He felt the palanquin drop roughly onto a hard surface, and
when the curtains were pulled aside he looked down to see the stone
mosaic of a garden courtyard. They had traveled uphill at least part of
the time, with what seemed many unnecessary turns and windings, and now
they were hidden from the streets by the high walls of a garden
enclosure. Tall slender palms lined the inside of the garden's white
plaster wall, and denser trees shaded a central two-story building,
decorated around its entry with raised Arabic lettering in ornate
plasterwork. The guards motioned him through the large wooden portico
of the house, which he began to suspect might be the residence of a
wealthy merchant. After a long hallway, they entered a spacious room
with clean white walls and a thick center carpet over a floor of
patterned marble inlay. Large pillows lay strewn about the carpet, and
the air hung heavy with the stale scent of spice.
It's the house of a rich merchant or official, all right. What else can
it be? The decorated panels on the doors and the large brass knobs all
indicate wealth. But what's the room for? For guests? No. It's too
empty. There's almost no furniture. No bed. No . . .
Then suddenly he understood. A banquet room.
He realized he had never seen a more sumptuous private dining hall,
even among the aristocracy in London. The guards closed the heavy
wooden doors, but there was no sound of their footsteps retreating.
Who are they protecting me from?
A servant, with skin the color of ebony and a white turban that seemed
to enclose a large part of his braided and folded-up beard, pushed open
an interior door to deposit a silver tray. More fried bread and a bowl
of curds.
"Where am I? Whose house . . . ?"
The man bowed, made hand signs pleading incomprehension, and retreated
without a word.
As Hawksworth started to reach for a piece of the bread, the outer door
opened, and one of the guards stepped briskly to the tray and stopped
his hand. He said nothing, merely signaled to wait. Moments later
another guard also entered, and with him was a woman. She was unveiled,
with dark skin and heavy gold bangles about her ankles. She stared at
Hawksworth with frightened eyes. Brisk words passed in an alien
language, and then the woman pointed to Hawksworth and raised her voice
as she replied to the guard. He said nothing, but simply lifted a long,
sheathed knife from his waist and pointed it toward the tray, his
gesture signifying all. After a moment's pause, the woman edged forward
and gingerly sampled the curds with her fingers, first sniffing and
then reluctantly tasting. More words passed, after which the guards
bowed to Hawksworth almost imperceptibly and escorted the woman from
the room, closing the door.
Hawksworth watched in dismay and then turned again to examine the
dishes.
If they're that worried, food can wait. Who was she? Probably a slave.
Of the Shahbandar?
He removed his boots, tossed them in the corner, and eased himself onto
the bolsters piled at one end of the central carpet. The wound in his
leg had become a dull ache.
Jesus help me, I'm tired. What does the Shahbandar really want? Why was
Karim so fearful of him? And what's the role of the governor in all
this? Will all these requests and permissions and permits end up
delaying us so long the Portugals will find our anchorage? And what
will the governor want out of me?
He tried to focus his mind on the governor, on a figure he sculpted in
his imagination. A fat, repugnant, pompous bureaucrat. But the figure
slowly began to transform, and in time it became the Turk who had
imprisoned him in Tunis, with a braided fez and a jeweled dagger at his
waist. The fat Turk was not listening, he was issuing a decree. You
will stay. Only then will I have what I want. What I must have. Next a
veiled woman entered the room, and her eyes were like Maggie's. She
seized his hand and guided him toward the women's apartments, past the
frowning guards, who raised large scimitars in interdiction until she
waved them aside. Then she led him to the center of a brilliantly
lighted room, until they stood before a large stone pillar, a pillar
like the one in the porters' lodge except it was immense, taller than
his head. You belong to me now, her eyes seemed to say, and she began
to bind him to the pillar with silken cords. He struggled to free
himself, but the grasp on his wrists only became stronger. In panic he
struck out and yelled through the haze of incense.
"Let . . . !"
"I'm only trying to wake you, Captain." A voice cut through the
nightmare. "His Eminence, the Shahbandar, has requested that I attend
your wound."
Hawksworth startled awake and was reaching for his sword before he saw
the swarthy little man, incongruous in a white swath of a skirt and a
Portuguese doublet, nervously shaking his arm. The man pulled back in
momentary surprise, then dropped his cloth medicine bag on the floor
and began to carefully fold a large red umbrella. Hawksworth noted he
wore no shoes on his dusty feet.
"Allow me to introduce myself." He bowed ceremoniously. "My name is
Mukarjee. It is my honor to attend the celebrated new _feringhi_." His
Turki was halting and strongly accented.
He knelt and deftly cut away the wrapping on Hawksworth's leg. "And who
applied this?" With transparent disdain he began uncoiling the muddy
bandage. "The Christian _topiwallahs _constantly astound me. Even
though my daughter is married to one." One eyebrow twitched nervously
as he worked.
Hawksworth stared at him through a groggy haze, marveling at the
dexterity of his chestnut-brown hands. Then he glanced nervously at the
vials of colored liquid and jars of paste the man was methodically
extracting from his cloth bag.
"It was our ship's physician. He swathed this after attending a dozen
men with like wounds or worse."
"No explanations are necessary. _Feringhi_ methods are always
unmistakable. In Goa, where I lived for many years after leaving
Bengal, I once served in a hospital built by Christian priests."
"You worked in a Jesuit hospital?"
"I did indeed." He began to scrape away the oily powder residue from
the wound. Hawksworth's leg jerked involuntarily from the flash of
pain. "Please do not move. Yes, I served there until I could abide it
no more. It was a very exclusive hospital. Only _feringhi _were allowed
to go there to be bled."
He began to wash the wound, superficial but already festering, with a
solution from one of the vials. "Yes, we Indians were denied that
almost certain entry into Christian paradise represented by its
portals. But it was usually the first stop for arriving Portuguese,
after the brothels."
"But why do so many Portuguese sicken after they reach Goa?" Hawksworth
watched Mukarjee begin to knead a paste that smelled strongly of
sandalwood spice.
"It's well that you ask, Captain Hawksworth." Mukarjee tested the
consistency of the sandalwood paste with his finger and then placed it
aside, apparently to thicken. "You appear to be a strong man, but after
many months at sea you may not be as virile as you assume."
He absently extracted a large, dark green leaf from the pocket of his
doublet and dabbed it in a paste he kept in a crumpled paper. Then he
rolled it around the cracked pieces of a small brown nut, popped it
into his mouth, and began to chew. Suddenly remembering himself, he
stopped and produced another leaf from his pocket.
"Would you care to try betel, what they call pan here in Surat? It's
very healthy for the teeth. And the digestion."
"What is it?"
"A delicious leaf. I find I cannot live without it, so perhaps it's a
true addiction. It's slightly bitter by itself, but if you roll it
around an areca nut and dip it in a bit of lime--which we make from
mollusk shells--it is perfectly exquisite."
Hawksworth shook his head in wary dissent, whereupon Mukarjee
continued, settling himself on his haunches and sucking contentedly on
the rolled leaf as he spoke. "You ask why I question your well-being,
Captain? Because a large number of the _feringhis_ who come to Goa, and
India, are doomed to die."
"You already said that. From what? Poison in their food?"
Mukarjee examined him quizzically for a moment as he concentrated on
the rolled leaf, savoring the taste, and Hawksworth noticed a red
trickle emerge from the corner of his mouth and slide slowly off his
chin. He turned and discharged a mouthful of juice into a small brass
container, clearing his mouth to speak.
"The most common illness for Europeans here is called the bloody flux."
Mukarjee tested the paste again with his finger, and then began to stir
it vigorously with a wooden spatula. "For four or five days the body
burns with intense heat, and then either it is gone or you are dead."
"Are there no medicines?" Hawksworth watched as he began to spread the
paste over the wound.
"Of course there are medicines." Mukarjee chuckled resignedly. "But the
Portuguese scorn to use them."
"Probably wisely," Hawksworth reflected. "It's said the flux is caused
by an excess of humors in the blood. Bleeding is the only real remedy."
"I see." Mukarjee began to apply the paste and then to bind
Hawksworth's leg with a swath of white cloth. "Yes, my friend, that is
what the Portuguese do--you must hold still--and I have personally
observed how effective it is in terminating illness."
"The damned Jesuits are the best physicians in Europe."
"So I have often been told. Most frequently at funerals." Mukarjee
quickly tied a knot in the binding and spat another mouthful of red
juice. "Your wound is really nothing more than a scratch. But you would
have been dead in a fortnight. By this, if not by exertion."
"What do you mean?" Hawksworth rose and tested his leg, amazed that the
pain seemed to have vanished.
"The greatest scourge of all for newly arrived Europeans
here seems to be our women. It is inevitable, and my greatest source of
amusement." He spat the exhausted betel leaf toward the corner of the
room and paused dramatically while he prepared another.
"Explain what you mean about the women."
"Let me give you an example from Goa." Mukarjee squatted again. "The
Portuguese soldiers arriving from Lisbon each year tumble from their
ships more dead than alive, weak from months at sea and the inevitable
scurvy. They are in need of proper food, but they pay no attention to
this, for they are even more starved for the company of women. . . . By
the way, how is your wound?" Mukarjee made no attempt to suppress a
smile at Hawksworth's astonished testing of his leg.
"The pain seems to be gone." He tried squatted in Indian style, like
Mukarjee, and found that this posture, too, brought no discomfort.
"Well, these scurvy-weakened soldiers immediately avail themselves of
Goa's many well-staffed brothels--which, I note, Christians seem to
frequent with greater devotion than their fine churches. What uneven
test of skill and vigor transpires I would not speculate, but many of
these _feringhis _soon find the only beds suited for them are in the
Jesuit's Kings Hospital, where few ever leave. I watched some five
hundred Portuguese a year tread this path of folly." Mukarjee's lips
were now the hue of the rose.
"And what happens to those who do live?"
"They eventually wed one of our women, or one of their own, and embrace
the life of sensuality that marks the Portuguese in Goa. With twenty,
sometimes even thirty slaves to supply their wants and pleasure. And
after a time they develop stones in the kidney, or gout, or some other
affliction of excess."
"What do their wives die of? The same thing?"
"Some, yes, but I have also seen many charged with adultery by their
fat Portuguese husbands--a suspicion rarely without grounds, for they
really have nothing more to do on hot afternoons than chew betel and
intrigue with the lusty young soldiers--and executed. The women are said
to deem it an honorable martyrdom, vowing they die for love."
Mukarjee rose and began meticulously replacing the vials in his cloth
bag. "I may be allowed to visit you again if you wish, but I think
there's no need. Only forgo the company of our women for a time, my
friend. Practice prudence before pleasure."
A shaft of light from the hallway cut across the room, as the door
opened without warning. A guard stood in the passageway, wearing a
uniform Hawksworth had not seen before.
"I must be leaving now." Mukarjee's voice rose to public volume as he
nervously scooped up his umbrella and his bag, without pausing to
secure the knot at its top. Then he bent toward Hawksworth with a quick
whisper. "Captain, the Shahbandar has sent his Rajputs. You must take
care."
He deftly slipped past the guard in the doorway and was gone.
Hawksworth examined the Rajputs warily. They wore leather helmets
secured with a colored headband, knee- length tunics over heavy tight-
fitting trousers, and a broad cloth belt. A large round leather shield
hung at each man's side, suspended from a shoulder strap, and each
guard wore an ornate quiver at his waist from which protruded a heavy
horn bow and bamboo arrows. All were intent and unsmiling. Their
leader, his face framed in a thicket of coarse black hair, stepped
through the doorway and addressed Hawksworth in halting Turki.
"The Shahbandar has requested your presence at the customs house. I am
to inform you he has completed all formalities for admission of your
personal chest and has approved it with his _chapp_."
The palanquin was nowhere to be seen when they entered the street, but
now Hawksworth was surrounded. As they began walking he noticed the
pain in his leg was gone. The street was lined by plaster walls and the
cool evening air bore the scent of flowers from their concealed
gardens. The houses behind the walls were partially shielded by tall
trees, but he could tell they were several stories high, with flat
roofs on which women clustered, watching.
These must all be homes of rich Muslim merchants. Palaces for the
princes of commerce. And the streets are filled with dark-skinned,
slow-walking poor. Probably servants, or slaves, in no hurry to end the
errand that freed them from their drudgery inside.
Then as they started downhill, toward the river, they began to pass
tile-roofed, plaster-walled homes he guessed were owned by Hindu
merchants, since they were without gardens or the high walls Muslims
used to hide their women. As they neared the river the air started to
grow sultry, and they began passing the clay-walled huts of shopkeepers
and clerks, roofed in palm leaves with latticework grills for windows.
Finally they reached the bazaar of Surat, its rows of palm trees
deserted now, with silence where earlier he had heard a tumult of
hawkers and strident women's voices. Next to the bazaar stood the
stables, and Hawksworth noticed flocks of small boys, naked save for a
loincloth, scavenging to find any dung cakes that had been overlooked
by the women who collected fuel. The air was dense and smelled of
earth, and its taste overwhelmed his lingering memory of the wind off
the sea.
The streets of Surat converged like the spokes of a wheel, with the
customs house and port as its hub. Just like every port town in the
world, Hawksworth smiled to himself: all roads lead to the sea.
Except here all roads lead to the customs house and the Shahbandar.
Then, as they approached the last turn in the road, just outside the
enclosure of the customs house, they were suddenly confronted by a band
of mounted horsemen, armed with long-barreled muskets. The horsemen
spanned the roadway and were probably twenty in all, well outnumbering
the Rajputs. The horsemen made no effort to move aside as Hawksworth
and his guards approached.
Hawksworth noticed the Rajputs stiffen slightly and their hands drop
loosely to the horn bows protruding from their quivers, but they did
not break their pace.
My God, they're not going to halt. There'll be bloodshed. And we're
sure to lose.
Without warning a hand threw Hawksworth sprawling against the thick
plaster side of a building, and a large, round
rhino-hide buckler suddenly was covering his body, shielding him
entirely from the horsemen.
Next came a melee of shouts, and he peered out to see the Rajputs
encircling him, crouched in a firing pose, each bow aimed on a horseman
and taut with its first arrow. The musket-bearing horsemen fumbled with
their still uncocked weapons. In lightning moves of only seconds, the
Rajputs had seized the advantage.
Not only are their bows more accurate than muskets, Hawksworth thought,
they're also handier. They can loose half a dozen arrows before a
musket can be reprimed. But what was the signal? I saw nothing, heard
nothing. Yet they acted as one. I've never before seen such speed, such
discipline.
Then more shouting. Hawksworth did not recognize the language, but he
guessed it might be Urdu, the mixture of imported Persian and native
Hindi Karim had said was used in the Moghul's army as a compromise
between the language of its Persian-speaking officers and the Hindi-
speaking infantry. The Rajputs did not move as the horseman in the lead
withdrew a rolled paper from his waist and contemptuously tossed it
onto the ground in front of them.
While the others covered him with their bows, the leader of the Rajputs
advanced and retrieved the roll from the dust. Hawksworth watched as he
unscrolled it and examined in silence. At the bottom Hawksworth could
make out the red mark of a _chapp_, like the one he had seen on bundles
in the customs house. The paper was passed among the Rajputs, each
studying it in turn, particularly the seal. Then there were more
shouts, and finally resolution. The dark-bearded leader of Hawksworth's
guard approached him and bowed. Then he spoke in Turki, his voice
betraying none of the emotion Hawksworth had witnessed moments before.
"They are guards of the governor, Mukarrab Khan. They have shown us
orders by the Shahbandar, bearing his seal, instructing that you be
transferred to their care. You will go with them."
Then he dropped his bow casually into his quiver and led the other men
off in the direction of the customs house, all still marching, as
though they knew no other pace.
"Captain Hawksworth, please be tolerant of our Hindu friends. They are
single-minded soldiers of fortune, and a trifle old-fashioned in their
manners." The leader of the guard smiled and pointed to a riderless
saddled horse being held by one of the riders. "We have a mount for
you. Will you kindly join us?"
Hawksworth looked at the horse, a spirited Arabian mare, and then at
the saddle, a heavy round tapestry embroidered in silver thread with
tassels front and back, held by a thick girth also of tapestry. The
stirrups were small triangles of iron held by a leather strap attached
to a ring at the top of the girth. A second tapestry band around the
mare's neck secured the saddle near the mane. The mane itself had been
woven with decorations of beads and small feathers. The horse's neck
was held in a permanent arch by a leather checkrein extending from the
base of the bridle through the chest strap, and secured to the lower
girth. The mare pranced in anticipation, while her coat sparkled in the
waning sun. She was a thing of pure beauty.
"Where are we going?"
"But of course. The governor, Mukarrab Khan, has staged a small
celebration this afternoon and would be honored if you could join him.
Today is the final day of Ramadan, our month-long Muslim fast. He's at
the _chaugan_ field. But come, patience is not his most enduring
quality."
Hawksworth did not move.
"Why did the Shahbandar change his order? We were going to the customs
house to fetch my chest."
"The governor is a persuasive man. It was his pleasure that you join
him this afternoon. But please mount. He is waiting." The man stroked
his moustache with a manicured hand as he nodded toward the waiting
mount. "His Excellency sent one of his finest horses. I think he has a
surprise for you."
Hawksworth swung himself into the saddle, and immediately his mare
tossed her head in anticipation. She was lanky and spirited, nothing
like the lumbering mount his father had once taught him to ride at the
army's camp outside London so many, many years ago.
Without another word the men wheeled their horses and started off in a
direction parallel to the river. Then the one who had spoken abruptly
halted the entire party.
"Please forgive me, but did I introduce myself? I am the secretary to
His Excellency, Mukarrab Khan. We were cast from the civilized comforts
of Agra onto this dung heap port of Surat together. Perhaps it was our
stars."
Hawksworth was only half-listening to the man. He turned and looked
back over his shoulder in time to see the Rajputs entering into the
compound of the customs house. The leader of the horsemen caught his
glance and smiled.
"Let me apologize again for our friends of the Rajput guard. You do
understand they have no official standing. They serve whomever they are
paid to serve. If that thief, the Shahbandar, discharged them tomorrow
and then another hired them to kill him, they would do so without a
word. Rajputs are professional mercenaries, who do battle as coldly as
the tiger hunts game." He turned his horse onto a wide avenue that
paralleled the river. The sunlight was now filtered through the haze of
evening smoke from cooking fires that was enveloping the city.
"Do Rajputs also serve the governor?"
The man laughed broadly and smoothed the braided mane of his horse as
he twisted sideways in the saddle and repeated Hawksworth's question
for the other riders. A peal of amusement cut the quiet of the evening
streets.
"My dear English captain, he might wish to hang them, but he would
never hire them. His Excellency has the pick of the Moghul infantry and
cavalry in this district, men of lineage and breeding. Why should he
need Hindus?"
Hawksworth monitored the riders carefully out of the corner of his eye
and thought he detected a trace of nervousness in their mirth. Yes, he
told himself, why use Hindus--except the Shahbandar's Hindu mercenaries
got the advantage of you in only seconds. While you and your pick of
the Moghul cavalry were fiddling with your uncocked muskets. Perhaps
there's a good reason the Shahbandar doesn't hire men of lineage and
breeding.
Hawksworth noticed they were paralleling a wall of the city, a high
brick barrier with iron pikes set along its capstone. Abruptly the wall
curved across the road they were traveling and they were facing a
massive wooden gate that spanned the width of the street. Suddenly
guards appeared, each in uniform and holding a pike. They hurriedly
swung wide the gate as the procession approached, then snapped crisply
to attention along the roadside.
"This is the Abidjan Gate." The secretary nodded in response to the
salute of the guards. "You can just see the field from here." He
pointed ahead, then urged his horse to a gallop. A cooling dampness was
invading the evening air, and now the sun had entirely disappeared into
the cloud of dense cooking smoke that boiled above the city, layering a
dark mantle over the landscape. Again Hawksworth felt his apprehension
rising. What's the purpose of bringing me to a field outside the city,
with dark approaching? He instinctively fingered the cool handle of his
sword, but its feel did nothing to ease his mind.
Then he heard cheers from the field ahead, and saw a burning ball fly
across the evening sky. Ahead was a large green, and on it horsemen
raced back and forth, shouting and cursing in several languages, their
horses jostling recklessly. Other mounted horsemen watched from the
side of the green and bellowed encouragement.
As they approached the edge of the field, Hawksworth saw one of the
players capture the burning ball, guiding it along the green with a
long stick whose end appeared to be curved. He spurred his mottled gray
mount toward two tall posts stationed at one end of the green. Another
player was hard in chase, and his horse, a dark stallion, was closing
rapidly toward the rolling ball. As the first player swept upward with
his stick, lofting the burning ball toward the posts, the second player
passed him and--in a maneuver that seemed dazzling to Hawksworth--circled
his own stick over his head and captured the ball in midair, deflecting
it toward the edge of the green where Hawksworth and his guards waited.
Cheers went up from some of the players and spectators, and the
horsemen all dashed for the edge of the green in chase of the ball,
which rolled in among Hawksworth's entourage and out of play. The
horseman on the dark stallion suddenly noticed Hawksworth and, with a
shout to the other players, whipped his steed toward the arriving
group.
As he approached, Hawksworth studied his face carefully. He was pudgy
but still athletic, with a short, well-trimmed moustache and a tightly
wound turban secured with a large red stone that looked like a ruby. He
carried himself erect, with a confidence only full vigor could impart,
yet his face was incongruously debauched, almost ravaged, and his eyes
deeply weary. There was no hint of either triumph or pleasure in those
eyes or in his languorous mouth, although he had just executed a
sensational block of an almost certain score. He reined his wheezing
mount only when directly in front of Hawksworth, sending up a cloud of
dust.
"Are you the English captain?" The voice was loud, with an impatient
tone indicating long years of authority.
"I command the frigates of the East India Company." Hawksworth tried to
keep his gaze steady. What sort of man can this be, he asked himself?
Is this the one who can demand the Shahbandar's signature and seal
whenever he wishes?
"Then I welcome you, Captain." The dark stallion reared suddenly for no
apparent reason, in a display of exuberance. The man expertly reined
him in, never removing his gaze from Hawksworth, and continued in an
even voice. "I've been most eager to meet the man who is suddenly so
interesting to our Portuguese friends. Although I have a personal rule
never to dabble in the affairs of Europeans, as a sportsman I must
congratulate you on your victory. A pity I missed the encounter."
"I accept your congratulations on behalf of the East India Company."
Hawksworth watched him for some sign of his attitude toward the
Portuguese, but he could detect nothing but smooth diplomacy.
"Yes, the East India Company. I suppose this company of yours wants
something from India, and I can easily imagine it might be profit.
Perhaps I should tell you straightaway that such matters bore me not a
little." The man glanced impatiently back toward the field. "But come,
it's growing darker as we talk. I'd hoped you might join us in our
little game. It's elementary. Should be child's play for a man who
commands at sea." He turned to one of the men standing by the side of
the field. "Ahmed, prepare a stick for Captain ... by the way, I wasn't
given your name."
"Hawksworth."
"Yes. Prepare a stick for Captain Hawksworth. He'll be joining us."
Hawksworth stared at the man, trying to gauge his impulsiveness.
"You, I presume, are the governor."
"Forgive me. I so rarely find introductions required. Mukarrab Khan,
your humble servant. Yes, it's my fate to be governor of Surat, but
only because there's no outpost less interesting. But come, we lose
precious time." He pivoted his pawing mount about and signaled for a
new ball to be ignited.
"You'll find our game very simple, Captain Hawksworth. The object is to
take the ball between the posts you see there, what we call the _hal_.
There are two teams of five players, but we normally rotate players
every twenty minutes." His horse reared again in anticipation as the
new ball was brought onto the field. "Years ago we played only during
the hours of day, but then our Moghul's father, the great Akman,
introduced the burning ball, so he could play at night. It's _palas
_wood, very light and slow-burning."
Hawksworth felt a nudge on his hand and looked down to see a stick
being passed upward by one of the attendants. The handle was sheathed
in silver, and the stick itself was over six feet long, with a
flattened curve at the bottom, like a distorted shepherd's crook.
Hawksworth lifted it gingerly, testing its weight, and was surprised by
its lightness.
"You will be playing on the team of Abul Hasan." He nodded toward a
middle-aged man with a youthful face and no moustache. "He is a _qazi_
here in Surat, a judge who interprets and dispenses law, and when he's
not busy abusing the powers of his office, he presumes to challenge me
at _chaugan_." The official bowed slightly but did not smile. His
dappled gray mare was sniffing at the governor's stallion. "He thinks
he has me at a disadvantage, since in Agra we played with only one
goal, whereas here they use two, but _chaugan _is a test of skill, not
rules. He leads the white turbans." Only then did Hawksworth notice
that the governor's team all wore red turbans.
The governor waved to his attendant. "A clean turban for the English
captain."_
_"I'd prefer to play as I am." Hawksworth saw a flash of disbelief in
the governor's eyes. It was obvious he was never contradicted. "I never
wear a hat, though it seems in India I'm still called a _topiwallah_.
"Very well, Captain Hawksworth. The _topiwallah _wears no turban." He
seemed to smile as he turned to the other players and signaled for play
to start. "Abul Hasan's team is composed of Surat officials, Captain.
You will notice, however, that I am teamed with some of our merchants--
Muslim, of course, not Hindus--something I must do to ensure challenging
opponents. The mere presence of merchants here today should give you
some idea how very tedious I find living in Surat. In Agra no merchant
would be allowed near a _chaugan _field. But here my officials enjoy
winning their money so much that I am forced to relent." And he laughed
warmly.
The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and the
players spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworth
gripped the _chaugan_ stick in his right hand and the reins in the
other as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin.
The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead.
He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a graceful
arc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly toward
the _hal_, while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply to
follow its trajectory.
But a white turban had anticipated his shot and was already in position
to intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's path
and with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center of
the field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor's
horse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared,
whirled, and flew in chase.
The shot had passed over the heads of the three other white turbans and
bounced off the grass a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to the
rear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball,
beginning to feel some of the exhilaration of the play. He reached the
ball on its second bounce and with a rigid arc of his arm swung the
_chaugan _stick.
The impact recoiled a dizzying shock through the wood and up his right
shoulder. He dimly heard the cheers of his teammates, seeming to
congratulate him on his stroke. But where's the ball? he wondered as he
scanned the darkened, empty expanse down the field. Then he realized he
had only deflected it, back toward the three white turbans in the
center of the field. The last white turban in the row snared the ball
with his stick, deflecting it again, but now in the direction of the
reds.
Dust was boiling from the surface of the field, increasingly obscuring
the players and the play. The darkened arena had become a jostling mob,
friend scarcely distinguishable from foe, and all in pursuit of the
only certain object, the still-glowing ball. Hawksworth's eyes seared
and his throat choked as he raced after the others--always, it seemed,
bringing up the rear, while his mount took her head and rarely
acknowledged his awkward attempts to command. He clung to the iron ring
of his saddle, content merely to stay astride.
Give me a quarterdeck any day.
The red turbans again had command of the ball, and Hawksworth watched
as the governor now raced to the lead, urged on by his teammates. He
snared the ball effortlessly and with a powerful swing sent it arcing
back toward his own _hal_.
The other red turbans rushed in pursuit, but a white turban was already
at the _hal_, waiting to deflect the play. He snared the ball in the
crook of his stick and flung it back toward the center. The reds seemed
to anticipate this, for they reined as one man and dashed back. But now
a white had control, and he guided the ball alone across the grassy
expanse, while a phalanx of other whites rode guard. Hawksworth was
still lagging in front of his own _hal_ when suddenly he saw the ball
lofting toward him, a flaming mortar in the darkened sky.
It slammed to earth near his horse's flank, spewing sparks. He cut his
mare sharply to the left and galloped in pursuit. Above the shouts he
only dimly heard the reds thundering behind him, closing in as he
reached the ball and caught it in the curve of his stick.
Roll it, he told himself, keep it on the ground . . .
The reds were on him. In what seemed a swing for the ball, Abul Hasan
brought his stick in a wide arc, its hardened crook accurately
intersecting Hawksworth's directly in the middle. Hawksworth felt an
uneven shudder pulse through his arm and heard his own stick shatter.
The lower half flew to his right, and he watched in dismay as it sailed
across the path of Mukarrab Khan's mount, just as the governor cut
inward to block Hawksworth. The hard wood caught the dark stallion
directly across its front shins, and the horse stumbled awkwardly.
Hawksworth stared at horse and rider dumbly for a moment, as the
stallion lost its stride, and he suddenly realized the governor's horse
would fall. And when it did, Mukarrab Khan would be thrown directly
below the horses thundering behind them.
He cut his mount sharply to the right and deliberately slammed into the
governor's stallion. Mukarrab Khan's dazed eyes flashed understanding
and he stretched for the center ring of Hawksworth's saddle during the
fractional second their horses were in collision. At the same instant,
he disengaged himself from his own stirrups and pulled himself across
the neck of Hawksworth's mare.
Two alert reds pulled their mounts alongside Hawksworth and grabbed the
reins of his mare. The dark stallion collapsed in the dust behind them
with a pitiful neigh. Then it rose and limped painfully toward the edge
of the field, its left foreleg dangling shattered and useless. Mukarrab
Khan lowered himself to the ground with an elaborate oath.
A cheer sounded as the whites scored the ball unmolested.
Hawksworth was still watching the governor when one of the attendants
rushed from the sidelines, seized the silver-topped fragment of his
broken stick, and thrust it toward him.
"The silver is yours to keep, Sahib. It is the custom that one whose
_chaugan_ stick is broken in play may keep its silver tip. As a token
of bravery. For you it is especially deserved." He was short, swarthy,
and dressed in a dust- covered white shirt. He bowed slightly, while
his eyes gleamed their admiration in the darkness.
"Take it, Captain. It is an honor." Abul Hasan rode up stiffly,
brushing the dust from the mane of his horse. "No _feringhi_, to my
knowledge, has ever before attempted _chaugan_, and certainly none has
earned a silver knob."
"Captain Hawksworth, you rode well." Mukarrab Khan had commandeered a
mount and also drew alongside. There was a light scratch along the
right side of his face, and the whimsical look had vanished from his
eyes as he searched the faces clustered around. "A very curious
accident. It has never happened before." He stared directly at
Hawksworth. "How was your stick broken?"
"The _feringhi_ made an unfortunate swing, Excellency," Abul Hasan
interjected. "He played superbly, for a beginner, but he has still to
fully master the stroke."
"Obviously. But he compensated by his luck--my luck-- in saving me from a
fall. He rides well enough, no matter how uncertain his stroke." The
governor examined them both skeptically.
Hawksworth watched the exchange in incredulous silence. The _qazi_ may
be covering for his own accident. Or perhaps it wasn't an accident. And
if not, then he tried to kill the Mukarrab Khan in a way that would
look like it was my responsibility.
"I still maintain it was most curious." Mukarrab Khan turned to watch
as the stable-keepers prepared to shoot his favorite horse. "But tell
me now what you think of _chaugan_, Captain Hawksworth?"
"It's exhilarating. And dangerous. A seaman might say it's like taking
the whipstaff all alone in a gale, without a safety line." Hawksworth
tried unsuccessfully to decipher Mukarrab Khan's thoughts.
"A quaint analogy, but doubtless apt." He tried to smile. "You know,
Captain, there are those who mistakenly regard _chaugan _as merely a
game, whereas it is actually much, much more. It's a crucible of
courage. It sharpens one's quickness of mind, tests one's powers of
decision. The great Akman believed the same, and for that reason he
encouraged it years ago among his officials. Of course it requires
horsemanship, but in the last count it's a flawless test of manhood.
You did not entirely disappoint me. I suspect you English could one day
be worthy of our little game."
A shot rang out, and the governor's face went pale for an instant, his
eyes glossed with sadness. Then he turned again to Hawksworth.
"Deplorable waste. To think I bought him just last year especially for
_chaugan_. From a grasping Arab, a confirmed thief who sensed I fancied
that stallion and absolutely refused to bargain." The voice was calmer
now, the official facade returning. "But enough. Perhaps I could
interest you in a drink?"
He signaled toward the edge of the field, and a waiting groom ran
toward them, bearing a black clay pot with a long spout.
"The sun has set. Ramadan is finished for this year. So I will join
you. Let me show you how we drink on horseback." He lifted the pot
above his head, tilted the spout toward him, and caught the stream
effortlessly in his mouth. Then he passed it to Hawksworth. "It's
called _sharbat_. The _topiwallahs _all seem to like it and
mispronounce it 'sherbet.'"
The water was sugar sweet and tangy with bits of lemon. God, Hawksworth
thought, would we had barrels of this for the voyage home. As he drank,
drenching his beard, he first noticed the icy stars, a splendor of cold
fire in an overhead canopy. The town's smoke had been banished by the
freshening wind, and a placid silence now mantled the field. The
players were preparing to leave, and the grooms were harnessing the
remaining horses to lead them home.
"Tonight we feast to mark the end of Ramadan, Captain, our month of
fasting during daylight hours. It's an evening celebrating the return
of sensual pleasure." Mukarrab Khan stared at Hawksworth for a moment.
"By the looks of you, I'd suspect you're no Jesuit. I would be honored
if you could join me." He forced a blithe cheerfulness his weary eyes
belied.
As Hawksworth listened, he realized he very much wanted to go. To lose
himself for a time. And suddenly the words of Huyghen, and of Roger
Symmes, flashed through his mind. Of the India you would not want to
leave. _Until you would not be able to leave.
_As they rode toward the town, Mukarrab Khan fell silent. And Abul
Hasan, too, seemed lost in his own thoughts. Hawksworth slowly let his
horse draw to the rear in order to count the governor's personal
retinue of guards. Thirty men, with quivers of arrows beside their
saddle, pikes at their right stirrup, and a matchlock musket. As they
rode, the other horsemen eyed Hawksworth warily, keeping to themselves
and making no effort to talk. Hawksworth thought he sensed an
underlying hostility lurking through the crowd, but whether it was
between the merchants and officials, or toward him, he could not
discern.
Then a presumptuous thought passed through his mind.
Could this entire scene have been staged by Mukarrab Khan to somehow
test me? But to what purpose? What could he want to find out?
Whatever it was, I think he just may have found it.
Then he leaned back in the saddle, pushed aside his misgivings, and
sampled the perfumed evening air.