold
sovereigns, which the Company had requested be distributed as widely as
possible, in hopes they would begin to be accepted.
Finally he looked about the room for personal goods. First he folded in
a new leather jerkin, then next to it packed a new pair of leather
boots. He stared at the boots for a moment, and then removed them while
he carefully wrapped two primed pistols and slid one deep into each
hollow toe. Next to the boots he packed a case of Spanish brandy he had
been saving, for personal use aland. Lastly he took his glistening
English lute from its corner berth, held it for a moment, and tested
the strings. He adjusted the tuning on one string, then wrapped the
lute's melon-shaped body in a silk cloth, and nestled it next to the
brandy.
As he secured the lock on the chest and pocketed the large brass key,
he suddenly asked himself how he would get the chest into India without
its being searched. I'm not a genuine ambassador. I'm the captain of a
merchantman, with no
diplomatic standing. The Company, for all its mercantile wisdom,
neglected to consider that small difficulty.
So I'll just have to sound like an ambassador. That shouldn't be so
hard. Just be impressed with your own importance. And find nothing,
food or lodgings, sufficiently extravagant.
Then he drew himself erect and unlocked the door of the Great Cabin.
Only one thing remained.
"Mackintosh!" The quartermaster was in the pinnace now, fitting the
tiller, and he glanced up in irritation. "Send the pilot to my cabin."
Hawksworth had scarcely seated himself behind the great oak table
before the tall chestnut-skinned man appeared in the doorway.
Hawksworth examined the face again, expressionless and secure, asking
himself its years. Is he thirty; is he fifty? The features seemed cast
from an ageless mold, hard and seamless, immune to time.
"May I be of service?"
"Repeat your name for me." Hawksworth spoke in Turkish. "And tell me
again the business of your vessel."
"My name is Karim Hasan Ali." The reply came smoothly, but almost too
rapidly for Hawksworth to follow. "My ship was the Rahimi, a pilgrim
vessel on her return voyage from Mecca, by way of Aden, to our northern
port of Diu. We carry Muslim pilgrims outbound from India in the
spring, and return after the monsoon. As you assuredly must know, for a
thousand years Mecca has been the shrine all followers of Islam must
visit once in their life. Our cabins are always full."
Hawksworth recalled the vessel, and his astonishment at her size. She
had had five masts and was easily twelve hundred tons, over twice the
burden of the _Discovery_ and greater than anything he had ever seen
before, even the most ambitious Spanish carrack. But when they spotted
her, tacking eastward across the Bay of Cambay, she was unarmed and
hove to almost before they had fired across her bow. Why unarmed, he
had asked himself then, and why strike so readily? Now he understood.
"And you were the pilot for the _Rahimi_?"
"I am called the _musallim_." A note of formality entered the Indian's
voice and he instinctively drew himself more erect.
"Is that the pilot?"
"Yes, but more. Perhaps it is like your first mate. But I am in full
charge of navigation for the _nakuda_, the owner. To you he would be
captain."
"And what was your salary for the voyage?"
"I received two hundred rupees for the trip to Aden, and am allowed two
extra cabins of goods for personal trade."
Hawksworth smiled resignedly to himself, remembering he had
unquestioningly delivered to the _nakuda _a bag of Spanish rials of
eight equivalent to five hundred Indian rupees to buy out the pilot's
contract. Then he spoke.
"Tonight, we go upriver to Surat. You're still in my service and you'll
be pilot."
"I had expected it. I know the river well."
"Will there be any Portugal traders on the river?" Hawksworth searched
his eyes hoping to monitor their truthfulness.
"I would not expect it. Although this year's monsoons are past and the
river has returned to normal, there are new sandbanks. Every season
they shift, becoming more treacherous. Only those of us who know the
river well understand the moods of her sands. I have never seen
_topiwallah _traders in Surat this early in the season." Karim paused,
following Hawksworth's puzzled expression, then continued, with an air
of condescension," _Topiwallah _is our word meaning 'men who wear
hats.' We call Christian traders _topiwallahs_." He fixed Hawksworth
squarely. "And we have other names for their priests."
"Call Christians what you will, but just remember England is not
Portugal." Hawksworth's tone stiffened. "England has rid herself of the
popery that still rules the Spaniards and Portugals. Along with their
fear-mongering Jesuits and their damned Inquisition. It's now treason
to practice Catholic rites in England."
"I have heard something of your petty European squabbles, your
Christian rivalries. Is it your intention now to spread them to India
as well?"
"All England wants is trade. Nothing else." Hawksworth shifted his leg,
leaning forward to tighten the bandage. "I'm here as an ambassador. To
convey the friendship of my king, and his offer of free and open
trade."
"And after you begin this trade, what then? Will you next try to drive
the Portuguese from our ports? So that you can steal away shipping from
our own merchantmen, as they have done, and demand we pay you for a
license to ply our own seas?"
"I told you we only want trade. England has no use for sailing
licenses, or priests. Our only enemies here are the Portugals. And the
damned Hollanders if they start trying to interfere."
Karim studied Hawksworth in silence, fingering his jeweled earring in
thought as he recalled the morning's battle. Two small English merchant
frigates had prevailed over four Portuguese warships, galleons. Never
before, he told himself, have the Portuguese been humiliated before our
eyes. Pigeons must already be winging word of this incredible encounter
to Agra. Separately, no doubt, to the Moghul and to the queen. But
Queen Janahara will know first. As always. And she will know her
Portuguese profits are no longer secure.
And what about Prince Jadar? Yes, the prince will already have heard,
hours ago. What will Prince Jadar decide to do? That's the most
important question now.
"Just tell me about the navigation of the river," Hawksworth continued
unable to decipher Karim's distant expression. "How long will it take
for our pinnace to reach Surat? We cast off at sunset."
"The tide will be running in tonight, and that will aid your oarsmen."
Karim instantly became businesslike. "There will also be a night breeze
off the sea. But the Portuguese have no authority on our river. Once
you are inland you are under the rule of the governor of Surat. . . .
and, of course, Prince Jadar, whom the Moghul has appointed to
administrate this province."