Garway dropped the bundle he was holding and stepped forward, beaming a
toothless smile.
"Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. Might I be havin' a word?"
"What is it, Garway."
"Would you ask the heathen, sir, for the men? We've been wonderin' if
there's like to be an alehouse or such in this place we're goin'. An' a
few o' the kindly sex what might be friendly disposed, if you follow my
reckonin', sir."
Hawksworth looked up and saw Karim waiting by the fo'c'sle, his effects
rolled in a small woven tapestry under his arm. When the question was
translated, the pilot laid aside the bundle and stepped toward the
group of waiting seamen, who had all stopped work to listen. He studied
them for a moment--ragged and rank with sweat, their faces blotched with
scurvy and their hair matted with grease and lice--and smiled with
expressionless eyes.
"Your men will find they can purchase _arak_, a local liquor as potent
as any I have seen from Europe. And the public women of Surat are
masters of all refinements of the senses. They are exquisite, worthy
even of the Moghul himself. Accomplished women of pleasure have been
brought here from all civilized parts of the world, even Egypt and
Persia. I'm sure your seamen will find the accommodations of Surat
worthy of their expectations."
Hawksworth translated the reply and a cheer rose from the men.
"Hear that, mates?" Master's mate Thomas Davies turned to the crowd,
his face a haggard leer. "Let the rottin' Portugals swab cannon in
hell. I'll be aswim in grog an' snuffin' my wick with a willin' wench.
Heathen or no, 'tis all one, what say?"
A confirming hurrah lifted from the decks and the men resumed their
labor with spirits noticeably replenished.
Hawksworth turned and ascended the companionway ladder to the
quarterdeck, leaving behind the tense bravado. As he surveyed the deck
below from his new vantage, he suddenly sensed an eerie light
enveloping the chip, a curious glow that seemed almost to heighten the
pensive lament of the boards and the lulling melody of wind through the
rigging. Then he realized why.
The moon!
I'd forgotten. Or was I too tired to think? But now . . . it's almost
like daylight. God help us, we've lost the last of our luck.
"Ready to cast off." Mackintosh mounted the companionway to the
quarterdeck, his face now drawn deep with fatigue. "Shall I board the
men?"
Hawksworth turned with a nod, and followed him down to the main deck.
Oarsmen began scrambling down the side of the _Discovery_, a motley
host, shoeless and clad only in powder- smudged breeches. Though a rope
ladder dangled from the gunwales, the seamen preferred to grasp the
dead-eyes, easing themselves onto the raised gunport lids, and from
there dropping the last few feet into the pinnace. They were followed
by George Elkington, who lowered himself down the swaying ladder,
breathing oaths. Hawksworth lingered by the railing, searching the
moonlit horizon and the darkened coast. His senses quickened as he
probed for some clue that would trigger an advance alert. But the
moonlit water's edge lay barren, deserted save for an occasional
beached fishing skiff, its sisal nets exposed on poles to dry. Why the
emptiness? During the day there were people.
Then he sensed Karim standing beside him, also intent on the empty
shore. The pilot's back was to the lantern that swung from the mainmast
and his face was shrouded in shadow. Abruptly, he addressed Hawksworth
in Turki.
"The face of India glories in the moonlight, do you agree? It is
beautiful, and lies at peace."
"You're right about the beauty. It could almost be the coast of Wales."
Hawksworth thought he sensed a powerful presence about Karim now,
something he could not explain, only detect with a troubled intuition.
Then the pilot spoke again.
"Have you prepared yourself to meet the Shahbandar?"
"We're ready. We have samples of English goods. And I'm an ambassador
from King James. There's no reason to deny us entry."
"I told you he is a man of importance. And he already knows, as all who
matter will soon know, of your exceptional fortune today. Do you really
think today's battle will go unnoticed in India?"
"I think the Portugals noticed. And I know they'll be back. But with
luck we'll manage." Hawksworth felt the muscles in his throat tighten
involuntarily, knowing a fleet of warships from Goa would probably be
headed north within a fortnight.
"No, Captain, again you miss my meaning." Karim turned to draw closer
to Hawksworth, flashing a joyless smile. "I speak of India. Not the
Portuguese. They are nothing. Yes, they trouble our seas, but they are
nothing. They do not rule India. Do you understand?"
Hawksworth stiffened, unsure how to respond. "I know the Moghul rules
India. And that he'll have to wonder if the damned Portugals are still
master of his seas."
"Surely you realize, Captain, that the Portuguese's profits are
staggering. Are you also aware these profits are shared with certain
persons of importance in India?"
"You mean the Portugals have bribed officials?" That's nothing new,
Hawksworth thought. "Who? The Shahbandar?"
"Let us say they often give commissions." Karim waved his hand as
though administering a dispensation. "But there are others whom they
allow to invest directly in their trade. The profits give these persons
power they often do not use wisely."
"Are you telling me the Moghul himself invests with the damned
Portugals?" Hawksworth's hopes plummeted.
"On the contrary. His Majesty is an honorable man, and a simple man who
knows but little of what some do in his name. But do you understand
there must be one in his realm who will someday have his place?
Remember he is mortal. He rules like a god, but he is mortal."
"What does this have to do with the Shahbandar? Surely he'd not
challenge the Moghul. And I know the Moghul has sons . . ."
"Of course, he is not the one." Karim's smile was gentle. "But do not
forget the Shahbandar is powerful, more powerful than most realize. He
knows all that happens in India, for his many friends repay their
obligation to him with knowledge. As for you, if he judges your wisdom
worthy of your fortune today, he may choose to aid you. Your journey to
Agra will not be without peril. There are already those in India who
will not wish you there. Perhaps the Shahbandar can give you guidance.
It will be for him to decide."
Hawksworth studied Karim incredulously. How could he know? "Whatever I
may find necessary to do, it will not involve a port official like the
Shahbandar. And a trip to Agra surely would not require his approval."
"But you must find your way." Karim examined Hawksworth with a quick
sidelong glance, realizing he had guessed correctly. "My friend, your
defeat of the Portuguese today may have implications you do not
realize. But at times you talk as a fool, even more than the
Portuguese. You will need a guide on your journey. Believe me when I
tell you."
Karim paused for a moment to examine Hawksworth, as though wondering
how to couch his next words. "Perhaps you should let the stars guide
you. In the Holy Quran the Prophet has said of Allah, 'And he hath set
for you the stars' . . ."
"'That you may guide your course by them."' Hawksworth picked up the
verse, "'Amid the dark of land and sea.' Yes, I learned that verse in
Tunis. And I knew already a seaman steers by the stars. But I don't
understand what bearing that has on a journey to Agra."
"Just as I begin to think you have wisdom, again you cease to listen.
But I think now you will remember what I have said."
"Hawksworth!" Elkington's voice boomed from the pinnace below. "Have we
sail'd a blessed seven month to this nest o' heathens so's to idle
about and palaver?"
Hawksworth turned to see Humphrey Spencer gingerly lowering himself
down the ladder into the pinnace, the feather in his hatband whipping
in the night wind. The oarsmen were at their stations, ready.
"One thing more, Captain." Karim pressed a hand against Hawksworth's
arm, holding him back. "One thing more I will tell you. Many
_feringhi_, foreigners, who come to India are very unwise. Because our
women keep the veil, and dwell indoors, foreigners assume they have no
power, no influence. Do not act as other foolish _feringhi _and make
this mistake. In Surat . . ."
"What women do you mean? The wives of officials?"
"Please, listen. When you reach Surat, remember one last admonition
from the Quran. There it is written, 'As for women from whom you fear
rebellion, admonish them and banish them to beds apart.' But sometimes
a woman too can be strong-willed. She can be the one who banishes her
husband, denying him his rights. If she is important, there is nothing
he can do. Remember. . ."
"Damn it to hell," Elkington's voice roared again, "I'm not likin'
these moonlight ventures. Tis full risk aplenty when you can see who's
holdin' a knife to your throat. But if we're goin', I say let's be done
with it and have off."
Hawksworth turned back to Karim, but he was gone, swinging himself
lightly over the side of the _Discovery _and into the pinnace.
Across the moonlight-drenched swells the _Resolve_ lay quiet, her stern
lantern reassuringly aglow, ready to hoist sail for the cove. And on
the _Discovery_ seamen were at station, poised to follow. Hawksworth
looked once more toward the abandoned shore, troubled, and then dropped
quickly down the side into the pinnace. There was no sound now, only
the cadence of the boards as the _Discovery's _anchor chain argued
against the tide. And then a dull thud as the mooring line dropped onto
the floor planking of the pinnace.
Hawksworth ordered Mackintosh to row with the tide until they reached
the shelter of the river mouth, and then to ship the oars and hoist
sail if the breeze held. He had picked the ablest men as oarsmen, those
not wounded and least touched by scurvy, and next to each lay a heavy
cutlass. He watched Mackintosh in admiration as the quartermaster
effortlessly maneuvered the tiller with one hand and directed the
oarsmen with the other. The moon was even more alive now, glinting off
the Scotsman's red hair.
As the hypnotic rhythm of the oars lulled Hawksworth's mind, he felt a
growing tiredness begin to beg at his senses. Against his will he
started to drift, to follow the moonlight's dancing, prismatic tinge on
the moving crest of waves. And to puzzle over what lay ahead.
Half-dozing, he found his thoughts drawn to the Shahbandar who waited
in Surat, almost like a gatekeeper who held the keys to India. He
mulled Karim's words again, the hints of what would unlock that
doorway, and slowly his waking mind drifted out of reach. He passed
unknowing into that dreamlike state where deepest truth so often lies
waiting, unknown to rationality. And there, somehow, the pilot's words
made perfect sense . . .
"Permission to hoist the sail." Mackintosh cut the pinnace into the
river mouth, holding to the center of the channel. Hawksworth startled
momentarily at the voice, then forced himself alert and scanned the
dark riverbanks. There was still nothing. He nodded to Mackintosh and
watched as the sail slipped quietly up the mast. Soon the wind and tide
were carrying them swiftly, silently. As he watched the run of the tide
against the hull, he suddenly noticed a group of round objects, deep
red, bobbing past.
"Karim." Hawksworth drew his sword and pointed toward one of the balls.
"What are those?"
"A fruit of our country, Captain. The _topiwallahs _call them
'coconuts.'" Karim's voice was scarcely above a whisper, and his eyes
left the shore for only a moment. "They are the last remains of the
August festival."
"What festival is that?"
"The celebration of the Hindu traders. Marking the end of the monsoon
and the opening of the Tapti River to trade. Hindus at Surat smear
coconuts with vermilion and cast them into the Tapti, believing this
will appease the angry life-force of the sea. They also cover barges
with flowers and span them across the harbor. If you were there, you
would hear them play their music and chant songs to their heathen
gods."
"And the coconuts eventually float out to sea?"
"A few, yes. But mostly they are stolen by wicked boys, who swim after
them. These few perhaps their gods saved for themselves."
Hawksworth examined the bobbing balls anew. The coconut was yet another
legend of the Indies. Stories passed that a man could live for days on
the liquor sealed within its straw-matted shell.
The moon chased random clouds, but still the riverbank was illuminated
like day. The damp air was still, amplifying the music of the night--the
buzz of gnats, the call of night birds, even the occasional trumpet of
a distant elephant, pierced the solid wood line on either side of the
narrowing river. Hawksworth tasted the dark, alert, troubled. Where are
the human sounds? Where are the barges I saw plying the river mouth
during the day? I sense an uneasiness in the pilot, an alarm he does
not wish me to see. Damn the moon. If only we had dark.
"Karim." Hawksworth spoke softly, his eyes never long from the dense
rampart of trees along the riverbank.
"What do you wish, Captain?"
"Have you ever traveled up the river before by moonlight?"
"Once, yes, many years ago. When I was young and burning for a woman
after our ship had dropped anchor in the bay. I was only a _karwa_
then, a common seaman, and I thought I would not be missed. I was
wrong. The _nakuda_ discovered me in Surat and reclaimed my wage for
the entire voyage. It was a very hungry time."
"Was the river quiet then, as it is now?"
"Yes, Captain, just the same." Though Karim looked at him directly, the
darkness still guarded his eyes.
"Mackintosh." Hawksworth's voice cut the silence. "Issue the muskets."
His eyes swept along the shore, and then to the narrow bend they were
fast approaching. Karim is lying, he told himself; at last the pilot
has begun to play false with us. Why? What does he fear?
"Aye aye, Cap'n." Mackintosh was instantly alert. "What do you see?"
The sudden voices startled Elkington awake, and his nodding head
snapped erect. "The damn'd Moors have settl'd in for the night. If
you'd hold your peace, I could join 'em. I'll need the full o' my wits
for hagglin' with that subtle lot o' thieves come the morrow. There's
no Portugals. E'en the night birds are quiet as mice."
"Precisely," Hawksworth shot back. "And I would thank you to take a
musket, and note its flintlock is full-cocked and the flashpan dry."
Then he continued, "Mackintosh, strike the sail. And, Karim, take the
tiller."
The pinnace was a sudden burst of activity, as seamen quickly hauled in
the sail and began to check the prime on their flintlocks. With the
sail lashed, their view was unobstructed in all directions. The tide
rushing through the narrows of the approaching bend carried the pinnace
ever more rapidly, and now only occasional help was needed from the
oarsmen to keep it aright.
A cloud drifted over the moon, and for an instant the river turned
black. Hawksworth searched the darkness ahead, silent, waiting. Then he
saw it.
_ "On the boards!"_
A blaze of musket fire spanned the river ahead, illuminating the
blockade of longboats. Balls sang into the water around them while
others splattered off the side of the pinnace or hissed past the mast.
Then the returning moon glinted off the silver helmets of the
Portuguese infantry.
As Karim instinctively cut the pinnace toward the shore, Portuguese
longboats maneuvered easily toward them, muskets spewing sporadic
flame. The English oarsmen positioned themselves to return the fire,
but Hawksworth stopped them.
Not yet, he told himself, we'll have no chance to reload. The first
round has to count. And damn my thoughtlessness, for not bringing
pikes. We could have . . .
The pinnace lurched crazily and careened sideways, hurtling around
broadside to the longboats.
A sandbar. We've struck a damned sandbar. But we've got to face them
with the prow. Otherwise . . .