carpet and now he dozed fitfully. Humphrey Spencer fought sleep as he
worked vainly to brush away the powder smudges from his doublet.
Mackintosh had finished whetting his seaman's knife and now sat
absorbed in searching his hair for lice. Bosun's mate John Garway
lounged against a side wall, idly scratching his codpiece and dreaming
of the women he would soon have, his toothless smile fixed in sleepy
anticipation. The master's mate, Thomas Davies, dozed in a heap by the
door, his narrow face depleted and aged with scurvy. In a back corner
dice and a pile of coins had miraculously appeared, and the other
seamen sprawled about them on the floor, bloodshot eyes focused on the
chance numbers that would spell the longest splurge in port. Hawksworth
stretched his wounded leg once more, leaned stiffly against the front
wall, and forced his mind to drift again into needed rest.
Hawksworth was suddenly alert, his senses troubled. The sun had reached
midmorning now, and it washed the mud floor in brilliant yellow light.
He sensed that a heavy shadow had passed through its beam. He had not
specifically seen it, but somehow, intuitively, he knew. Without a word
he edged to the side of the heavy wooden door, his hand close to his
sword handle. All the others except Mackintosh were by now asleep. Only
the quartermaster had noticed it. He quickly moved to the side of the
door opposite Hawksworth and casually drew his heavy, bone-handled
knife.
Without warning the door swung outward.
Facing them was the same bearded man who had invited them ashore. The
square behind him was bright now with the glare of late morning, and in
the light Hawksworth realized he was wearing an immaculate white
turban, a long blue skirt over tightly fitting white breeches, and
ornate leather shoes, turned up at the toe in a curved point. This
time, however, he no longer bore welcome.
"Where have you anchored your ships?" The Turki was accented and
abrupt.
News travels fast, Hawksworth thought, as he tried to shove the haze
from his mind. "Where is the Shahbandar?"
"Your merchantmen were not in the bay this morning. Where are they
now?" The man seemed to ignore Hawksworth's question.
"I demand to see the Shahbandar. And I'll answer no questions till I
do."
"You do not demand of the Shahbandar." The man's black beard worked
nervously, even when he paused. "You and all your men are to be brought
to the customs house, together with your goods."
"Where is he now?"
"He is here."
"Where?"
The Indian turned and gestured quickly across the maidan, the square,
toward the large windowless stone building that sat on the water's edge
opposite the fortress. Hawksworth looked at the cluster of armed guards
and realized this must be the mint. This was the building, he now
remembered Karim telling him, where foreign money was "exchanged." All
foreign coins, even Spanish rials of eight, were required to be melted
down and reminted into rupees before they could be used for purchase.
Supposedly a protection against counterfeit or base coin, this
requirement produced months of delay. The Shahbandar gave only one
alternative to traders in a hurry: borrow ready-made rupees at
exorbitant interest.
"After he has authorized the beginning of today's work at the mint, he
will verify the seal on the door of the customs house"--he pointed to
the squat building adjoining their lodge--"and open it for today. All
goods must be taxed and receive his _chapp _or seal before they can
enter or leave India."
The men had begun to stir, and Hawksworth turned to translate. The
English assembled warily, and the air came alive with an almost
palpable apprehension as Hawksworth led them into the bustling square.
"We must wait." The tall Indian suddenly paused near the center of the
maidan, just as a group of guards emerged from the mint. Each wore a
heavy sword, and they were escorting a large closed palanquin carried
on the shoulders of four bearers dressed only in white skirts folded
about their waist. The guards cleared a path through the crowd of
merchants, and made their way slowly to the door of the customs house.
The crowd surged in behind them, blocking the view, but moments later
the tall doors of the customs house were seen to swing open, and the
crowd funneled in, behind the palanquin and the guards. Then the Indian
motioned for them to follow.
The interior of the customs house smelled of sweat, mingled with spice
and the dusty fragrance of indigo. As oil lamps were lighted and
attached to the side walls, the milling crowd grew visible. Through the
semi-dark porters were already bearing the English goods in from the
_maidan_ and piling them in one of the allotted stalls.
The tall guide turned to Hawksworth. "You and all your men must now be
searched, here in the counting room."
"I'll not allow it." Hawksworth motioned the English back. "I told you
I demand to see the Shahbandar."
"He'll receive you when he will. He has not granted an audience."
"Then we'll not be searched. Tell him that. Now."
The Indian paused for a moment, then reluctantly turned and made his
way toward a door at the rear of the large room. Elkington pressed
forward, his face strained.
"Tell the bleedin' heathen we're English. We'll not be treated like
this rabble." He motioned around the room, a bedlam of Arab, Persian,
and Indian traders who eyed the English warily as they shouted for the
attention of customs inspectors and competed to bribe porters.
"Just hold quiet. I think they know exactly who we are. And they know
about the ships."
As they waited, Hawksworth wondered what he should tell the Shahbandar,
and he again puzzled over the words of Karim. Think. What can you tell
him that he hasn't already heard? I'll wager he knows full well we were
attacked by Portugals in the bay. That we burned and sank two galleons.
Will he now hold us responsible for warfare in Indian waters? I'll even
wager he knows we were attacked on the river. And who saved us.
The large Indian was returning, striding through the center aisle
accompanied by four of the Shahbandar's guards. He motioned for
Hawksworth to follow, alone.
The door of the rear chamber was sheathed in bronze, with heavy ornate
hinges and an immense hasp. It seemed to swing open of itself as they
approached.
And they were in the chamber of the Shahbandar.
As he entered, Hawksworth was momentarily blinded by the blaze of oil
lamps that lined the walls of the room. Unlike the simple plaster walls
and pillars of the outer receiving area, this inner chamber was
forbiddingly ornate, with gilded ceilings almost thirty feet high. The
room was already bustling with clerks straightening piles of account
books and readying themselves for the day's affairs.
The room fell silent and a way suddenly cleared through the center, as
the Hindu clerks fell back along the walls. They all wore tight, neat
headdresses and formal cotton top shirts, and Hawksworth felt a sudden
consciousness of his own clothes--muddy boots and powder-smeared jerkin
and breeches. For the first time since they arrived he found himself in
a room with no other Europeans. The isolation felt sudden and complete.
Then he saw the Shahbandar.
On a raised dais at the rear of the room, beneath a canopy of gold-
embroidered cloth, sat the chief port official of India. He rested
stiffly on a four-legged couch strewn with cushions, and he wore a
turban of blue silk, narrow- patterned trousers, and an embroidered tan
robe that crossed to the right over his plump belly and was secured
with a row of what appeared to be rubies. He seemed oblivious to
Hawksworth as he cursed and drew on the end of a tube being held to his
mouth by an attending clerk. The clerk's other hand worked a burning
taper over the open top of a long-necked clay pot. The tube being held
to the Shahbandar's mouth was attached to a spout on the side. Suddenly
Hawksworth heard a gurgle from the pot and saw the Shahbandar inhale a
mouthful of dark smoke.
"Tobacco is the only thing the _topiwallahs _ever brought to India that
she did not already have. Even then we still had to
devise the hookah to smoke it properly." He inhaled appreciatively. "It
is forbidden during this month of Ramadan, but no man was made to fast
during daylight and also forgo tobacco. The morning sun still rose in
the east, and thus it is written the gate of repentance remains open to
God's servants."
The Shahbandar examined Hawksworth with curiosity. His face recalled
hard desert nomad blood, but now it was softened with ease, plump and
moustachioed. He wore gold earrings, and he was barefoot.
"Favor me by coming closer. I must see this _feringhi _captain who
brings such turmoil to our waters." He turned and cursed the servant as
the hookah continued to gurgle inconclusively. Then a roll of smoke
burst through the tube and the Shahbandar's eyes mellowed as he drew it
deeply into his lungs. He held the smoke for a moment while he gazed
quizzically at Hawksworth, squinting as though the air between them
were opaque.
"They tell me you are English. May I have the pleasure to know your
name?"
"I'm Brian Hawksworth, captain of the frigate _Discovery_. May I also
have the privilege of an introduction."
"I will stand before Allah as Mirza Nuruddin." He again drew deeply on
the hookah. "But here I am the Shahbandar." He exhaled a cloud and
examined Hawksworth. "Your ship and another were in our bay yesterday.
I am told they weighed anchor at nightfall. Do English vessels
customarily sail without their captain?"
"When they have reason to do so." Hawksworth fixed him squarely,
wondering if he was really almost blind or if he merely wanted to
appear so.
"And what, Captain . . . Hawksworth, brings you and your contentious
warships to our port? It is not often our friends the Portuguese permit
their fellow Christians to visit us."
"Our ships are traders of England's East India Company."
"Do not squander my time telling me what I already know." The
Shahbandar suddenly seemed to erupt. "They have never before come to
India. Why are you here now?"
Hawksworth sensed suddenly that the Shahbandar had been merely toying
with him. That he knew full well why they had come and had already
decided what to do. He recalled the words of Karim, declaring the
Shahbandar had his own private system of spies.
"We are here for the same reason we have visited the islands. To trade
the goods of Europe."
"But we already do trade with Europeans. The Portuguese. Who also
protect our seas."
"Have you found profit in it?"
"Enough. But it is not your place to question me, Captain Hawksworth."
"Then you may wish to profit through English trade as well."
"And your merchants, I assume, also expect to profit here."
"That's the normal basis of trade." Hawksworth shifted, easing his leg.
The Shahbandar glanced downward, but without removing his lips from the
tube of the hookah. "I notice you have a wound, Captain Hawksworth.
Yours would seem a perilous profession."
"It's sometimes even more perilous for our enemies."
"I presume you mean the Portuguese." The Shahbandar cursed the servant
anew and called for a new taper to fire the hookah. "But their perils
are over. Yours have only begun. Surely you do not expect they will
allow you to trade here."
"Trade here is a matter between England and India. It does not involve
the Portugals."
The Shahbandar smiled. "But we have a trade agreement with the
Portuguese, a _firman_ signed by His Majesty, the Moghul of India,
allowing them free access to our ports. We have no such agreement with
England."
"Then we were mistaken. We believed the port of Surat belonged to
India, not to the Portugals." Hawksworth felt his palms moisten at the
growing game of nerves. "India, you would say, has no ports of her own.
No authority to trade with whom she will."
"You come to our door with warfare and insolence, Captain Hawksworth.
Perhaps I would have been surprised if you had done otherwise." The
Shahbandar paused to draw thoughtfully on the smoking mouthpiece. "Why
should I expect this? Although you would not ask, let me assume you
have. The reputation of English sea dogs is not unknown in the Indies."
"And I can easily guess who brought you these libelous reports of
England. Perhaps you should examine their motives."
"We have received guidance in our judgment from those we have trusted
for many years." The Shahbandar waved aside the hookah and fixed
Hawksworth with a hard gaze.
Hawksworth returned the unblinking stare for a moment while an idea
formed in his mind. "I believe it once was written, 'There are those
who purchase error at the price of guidance, so their commerce does not
prosper. Neither are they guided.'"
A sudden hush enveloped the room as the Shahbandar examined Hawksworth
with uncharacteristic surprise. For a moment his eyes seemed lost in
concentration, then they quickly regained their focus. "The Holy Quran--
Surah II, if I have not lost the lessons of my youth." He stopped and
smiled in disbelief. "It's impossible a _topiwallah_ should know the
words of the Merciful Prophet, on whom be peace. You are a man of
curious parts, English captain." Again he paused. "And you dissemble
with all the guile of a _mullah_."
"I merely speak the truth."
"Then speak the truth to me now, Captain Hawksworth. Is it not true the
English are a notorious nation of pirates? That your merchants live off
the commerce of others, pillaging where they see fit. Should I not
inquire, therefore, whether you intrude into our waters for the same
purpose?"
"England has warred in years past on her rightful enemies. But our wars
are over. The East India Company was founded for peaceful trade. And
the Company is here for no purpose but to trade peacefully with
merchants in Surat." Hawksworth dutifully pressed forward. "Our two
merchantmen bring a rich store of English goods--woolens, ironwork, lead
. . ."
"While you war with the Portuguese, in sight of our very shores. Will
you next make war on our own merchants? I'm told it is your historic
livelihood."
As he studied Hawksworth, the Shahbandar found himself reflecting on
the previous evening. The sun had set and the Ramadan meal was already
underway when Father Manoel Pinheiro, the second-ranked Portuguese
Jesuit in India, had appeared at his gates demanding an audience.
For two tiresome hours he had endured the Jesuit's pained excuses for
Portugal's latest humiliation at sea. And his boasts that the English
would never survive a trip upriver. And for the first time Mirza
Nuruddin could remember, he had smelled fear.
Mirza Nuruddin had sensed no fear in the Portuguese eight years before,
when an English captain named Lancaster had attacked and pillaged a
Portuguese galleon in the seas off Java. Then the Viceroy of Goa brayed
he would know retribution, although nothing was ever done. And a mere
five years ago the Viceroy himself led a fleet of twelve warships to
Malacca boasting to burn the eleven Dutch merchantmen lading there. And
the Dutch sank almost his entire fleet. Now the pirates of Malabar
daily harassed Indian shipping the length of the western coast and the
Portuguese patrols seemed powerless to control them. In one short
decade, he told himself, the Portuguese have shown themselves unable to
stop the growing Dutch spice trade in the islands, unable to rid
India's coasts of pirates, and now . . . now unable to keep other
Europeans from India's own doorstep.
He studied Hawksworth again and asked himself why the English had come.
And why the two small English vessels had challenged four armed
galleons, instead of turning and making for open sea? To trade a cargo
of wool? No cargo was worth the risk they had taken. There had to be
another reason. And that reason, or whatever lay behind it, terrified
the Portuguese. For the first time ever.
"We defend ourselves when attacked. That's all." Hawksworth found
himself wanting to end the questions, to escape the smoky room and the
Shahbandar's intense gaze. "That has no bearing on our request to trade
in this port."
"I will take your request under advisement. In the meantime you and
your men will be searched and your goods taxed, in keeping with our
law."
"You may search the men if you wish. But I am here as representative of
the king of England. And as his representative I will not allow my
personal chest to be searched, no more than His Majesty, King James of
England, would submit to such an indignity." Hawksworth decided to
reach for all the authority his ragged appearance would allow.
"All _feringhi_, except ambassadors, must be searched. Do you claim
that immunity?"
"I am an ambassador, and I will be traveling to Agra to represent my
king."
"Permission for _feringhi _to travel in India must come from the Moghul
himself." The Shahbandar's face remained impassive but his mind raced.
The stakes of the English game were not wool, he suddenly realized, but
India. The English king was challenging Portugal for the trade of
India. Their audacity as astonishing. "A request can be sent to Agra by
the governor of this province."
"Then I must see him to ask that a message be sent to Agra. For now, I
demand that my personal effects be released from the customs house. And
that no duty be levied on our goods, which are samples and not for
sale."
"If your goods are not taxed, they will remain in the customs house.
That is the law. Because you claim to represent your king, I will forgo
my obligation to search your person. All of your men, however, will be
searched down to their boots, and any goods or coin they bring through
this port will be taxed according to the prevailing rate. Two and one-
half percent of value."
"Our Chief Merchant wishes to display his samples to your traders."
"I have told you I will consider your request for trade.
There are many considerations." He signaled for the hookah to be
lighted again. The interview seemed to be ended.
Hawksworth bowed with what formality he could muster and turned toward
the counting-room door.
"Captain Hawksworth. You will not be returning to your men. I have made
other arrangements for your lodging."
Hawksworth revolved to see four porters waiting by an open door at the
Shahbandar's left.