CHAPTER FOUR
"Pinnace is afloat, Cap'n. I'm thinkin' we should stow the goods and be underway. If we're goin'." Mackintosh's silhouette was framed in the doorway of the Great Cabin, his eyes gaunt in the lantern light. Dark had dropped suddenly over the Discovery, bringing with it a cooling respite from the inferno of day.
"We'll cast off before the watch is out. Start loading the cloth and iron-work"—Hawksworth turned and pointed toward his own locked sea chest—"and send for the purser."
Mackintosh backed through the doorway and turned automatically to leave. But then he paused, his body suspended in uncertainty for a long moment. Finally he revolved again to Hawksworth.
"Have to tell you, I've a feelin' we'll na be sailin' out o' this piss-hole alive." He squinted across the semi-dark of the cabin. "It's my nose tellin' me, sir, and she's always right."
"The Company's sailed to the Indies twice before, Mackintosh."
"Aye, but na to India. The bleedin' Company ne'er dropped anchor in this nest o' Portugals. 'Twas down to Java before. With nothin' but a few Dutchmen to trouble o'er. India's na the Indies, Cap'n. The Indies is down in the Spice Islands, where seas are open. The ports o' India belong to the Portugals, sure as England owns the Straits o' Dover. So beggin' your pardon, Cap'n, this is na the Indies. This might well be Lisbon harbor."
"We'll have a secure anchorage. And once we're inland the Portugals can't touch us." Hawksworth tried to hold a tone of confidence in his voice. "The pilot says he can take us upriver tonight. Under cover of dark."
"No Christian can trust a bleedin' Moor, Cap'n. An' this one's got a curious look. Somethin' in his eyes. Can't tell if he's lookin' at you or na."
Hawksworth wanted to agree, but he stopped himself.
"Moors just have their own ways, Mackintosh. Their mind works differently. But I can already tell this one's not like the Turks." Hawksworth still had not decided what he thought about the pilot. It scarcely matters now, he told himself, we've no choice but to trust him. "Whatever he's thinking, he'll have no room to play us false."
"Maybe na, but he keeps lookin' toward the shore. Like he's expectin' somethin'. The bastard's na tellin' us what he knows. I smell it. The nose, Cap'n."
"We'll have muskets, Mackintosh. And the cover of dark. Now load the pinnace and let's be on with it."
Mackintosh stared at the boards, shifting and tightening his belt. He started to argue more, but Hawksworth's voice stopped him.
"And, Mackintosh, order the muskets primed with pistol shot." Hawksworth recalled a trick his father had once told him about, many long years past. "If anybody ventures to surprise us, we'll hand them a surprise in turn. A musket ball's useless in the dark of night, clump of pistol shot at close quarters is another story."
The prospect of a fight seemed to transform Mackintosh. With a grin he snapped alert, whirled, and stalked down the companionway toward the main deck.
Moments later the balding purser appeared, a lifelong seaman with an unctuous smile and rapacious eyes who had dispensed stores on many a prosperous merchantman, and grown rich on a career of bribes. He mechanically logged Hawksworth's chest in his account book and then signaled the bosun to stow the heavy wooden trunk into the pinnace.
Hawksworth watched the proceedings absently as he checked the edge on his sword. Then he slipped the belt over his shoulder and secured its large brass buckle. Finally he locked the stern windows and surveyed the darkened cabin one last time.
The Discovery. May God defend her and see us all home safe. Every man.
Then without looking back he firmly closed the heavy oak door, latched it, and headed down the companionway toward the main deck.
Rolls of broadcloth lay stacked along the waist of the ship, and beside them were muskets and a keg of powder. George Elkington was checking off samples of cloth as they were loaded irto the pinnace, noting his selection in a book of accounts.
Standing next to him, watching idly, was Humphrey Spencer, youngest son of Sir Randolph Spencer. He had shipped the voyage as the assistant to Elkington, but his real motivation was not commerce but adventure, and a stock of tales to spin out in taverns when he returned. His face of twenty had suffered little from the voyage, for a stream of bribes to the knowing purser had reserved for him the choice provisions, including virtually all the honey and raisins.
Humphrey Spencer had donned a tall, brimmed hat, a feather protruding from its beaver band, and his fresh doublet of green taffeta fairly glowed in the lantern's rays. His new thigh-length hose were an immaculate tan and his ruff collar pure silk. A bouquet of perfume hovered about him like an invisible cloud.
Spencer turned and began to pace the deck in distraught agitation, oblivious to his interference as weary seamen worked around him to drag rolls of broadcloth next to the gunwales, stacking them for others to hoist and stow in the pinnace. Then he spotted Hawksworth, and his eyes brightened.
"Captain, at last you're here. Your bosun is an arrant knave, my life on't. He'll not have these rogues stow my chest."
"There's no room in the pinnace for your chest, Spencer."
"But how'm I to conduct affairs 'mongst the Moors without a gentleman's fittings?" He reviewed Hawksworth's leather jerkin and seaboots with disdain.
Before Hawksworth could reply, Elkington was pulling himself erect, wincing at the gout as his eyes blazed. "Spencer, you've enough to do just mindin' the accounts, which thus far you've shown scant aptness for." He turned and spat into the scuppers. "Your father'd have me make you a merchant, but methinks I'd sooner school an ape to sing. 'Tis tradin' we're here for, not to preen like a damn'd coxcomb. Now look to it."
"You'll accompany us, Spencer, as is your charge." Hawksworth walked past the young clerk, headed for the fo'c'sle. "The only 'fittings' you'll need are a sword and musket, which I dearly hope you know enough to use. Now prepare to board."
As Hawksworth passed the mainmast, bosun's mate John 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 w
ho 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 . . .
As though sensing Hawksworth's thoughts, Karim seized an oar and began to pole the pinnace's stern off the bar. Slowly it eased around, coming about to face the approaching longboats. No sooner had the pinnace righted itself than the first longboat glanced off the side of the bow, and a grapple caught their gunwale.
Then the first Portuguese soldier leaped aboard—and doubled in a flame of sparks as Mackintosh shoved a musket into his belly and pulled the trigger. As the other English muskets spoke out in a spray of pistol shot, several Portuguese in the longboat pitched forward, writhing.
Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading.
"Half-cock your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast about to charge . . ."
But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard.
"Damn the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."
The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.
Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained Portuguese infantry easily. Thank God there's no more foot room, he thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .
At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and leaped forward, slashing the first soldier through the waist and sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.
Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?
Good God, he'll cut me in half.
Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging. It was a pocket pistol.
Did he prime it? Does he know how?
As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that melted the soldier's face into red.
He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in h
orror as a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English. Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.
He'll kill half the men. The bastard will . . .
A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a smile with no mirth. In an instant it transmuted to disbelief, while his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still erect. He stood limp, head cocked sideways, as though distracted during prayer.
Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?
Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.
A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo arrows sang from the darkness of the shore. Measured, deadly. Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and moaning death.
Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the very first time.
"The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?"
"I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical look enter the pilot's eyes.
Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out what seemed to be grapples, flashing from the shore, pulling the floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern.
"Karim, I asked whose arrows . . ."
The pilot was gone. Only the English seamen remained, dazed and uncomprehending.
Then the night fell suddenly silent once more, save for the slap of the running tide against the hull.
BOOK TWO
SURAT—THE THRESHOLD