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The Moghul

by Thomas Hoover · English · Gutenberg #34322 · 1,281,135 chars · public domain (US)

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                               THE MOGHUL

Based on real people (ca. 1620) - THE MOGHUL begins in a rip-roaring
sea battle north of Bombay in which the vastly out-gunned adventurer,
Brian Hawksworth, ship's captain and emissary of King James, blows
away a flotilla of Portuguese galleons to gain access to an Indian
port. He's come to open trade for "barbaric" England and squeeze out
the Portuguese, who try to kill him at every turn. But once on land,
he's captive: the beauty and romance of the exquisite Moghul Empire
seduce him from his material goals to a new quest - of supreme
sensuality in music, visions, and sacred lovemaking.

India, ruled by the son of great Akbar, is about to pass to one of his
sons. Hawksworth must choose sides, but will he choose right? The
future of England, and of India, depend on it. Assailed by intrigue
and assassination, tormented by a forbidden love, enthralled by a
mystic poet, Hawksworth engages war elephants, tiger hunts, the harem
of the Red Fort of Agra, the Rajput warriors at Udaipur, becomes
intimate champion to Shah Jahan, (builder of the Taj Mahal), and, in
his supreme test, plays the sitar with a touch that elicits from the
great Shah - "Finally, my English friend - you understand."

THE MOGHUL was immediately a European bestseller, optioned by Indian
producers who commissioned a six-hour mini-series, then Canadian
producers with the BBC.

























                             THE MOGHUL



A SWEEPING ADVENTURE THAT SWEPT THE CRITICS!

"IF YOU ENJOYED THE FAR PAVILIONS OR SHO-GUN, YOU SHOULD OBTAIN THOMAS
HOOVER'S NEW NOVEL ABOUT INDIA . . . ROBUST . . . ROUSING ...
ROLLICKING ADVENTURE . . . JUST ABOUT PERFECT'

--Fort Worth Star-Telegram

 "HIGH ACTION . . . SPRAWLING"

         --San Diego Union

"THOMAS HOOVER CAPTURES THE SOUNDS AND SMELLS AND ATMOSPHERE OF THE
TIME, FROM THE MYSTERIESOFTHE HAREM TOTHE BATTLES BETWEEN MASSED
ELEPHANTS"

          --Milwaukee Journal

"ROUSING"

            --Publishers Weekly

"GOOD ENTERTAINMENT ... I WOULD NOT HESITATE TO RECOMMEND THE MOGHUL TO
ANYONE WHO ENJOYS ROBUST HISTORICAL ADVENTURE AND ROMANCE"

              -- Omaha World-Herald

"PLENTY OF ACTION . . . FASCINATING ... A VIVIDLY TOLD TALE"

            -- Wichita Falls Times



BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER



Nonfiction

Zen Culture

The Zen Experience

Fiction

The Moghul

Caribbee

Wall Street Samurai

    (The Samurai Strategy)

Project Daedalus

Project Cyclops

Life Blood

Syndrome



All free as e-books at

www.thomashoover.info















ZEBRA BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 475 Park
Avenue South New York, N.Y. 10016

Copyright (C) 1983 by Thomas Hoover

Reprinted by arrangement with Doubleday & Co., Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher,
excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First Zebra Books printing: October 1984 Printed in the United States
of America



Key Words

Author: Thomas Hoover

Title: The Moghul

Moghul, India, Shah Jahan, British India, Taj Mahal, Portuguese India,
India, Shah Jahan, India History, Agra, Raj, Seventeenth-Century India













AUTHOR'S NOTE



This tale is offered to the memory of one William Hawkins (1575-1613),
a brandy-drinking, Turkish-speaking seaman and adventurer who was the
first Englishman to reach the court of Jahangir, the Great Moghul of
India. There he delivered gifts from the new East India Company and a
letter from King James proposing direct trade, then a zealously
protected monopoly of Portugal. As he gradually adopted Indian ways,
Hawkins became a court favorite of the Moghul, who made him a knightly
_khan _and eventually tried to keep him in India. After several
Portuguese-instigated attempts to murder him, Hawkins attached himself
for safety to a certain willful Indian woman. The end of their story
eventually became a minor legend throughout the early East India
Company.

As astonishing as some of the elements in the historical landscape
described here may seem today, they are all by and large fictional re-
creations of actual events, practices, people--drawn from diaries of
seventeenth-century European travelers and from Indian historical
materials. Aside from the names, only the clocks in this remote world
have been knowingly altered. Years in historical time have become
months in these pages, months have become days. Several vicious naval
engagements between English frigates and Portuguese galleons, several
major land battles between Indian armies, have each been compressed
into one.

But the major occurrences in this faraway saga all happened. While
Shakespeare wrote of commoners and kings, while colonists hewed log
cabins from the wilds of the New World, a land ruled by violent
intrigue, powerful drugs, and sensual beauty lay hidden in that
legendary place known as Moghul India.





BOOK ONE



LANDFALL



CHAPTER ONE



He watched from the quarterdeck as the chain fed through the whitecaps
of the bay, its staccato clatter muffled, hollow in the midday heat.
Then he sensed the anchor grab and felt an uneasy tremor pass along the
hull as the links snapped taut against the tide. The cannon were
already run in and cooling, but vagrant threads of smoke still traced
skyward through the scuttles and open hatch, curling ringlets over two
draped bodies by the mainmast. Along the main deck scurvy-blotched
seamen, haggard and shirtless to the sun, eased the wounded toward the
shade of the fo'c'sle.

He drew the last swallow of brandy from his hooped wooden tankard and
instinctively shifted his gaze aloft, squinting against the midday sun
to watch as two bosun's mates edged along the yards to furl the
mainsail. Then he turned to inspect the triangular lateen sail behind
him, parted into shreds by the first Portuguese cannon salvo, its
canvas now strewn among the mizzenmast shrouds.

A round of cheers told him the last two casks of salt pork had finally
emerged from the smoky hold, and he moved to the railing to watch as
they were rolled toward the cauldron boiling on deck. As he surveyed
the faces of the gathering men, he asked himself how many could still
chew the briny meat he had hoarded so carefully for this final morning
of the voyage.

The crowd parted as he moved down the companionway steps and onto the
deck. He was tall, with lines of fatigue etched down his angular face
and smoke residue laced through his unkempt hair and short beard. His
doublet was plain canvas, and his breeches and boots scarcely differed
from those of a common seaman. His only adornment was a small gold ring
in his left ear. Today he also wore a bloodstained binding around his
thigh, where a musket shot from a Portuguese maintop had furrowed the
skin.

He was Brian Hawksworth, captain of the five-hundred-ton English
frigate _Discovery _and Captain-General of the Third Voyage of
England's new East India Company. His commission, assigned in London
over seven months past, was to take two armed trading frigates around
the Cape of Good Hope, up the eastern coast of Africa, and then through
the Arabian Sea to the northwest coast of India. The Company had twice
before sailed eastward from the Cape, to the equatorial islands of the
Indies. No English vessel in history had ever sailed north for India.

The destination of this, the first English voyage to challenge Lisbon's
control of the India trade, was the port of Surat, twelve leagues
inland up the Tapti River, largest of the only two harbors on the
Indian subcontinent not controlled by Portugal.

He reached for the second tankard of brandy that had been brought and
squinted again toward the mouth of the Tapti, where four armed
Portuguese galleons had been anchored earlier that morning.

Damn the Company. No one planned on galleons at the river mouth. Not
now, not this early in the season. Did the Portugals somehow learn our
destination? . . . And if they knew that, do they know the rest of the
Company's plan?

Since the Tapti had been badly silted for decades, navigable only by
cargo barge or small craft, he and the merchants must travel upriver to
Surat by pinnace, the twenty-foot sailboat lashed amidships on the
_Discovery_'s main deck. There the merchants would try to negotiate
England's first direct trade with India. And Brian Hawksworth would
undertake a separate mission, one the East India Company hoped might
someday change the course of trade throughout the Indies.

He remounted the steps to the quarterdeck and paused to study the green
shoreline circling their inlet. The low-lying hills undulated in the
sun's heat, washing the _Discovery _in the dense perfume of land.
Already India beckoned, the lure even stronger than all the legends
told. He smiled to himself and drank again, this time a toast to the
first English captain ever to hoist colors off the coast of India.

Then with a weary hand he reached for the telescope, an expensive new
Dutch invention, and trained it on his second frigate, the _Resolve_,
anchored a musket shot away. Like the _Discovery_, she rode easily at
anchor, bearing to lee. He noted with relief that her ship's carpenter
had finally sealed a patch of oakum and sail in the gash along her
portside bow. For a few hours now, the men on the pumps could retire
from the sweltering hold.

Finally, he directed the glass toward the remains of two Portuguese
galleons aground in the sandy shallows off his starboard quarter, black
smoke still streaming from gaps in their planking where explosions had
ripped through the hull. And for an instant his stomach tightened, just
as it had earlier that morning, when one of those same galleons had
laid deep shadows across the _Discovery's _decks, so close he could
almost read the eyes of the infantry poised with grapples to swing down
and board. The Portugals will be back, he told himself, and soon. With
fireships.

He scanned the river mouth once more. It was deserted now. Even the
fishing craft had fled. But upriver would be another matter. Portuguese
longboats, launched with boarding parties of infantry, had been
stranded when the two galleons were lost. Together they had carried
easily a hundred, perhaps two hundred musketmen.

They made for the Tapti, he thought grimly, and they'll be upriver
waiting. We have to launch before they can set a blockade. Tonight. On
the tide.

He revolved to find Giles Mackintosh, quartermaster of the _Discovery_,
waiting mutely by his side.

"Mackintosh, start outfitting the pinnace. We launch at sunset, before
the last dog watch."

The quartermaster pulled at his matted red curls in silence as he
studied the tree-lined river mouth. Then he turned abruptly to
Hawksworth. "Takin' the pinnace upriver'll be a death sentence, Cap'n,
I warrant you. Portugals'll be layin' for us, thicker'n whores at a
Tyburn hangin'." He paused deliberately and knotted the string holding
back hair from his smoke-darkened cheeks. "I say we weigh at the tide
and ease the frigates straight up their hell-bound river. She's wide as
the Thames at Woolwich. We'll run out the guns and hand the pox-rotted
Papists another taste o' English courtesy."

"Can you navigate the sandbars?"

 "I've seen nae sign of bars."

"The Indian pilot we took on yesterday claims there's shallows
upriver."

"All the more reason to sail. By my thinkin' the pilot's a full-bred
Moor. An' they're all the same, Indian or Turk." Mackintosh blew his
nose over the railing, punctuating his disgust. "Show me one that's na
a liar, a thief, or a damned Sodomite. Nae honest Christian'll credit
the word of a Moor."

"There's risk either way." Hawksworth drew slowly on the brandy,
appearing to weigh the Scotsman's views. "But there's the cargo to
think of. Taken for all, it's got to be the pinnace. And this Moorish
pilot's not like the Turks. I should know."

"Aye, Cap'n, as you will." Mackintosh nodded with seeming reluctance,
admiring how Hawksworth had retained mastery of their old game. Even
after two years apart. "But I'll be watchin' the bastard, e'ery move he
makes."

Hawksworth turned and slowly descended the quarterdeck steps. As he
entered the passageway leading aft to the Great Cabin and the
merchants' cabins, he saw the silhouette of George Elkington. The Chief
Merchant of the voyage was standing by the quarter gallery railing,
drawing on a long clay pipe as he urinated into the swells. When he
spotted Hawksworth, he whirled and marched heavily down the corridor,
perfunctorily securing the single remaining button of his breeches.

Elkington's once-pink jowls were slack and pasty, and his grease-
stained doublet sagged over what had been, seven months past, a
luxuriant belly. Sweat trickled down from the sides of his large hat,
streaming oily rivulets across his cheeks.

"Hawksworth, did I hear you order the pinnace launch'd tonight? E'en
before we've made safe anchorage for the cargo?"

"The sooner the better. The Portugals know we'll have to go upriver. By
tomorrow they'll be ready."

"Your first obligation, sirrah, is the goods. Every shilling the
Company subscrib'd is cargo'd in these two damn'd merchantmen. A fine
fortune in wool broadcloth, Devonshire kersey, pig iron, tin,
quicksilver. I've a good ten thousand pound of my own accounts
invest'd. And you'd leave it all hove to in this piss crock of a bay,
whilst the Portugals are doubtless crewin' up a dozen two-deckers down
the coast in Goa. 'Tis sure they'll be laid full about this anchorage
inside a fortnight."

Hawksworth inspected Elkington with loathing, musing what he disliked
about him most--his grating voice, or his small lifeless eyes.

And what you probably don't realize is they'll be back next time with
trained gunners. Not like today, when their gun crews clearly were
Lisbon dockside rabble, private traders who'd earned passage out to the
Indies on the easy claim they were gunners, half not knowing a linstock
from a lamppost.

"Elkington, I'll tell you as much of our plans as befits your place."
Hawksworth moved past him toward the door of the Great Cabin. "We're
taking the pinnace upriver tonight on the tide. And you'll be in it,
along with your coxcomb clerk. Captain Kerridge of the _Resolve_ will
take command of the ships. I've already prepared orders to move both
frigates to a new anchorage."

"I demand to know what damn'd fool scheme you've hatch'd."

"There's no reason you have to know. Right now the fewer who know the
better, particularly the men going upriver."

"Well, I know this much, Hawksworth. This voyage to India may well be
the East India Company's last chance to trade in the Indies. If we fail
three voyages in a row, we'd as well close down the Company and just
buy pepper and spice outright from the damn'd Hollanders. England's got
no goods that'll trade in the Spice Islands south o' here. Remember
Lancaster cargo'd wool down to the islands on the first two Company
voyages, thinkin' to swap it for pepper, and discover'd for himself
what I'd guess'd all along--a tribe of heathens sweatin' in the sun have
no call for woolen breeches. So either we trade up here in the north,
where they'll take wool, or we're finish'd."

"The anchorage I've found should keep the cargo--and the men--safe till
we make Surat. With luck you'll have your cargo aland before the
Portugals locate us." Hawksworth pushed open the heavy oak door of the
Great Cabin and entered, stranding Elkington in the passageway. "And
now I wish you good day."

The cabin's dark overhead beams were musty from the heat and its air
still dense with smoke from the cannon. The stern windows were partly
blocked now by the two bronze demi-culverin that had been run out aft,
"stern-chaser" cannon that could spit a nine-pound ball with deadly
accuracy--their lighter bronze permitting longer barrels than those of
the cast-iron guns below decks. He strode directly to the oil lantern
swaying over the great center desk and turned up the wick. The cabin
brightened slightly, but the face of the English lute wedged in the
corner seemed suddenly to come alive, shining gold over the cramped
quarters like a full moon. He stared at it wistfully for a moment, then
shook his head and settled himself behind the large oak desk. And asked
himself once more why he had ever agreed to the voyage.

To prove something? To the Company? To himself?

He reflected again on how it had come about, and why he had finally
accepted the Company's offer. . . .

It had been a dull morning in late October, the kind of day when all
London seems trapped in an icy gloom creeping up from the Thames. His
weekly lodgings were frigid as always, and his mind was still numb from
the previous night's tavern brandy. Back from Tunis scarcely a month,
he already had nothing left to pawn. Two years before, he had been
leading a convoy of merchantmen through the Mediterranean when their
ships and cargo were seized by Turkish corsairs, galleys owned by the
notorious _dey _of Tunis. He had finally managed to get back to London,
but now he was a captain without a ship. In years past this might have
been small matter to remedy. But no longer. England, he discovered, had
changed.

The change was apparent mainly to seamen. The lower house of Parliament
was still preoccupied fighting King James's new proposal that Scotland
be joined to England, viewed by most Englishmen as a sufferance of
proud beggars and ruffians upon a nation of uniformly upright
taxpayers; in London idle crowds still swarmed the bear gardens to
wager on the huge mastiffs pitted against the chained bears; rioting
tenant farmers continued to outrage propertied men by tearing down
enclosures and grazing their flocks on the gentry's private hunting
estates; and the new Puritans increasingly harassed everyone they
disapproved of, from clerics who wore vestments to women who wore
cosmetics to children who would play ball on Sunday.

Around London more talk turned on which handsome young courtier was the
latest favorite of their effeminate new king than on His Majesty's
enforcement of his new and strict decree forbidding privateering--the
staple occupation of England seamen for the last three decades of
Elizabeth's reign. King James had cravenly signed a treaty of peace
with Spain, and by that act brought ruin to half a hundred thousand
English "sea dogs." They awoke to discover their historic livelihood,
legally plundering the shipping of Spain and Portugal under wartime
letters of marque, had become a criminal offense.

For a captain without a ship, another commission by a trading company
seemed out of the question, and especially now, with experienced seamen
standing idle the length of London. Worst of all, the woman he had
hoped to return to, red-haired Maggie Tyne of Billingsgate, had
disappeared from her old lodgings and haunts leaving no trace. Rumor
had her married--some said to the master of a Newcastle coal barge,
others to a gentleman. London seemed empty now, and he passed the
vacant days with brandy and his lute, and thoughts of quitting the sea--
to do he knew not what.

Then in that cold early dawn appeared the letter, requesting his
immediate appearance at the Director's Office of the East India
Company, should this coincide with his convenience. He found its tone
ominous. Was some merchant planning to have him jailed for his loss of
cargo to the Turks? But he'd been sailing for the Levant Company, not
the East India Company. He debated with himself all morning, and
finally decided to go. And face the mercantile bastards.

The new offices of the Company already seemed embalmed in the smell of
lamp oil and sweat, their freshly painted wood timbers masked in dull
soot. A stale odor of ink, paper, and arid commerce assailed his senses
as he was announced and ushered through the heavy oak door of the
Director's suite.

And he was astonished by what awaited. Standing hard by the Director's
desk--was Maggie. He'd searched the length of London in vain for her,
and here she was. But he almost didn't recognize her. Their two years
apart had brought a change beyond anything he could have imagined.

No one would have guessed what she once had been, a dockside girl
happiest at the Southwark bear-gardens, or in a goose-down bed. And
somehow she had always managed to turn a shilling at both--wagering with
a practiced eye on the snarling dogs brought in to bloody the bears, or
taking her pleasure only after deftly extracting some loan, to allay an
urgent need she inevitably remembered the moment she entered his
lodgings.

That morning, however, she reigned like an exotic flower, flourishing
amid the mercantile gloom. She was dressed and painted in the very
latest upper-class style--her red hair now bleached deep yellow,
sprinkled thick with gold dust, and buried under a feathered hat; her
crushed-velvet bodice low-necked, cut fashionably just below the
nipples, then tied at the neck with a silk lace ruff; her once-ruddy
breasts now painted pale, with blue veins penciled in; and her face
carefully powdered lead-white, save the red dye on her lips and cheeks
and the glued-on beauty patches of stars and half-moons. His dockside
girl had become a completely modern lady of fashion. He watched in
disbelief as she curtsied to him, awkwardly.

Then he noticed Sir Randolph Spencer, Director of the Company.

"Captain Hawksworth. So you're the man we've heard so much about?
Understand you escaped from Tunis under the very nose of the damned
Turks." He extended a manicured hand while he braced himself on the
silver knob of his cane. Although Spencer's flowing hair was pure
white, his face still clung tenuously to youth. His doublet was
expensive, and in the new longer waist-length style Hawksworth
remembered seeing on young men-about-town. "'Tis indeed a pleasure.
Nay, 'tis an honor." The tone was practiced and polite, a transparent
attempt at sincerity rendered difficult by Hawksworth's ragged
appearance. He had listened to Spencer mutely, suddenly realizing his
loss of cargo had been forgotten. He was being congratulated for coming
back alive.

"'Twas the wife, Margaret here, set me thinkin' about you. Says you two
were lightly acquainted in younger years. Pity I never knew her then
myself." Spencer motioned him toward a carved wooden chair facing the
desk. "She ask'd to be here today to help me welcome you. Uncommonly
winsome lady, what say?"

Hawksworth looked at Maggie's gloating eyes and felt his heart turn. It
was obvious enough she'd found her price. At last she had what she'd
always really wanted, a rich widower. But why trouble to flaunt it?

He suspected he already knew. She simply couldn't resist.

"Now I pride myself on being a sound judge of humanity, Hawksworth, and
I've made sufficient inquiry to know you can work a ship with the best.
So I'll come right to it. I suppose 'tis common talk the Company's
dispatchin' another voyage down to the Indies this comin' spring. Soon
as our new frigate, the _Discovery_, is out of the yard. And this time
our first port of call's to be India." Spencer caught Hawksworth's
look, without realizing it was directed past him, at Maggie. "Aye, I
know. We all know. The damned Portugals've been there a hundred year,
thick as flies on pudding. But by Jesus we've no choice but to try
openin' India to English trade."

Spencer had paused and examined Hawksworth skeptically. A process of
sizing up seemed underway, of pondering whether this shipless captain
with the bloodshot eyes and gold earring was really the man. He looked
down and inspected his manicured nails for a long moment, then
continued.

"Now what I'm about to tell you mustn't go past this room. But first
let me ask you, Is everything I've heard about you true? 'Tis said the
_dey _of Tunis held you there after he took your merchantmen, in hopes
you'd teach his damned Turks how to use the English cannon you had on
board."

"He's started building sailing bottoms now, thinking he'll replace the
galleys his Turkish pirates have used for so long. His shipwrights are
some English privateers who've relocated in Tunis to escape prison
here. And he was planning to outfit his new sailing ships with my
cannon. He claims English cast-iron culverin are the best in the
world."

"God damn the Barbary Turks. And the Englishmen who've started helping
them." Spencer bristled. "Next thing and they'll be out past Gibraltar,
pillaging our shipping right up the Thames. But I understand you
revised his plans."

"The Turks don't have any more cannon now than they had two years ago.
When I refused to help them, they put me in prison, under guard. But
one night I managed to knife two of the guards and slip down to the
yard. I worked till dawn and had the guns spiked before anybody
realized I was gone."

"And I hear you next stole a single-masted shallop and sail'd the
length of the Barbary coast alone, right up to Gibraltar, where you
hailed an English merchantman?"

"Didn't seem much point in staying on after that."

"You're the man all right. Now, 'tis said you learn'd the language of
the Turks while you were in Tunis. Well, sirrah, answer me now, can you
speak it or no?"

"For two years I scarcely heard a word of English. But what's that to
do with trade in India? From what I know, you'll need a few merchants
who speak Portuguese. And plenty of English . . ."

"Hear me out, sir. If all I wanted was to anchor a cargo of English
goods and pull off some trade for a season, I'd not be

needin' a man like you. But let me tell you a thing or so about India.
The rulers there now are named Moghuls. They used to be called Mongols,
Turkish-Afghans from Turkistan, before they took over India about a
hundred years back, and their king, the one they call the Great Moghul,
still speaks some Turki, the language of the Central Asian steppes. Now
I'm told this Turki bears fair resemblance to the language of the
damned Turks in the Mediterranean." Spencer assumed a conspiratorial
smile. "I've a plan in mind, but it needs a man who speaks this Great
Moghul's language."

Hawksworth suddenly realized Maggie must have somehow convinced Spencer
he was the only seaman in England who knew Turkish. It could scarcely
be true.

"Now I ask you, Hawksworth, what's the purpose of the East India
Company? Well, 'tis to trade wool for pepper and spice, simple as that.
To find a market for English commodity, mainly wool. And to ship home
with cheap pepper. Now we can buy all the pepper we like down in Java
and Sumatra, but they'll not take wool in trade. And if we keep on
buying there with gold, there'll never be a farthing's profit in our
voyages to the Indies. By the same token, we're sure these Moghuls in
North India will take wool. They already buy it from the damned
Portugals. But they don't grow pepper." Spencer leaned forward and his
look darkened slightly. "The hard fact is the East India Company's not
done nearly as well as our subscribers hoped. But now the idea's come
along--I hate to admit 'twas George Elkington first thought of it--that
we try swappin' wool for the cotton goods they produce in North India,
then ship these south and trade for pepper and spice. Indian traders
have sold their cotton calicoes in the Spice Islands for years. Do you
follow the strategy?"

Spencer had scrutinized Hawksworth for a moment, puzzling at his flash
of anger when Elkington's name was mentioned, then pressed forward.

"Overall not a bad idea, considerin' it came from Elkington." Then
Spencer dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "But what he doesn't
understand is if we're goin' to start tradin' in India, we'll need a
real treaty, like the Hollanders have down in some of the islands.
Because once you've got a treaty, you can settle a permanent trading
station, what we call a 'factory,' and bargain year round. Buy when
prices are best."

Hawksworth sensed the interview would not be short, and he settled
uneasily into the chair. Maggie still stood erect and formal, affecting
a dignity more studied than natural. As Spencer warmed to his subject
he seemed to have forgotten her.

"Now, sir, once we have a factory we can start sending in a few cannon--
to 'protect our merchants,' like the Hollanders do in the islands--and
soon enough we've got the locals edgy. Handle it right and pretty soon
they'll sign over exclusive trade. No more competition." Spencer smiled
again in private satisfaction. "Are you startin' to follow my
thinkin'?"

"What you've described is the very arrangement the Portugals have in
India now." Hawksworth tried to appear attentive, but he couldn't keep
his eyes off Maggie, who stood behind Spencer wearing a triumphant
smile. "And they've got plenty of cannon and sail to make sure their
trade's exclusive."

"We know all about the Portugals' fleet of warships, and their
shipyards in Goa, and all the rest. But these things always take time.
Took the Portugals many a year to get their hooks into India's ports.
But their days are numbered there, Hawksworth. The whole Eastern empire
of the Portugals is rotten. I can almost smell it. But if we dally
about, the damned Hollanders are sure to move in." Spencer had become
increasingly excited, and Hawksworth watched as he began pacing about
the room.

"Well, if you're saying you want a treaty, why not just send an
ambassador to the Great Moghul's court?"

"Damn me, Hawksworth, it's not that easy. We send some dandified gentry
who doesn't know the language, and he'll end up havin' to do all his
talkin' through court interpreters. And who might they be? Well let me
just show you, sirrah." Spencer began to shuffle impatiently through
the papers on his desk. "They're Jesuits. Damned Jesuits. Papists
straight out o' Lisbon. We know for a fact they do all the translatin'
for the court in Agra." He paused as he rummaged the stacks in front of
him. "We've just got hold of some Jesuit letters. Sent out from the
Moghul capital at Agra, through Goa, intended for Lison. They'll tell
you plain enough what the Company's up against." His search became
increasingly frenetic. "Damn me, they were here." He rose and shuffled
toward the door, waving his cane in nervous agitation. "Hold a minute."

Hawksworth had watched him disappear through the doorway, then looked
back to see Maggie laughing. She retrieved a leather-bound packet from
the mantel and tossed it carelessly onto the desk. He found himself
watching her in admiration, realizing some things never change.

"What the hell's this about?"

She smiled and her voice was like always. "Methinks 'tis plain enough."

"You want me gone from London this badly?"

"He takes care o' me. At least he loves me. Something you were ne'er
capable of."

"And what were you capable of? All you wanted was . . ."

"I . . ." She looked away. "I know he'll give me what you ne'er would.
At least he has feelin' for me. More than you e'er did. Or could." Then
she turned back and looked at him for a long moment. "Say you'll go.
Knowin' you're still. . ."

"Damn it all!" Spencer burst back through the doorway. Then he spied
the leather packet. "That's it." He seized the bundle and thrust it
toward Hawksworth. "Read these through, sirrah, and you'll see clear
enough what we're up against. There's absolutely no point whatever in
postin' a real ambassador now." He hesitated for a moment, as though
unsure how to phrase his next point. "The most amazing thing is what
they say about the Great Moghul himself, the one they call Arangbar.
The Jesuits claim the man's scarcely ever sober. Seems he lives on some
kind of poppy sap they call opium, and on wine. He's a Moor sure
enough, but he drinks like a Christian, downs a full gallon of wine a
day. E'en holds audiences with a flagon in his hand. From the letters I
can sense the Jesuits all marvel how the damned heathen does it, but
they swear 'tis true. No, sirrah, we can't send some fancy-titled
ambassador now. That's later. We want a man of quality, it goes without
sayin', but he's got to be able to drink with that damned Moor and
parlay with him in his cups. No Jesuit interpreters."

Hawksworth steadied his hand on the carved arm of the chair, still
amazed by Maggie. "What will your subscribers think about sending the
captain of a merchantman to the court of Moghul India?"

"Never you mind the subscribers. Just tell me if you'd consider it.
T'will be a hard voyage, and a perilous trip inland once you make
landfall. But you sail'd the Mediterranean half a decade, and you know
enough about the Turks." Spencer tapped his fingers impatiently on his
ink-stained blotter. "And lest you're worried, have no doubt the
Company knows how to reward success."

Hawksworth looked again at Maggie. Her blue eyes were mute as stone.

"To tell the truth, I'm not sure I'm interested in a voyage to India.
George Elkington might be able to tell you the reason why. Have you
told me all of it?"

"Damn Elkington. What's he to do with this?" Spencer stopped in front
of the desk and fixed Hawksworth's gaze. "Aye, there's more. But what
I'm about to tell you now absolutely has to remain between us. So have
I your word?"

Hawksworth found himself nodding.

"Very well, sir. Then I'll give you the rest. His Majesty, King James,
is sending a personal letter to be delivered to this Great Moghul. And
gifts. All the usual diplomatic falderal these potentates expect. You'd
deliver the whole affair. Now the letter'll offer full and free trade
between England and India, nothing more. Won't mention the Portugals.
That'll come later. This is just the beginning. For now all we want is
a treaty to trade alongside the damned Papists. Break their monopoly."

"But why all the secrecy?"

"'Tis plain as a pikestaff, sirrah. The fewer know what we're plannin',
the less chance of word gettin' out to the Portugals, or the
Hollanders. Let the Papists and the Butterboxes look to their affairs
after we have a treaty. Remember the Portugals are swarmin' about the
Moghul's court, audiences every day. Not to mention a fleet of warships
holdin' the entire coast. And if they spy your colors, they're not apt
to welcome you aland for roast capon and grog."

"Who else knows about this?"

"Nobody. Least of all that windbag Elkington, who'd have it talk'd the
length of Cheapside in a fortnight. He'll be on the voyage, I regret to
say, but just as Chief Merchant. Which is all he's fit for, though I'd
warrant he presumes otherwise."

"I'd like a few days to think about it." Hawksworth looked again at
Maggie, still disbelieving. "First I'd like to see the _Discovery_. And
I'd also like to see your navigation charts for the Indian Ocean. I've
seen plenty of logs down to the Cape, and east, but nothing north from
there."

"And with good reason. We've got no rutters north of the Cape. No
English sea dog's ever sail'd it. But I've made some inquiries, and I
think I've located a salt here who shipp'd it once, a long time past. A
Dutchman named Huyghen. The truth is he was born and rais'd right here
in London. He started out a Papist and when things got a bit hot in
England back around time of the Armada he left for Holland. E'en took a
Dutch name. Next he mov'd on down to Portugal thinkin' to be a Jesuit,
then shipp'd out to Goa and round the Indies. But he got a bellyfull of
popery soon enough, and came back to Amsterdam. Some years later he
help'd out their merchants by tellin' them exactly how the Portugals
navigate the passage round the Cape and out. The Hollanders say hadn't
been for the maps he drew up, they'd never have been able to double the
Cape in the first place. But he's back in London now, and we've track'd
him down. I understand he may've gone a bit daft, but perhaps 'twould
do no harm if you spoke to him."

"And what about the _Discovery_? I want to see her too."

"That you will, sir. She's in our shipyard down at Deptford. Might be
well if I just had Huyghen see you there. By all means look her over."
He beamed. "And a lovelier sight you're ne'er like to meet." Then,
remembering himself, he quickly turned aside. "Unless, of course,
'twould be my Margaret here." . . .

As agreed, Hawksworth was taken to Deptford the next day, the Company's
carriage inching through London's teeming streets for what seemed a
lifetime. His first sight of the shipyard was a confused tangle of
planking, ropes, and workmen, but he knew at a glance the _Discovery_
was destined to be handsome. The keel had been laid weeks before, and
he could already tell her fo'c'sle would be low and rakish. She was a
hundred and thirty feet from the red lion of her beakhead to the
taffrail at her stern--where gilding already was being applied to the
ornate quarter galleries. She was five hundred tons burden, each ton
some six hundred cubic feet of cargo space, and she would carry a
hundred and twenty men when fully crewed. Over her swarmed an army of
carpenters, painters, coopers, riggers, and joiners, while skilled
artisans were busy attaching newly gilded sculptures to her bow and
stern.

That day they were completing the installation of the hull chain-plates
that would secure deadeyes for the shrouds, and he moved closer to
watch. Stories had circulated the docks that less than a month into the
Company's last voyage the mainmast yard of a vessel had split, and the
shipbuilder, William Benten, and his foreman, Edward Chandler, had
narrowly escaped charges of lining their pockets by substituting cheap,
uncured wood.

He noticed that barrels of beer had been stationed around the yard for
the workmen, to blunt the lure of nearby alehouses, and as he stood
watching he saw Chandler seize a grizzled old bystander who had helped
himself to a tot of beer and begin forcibly evicting him from the yard.
As they passed, he heard the old man--clad in a worn leather jerkin, his
face ravaged by decades of salt wind and hard drink-- reviling the
Company.

"What does the rottin' East India Company know o' the Indies. You'll
ne'er double the Cape in that pissin' shallop. 'Twould scarce serve to
ferry the Thames." The old man struggled weakly to loosen Chandler's
grasp on his jerkin. "But I can tell you th' Portugals've got carracks
that'll do it full easy, thousand-ton bottoms that'd hold this skiff in
the orlop deck and leave air for a hundred barrel o' biscuit. An' I've
shipped 'em. By all the saints, where's the man standin' that knows the
Indies better?"

Hawksworth realized he must be Huyghen. He intercepted him at the edge
of the yard and invited him to a tavern, but the old Englishman-turned-
Dutchman bitterly declined.

"I'll ha' none o' your fancy taverns, lad, aswarm wi' pox-faced gentry
fingerin' their meat pies. They'll ne'er take in the likes o' me." Then
he examined Hawksworth and flashed a toothless grin. "But there's an
alehouse right down the way where a man wi' salt in his veins can still
taste a drop in peace."

They went and Hawksworth had ordered the first round. When the tankards
arrived, Huyghen attacked his thirstily, maintaining a cynical silence
as Hawksworth began describing the Company's planned voyage, then asked
him what he knew of the passage east and north of the Cape. As soon as
his first tankard was dry, the old man spoke.

"Aye, I made the passage once, wi' Portugals. Back in'83. To Goa. An'
I've been to the Indies many a time since, wi' Dutchmen. But ne'er
again to that pissin' sinkhole."

"But what about the passage north, through the Indian Ocean?"

"I'll tell you this, lad, 'tis a sight different from shootin' down to
Java, like the Company's done before. 'Tis the roughest passage you're
e'er like to ship. Portugals post bottoms twice the burden o' the
Company's damn'd little frigates and still lose a hundred men e'ery
voyage out. When scurvy don't take 'em all. E'en the Dutchmen are
scared o' it."

Then Huyghen returned to his stories of Goa. Something in the
experience seemed to preoccupy his mind. Hawksworth found the
digression irritating, and he impatiently pressed forward.

"But what about the passage? How do they steer north

from the Cape? The Company has no charts, no rutters by pilots who've
made the passage."

"An' how could they?" Huyghen evaluated Hawksworth's purse lying on the
wooden table and discreetly signaled another round. "The Portugals know
the trick, lad, but you'll ne'er find one o' the whoremasters who'll
give it out."

"But is there a trade wind you can ride? Like the westerly to the
Americas?"

"Nothin' o' the sort, lad. But there's a wind sure enough. Only she
shifts about month by month. Give me that chart an' I'll show you."
Huyghen stretched for the parchment Hawksworth had brought, the new Map
of the World published by John Davis in 1600. He spread it over the
table, oblivious to the grease and encrusted ale, and stared at it for
a moment in groggy disbelief. Then he turned on Hawksworth. "Who drew
up this map?"

"It was assembled by an English navigator, from charts he made on his
voyages."

"He's the lyin' son of a Spaniard's whore. I made this chart o' the
Indies wi' my own hand, years ago, for the Dutchmen. But what's the
difference? He copied it right." Huyghen spat on the floor and then
stabbed the east coast of Africa with a stubby finger. "Now you come
out o' the Mozambique Channel and into the Indian Ocean too early in
the summer, and you'll be the only bottom fool enough to be out o'
port. The monsoon'll batter you to plankin'. Get there too late, say
past the middle o' September, and you're fightin' a head wind all the
way. She's already turn'd on you. But come north round by Sokatra near
the end o' August and you'll ride a steady gale right into North India.
That's the tail o' the monsoon, lad, just before the winds switch
about. Two weeks, three at most, that's all you'll get. But steer it
true an' you'll make landfall just as India's ports reopen for the
autumn tradin' season."

Huyghen's voice trailed off as he morosely inspected the bottom of his
tankard. Hawksworth motioned for a third round, and as the old man drew
on the ale his eyes mellowed.

"Aye, you might make it. There's a look about you tells me you can work
a ship. But why would you want to be goin'?

T'will swallow you up, lad. I've only been to Goa, mind you, down on
India's west coastline, but that was near enough. I ne'er saw a man
come back once he went in India proper. Somethin' about it keeps 'em
there. Portugals says she always changes a man. He loses touch wi' what
he was. Nothin' we know about counts for anything there, lad."

"What do you mean? How different could it be? I saw plenty of Moors in
Tunis."

Huyghen laughed bitterly. "If you're thinkin' 'tis the same as Tunis,
then you're e'en a bigger fool than I took you for. Nay, lad, the Moor
part's the very least o' it." He drew on his tankard slowly,
deliberately. "I've thought on't a considerable time, an' I think I've
decipher'd what 'tis. But 'tis not a thing easy to spell out."

Huyghen was beginning to drift now, his eyes glazed in warm
forgetfulness from the ale. But still he continued. "You know, lad, I
actually saw some Englishmen go into India once before. Back in '83.
Year I was in Goa. An' they were ne'er heard from since."

Hawksworth stared at the old man a moment, and suddenly the name
clicked, and the date--1583. Huyghen must have been the Dutch Catholic,
the one said to speak fluent English, who'd intervened for the English
scouting party imprisoned in Goa that year by the Portuguese. He tried
to still his pulse.

"Do you remember the Englishmen's names?"

"Seem to recall they were led by a man nam'd Symmes. But 'twas a long
time past, lad. Aye, Goa was quite the place then. Lucky I escap'd when
I did. E'en there, you stay awhile an' somethin' starts to hold you.
Too much o' India about the place. After a while all this"--Huyghen
gestured fondly about the alehouse, where sweat-soaked laborers and
seamen were drinking, quarreling, swearing as they bargained with a
scattering of weary prostitutes in dirty, tattered shifts--"all this
seems . . ." He took a deep draft of ale, attempting vainly to
formulate his thoughts. "I've ne'er been one wi' words. But don't do
it, lad. You go in, go all the way in to India, an' I'll wager you'll
ne'er be heard from more. I've seen it happen."

Hawksworth listened as Huyghen continued, his stories of the Indies a
mixture of ale and dreams. After a time he signaled another round for
them both. It was many empty tankards later when they parted.

But Huyghen's words stayed. And that night Brian Hawksworth walked
alone on the quay beside the Thames, bundled against the wet autumn
wind, and watched the ferry lanterns ply through the fog and heard the
muffled harangues of streetwalkers and cabmen from the muddy street
above. He thought about Huyghen, and about the man named Roger Symmes,
and about the voyage to India.

And he thought too about Maggie, who wanted him out of London before
her rich widower discovered the truth. Or before she admitted the truth
to herself. But either way it no longer seemed to matter.

That night he decided to accept the commission. . . .

The _Discovery _rolled heavily and Hawksworth glanced instinctively
toward the pulley lines that secured the two bronze cannon. Then he
remembered why he had left the quarterdeck, and he unlocked the top
drawer of the desk and removed the ship's log. He leafed one more time
through its pages, admiring his own script--strong but with an
occasional flourish.

Someday this could be the most valuable book in England, he told
himself. If we return. This will be the first log in England to
describe what the voyage to India is really like. The Company will have
a full account of the weather and sea, recorded by estimated longitude,
the distance traveled east.

He congratulated himself again on the care with which he had taken
their daily speed and used it to estimate longitude every morning since
the Cape, the last location where it was known exactly. And as he
studied the pages of the log, he realized how exact Huyghen's
prediction had been. The old man had been eerily correct about the
winds and the sea. They had caught the "tail o' the monsoon" precisely.

"August 27. Course N.E. ft E.; The wind at W.S., with gusts and rain.
Made 36 leagues today. Estimated longitude from the Cape 42 deg. 50' E.

"August 28. Course N.E.; The wind at west, a fresh gale, with gusts and
rain this 24 hours. Leagues 35. Estimated longitude from the Cape, 44 deg.
10' E."

The late August westerly Huyghen had foretold was carrying them a good
hundred land miles a day. They rode the monsoon's tail, and it was
still angry, but there was no longer a question that English frigates
could weather the passage.

As August drew to a close, however, scurvy had finally grown epidemic
on his sister ship, the _Resolve_. The men's teeth loosened, their gums
bled, and they began to complain of aching and burning in their limbs.
It was all the more tragic for the fact that this timeless scourge of
ocean travelers might at long last be preventable. Lancaster, on the
very first voyage of the East India Company, had stumbled onto an
historic _Discovery_. As a test, he'd shipped bottles of the juice of
lemons on his flagship and ordered every seaman to take three spoonfuls
a day. And his had been the only vessel of the three to withstand
scurvy.

Hawksworth had argued with Captain Kerridge of the _Resolve_, insisting
they both stow lemon juice as a preventative. But Kerridge had always
resented Lancaster, particularly the fact he'd been knighted on return
from a voyage that showed almost no profit. He refused to credit
Lancaster's findings.

"No connection. By my thinkin' Lancaster just had a run o' sea-dog
luck. Then he goes about claimin' salt meat brings on the scurvy. A
pack o' damn'd foolishness. I say salt meat's fine for the lads. Boil
it up with a mess o' dried peas and I'll have it myself. The _Resolve'
_ll be provision'd like always. Sea biscuit, salt pork, Hollander
cheese. Any fool knows scurvy comes from men sleepin' in the night dews
off the sea. Secure your gunports by night and you'll ne'er see the
damn'd scurvy."

Hawksworth had suspected Kerridge's real reason was the cost: lemon
juice was imported and expensive. When the Company rejected his own
request for an allowance, he had provisioned the _Discovery _out of his
own advance. Kerridge

had called him a fool. And when they sailed in late February, the
_Resolve_ was unprovided.

Just as Hawksworth had feared, the _Resolve's _crew had been plagued by
scurvy throughout the voyage, even though both vessels had put in for
fresh provisions at Zanzibar in late June. Six weeks ago, he had had no
choice but to order half his own remaining store of lemon juice
transferred to the sister ship, even though this meant reducing the
_Discovery_'s ration to a spoon a day, not enough.

By the first week of September, they were so near India they could
almost smell land, but he dared not try for landfall. Not yet. Not
without an Indian pilot to guide them past the notorious sandbars and
shoals that lined the coast like giant submerged claws. The monsoon
winds were dying. Indian shipping surely would begin soon. So they hove
to, waiting.

And as they waited, they watched the last kegs of water choke with
green slime, the wax candles melt in the heat, and the remaining
biscuit all but disappear to weevils. Hungry seamen set a price on the
rats that ran the shrouds. How long could they last?

Hawksworth reached the last entry in the log. Yesterday. The day they
had waited for.

"Sept. 12. Laid by the lee. Estimated longitude from the Cape, 50 deg. 10'
E. Latitude observed 20 deg.30'. At 7 in the morning we command a large
ship from the country to heave to, by shooting four pieces across her
bow. Took from this ship an Indian pilot, paying in Spanish rials of
eight. First offered English gold sovereigns, but these refused as
unknown coin. Also purchased 6 casks water, some baskets lemons,
melons, plantains."

The provisions had scarcely lasted out the day, spread over twice a
hundred hungry seamen. But with a pilot they could at last make
landfall.

And landfall they had made, at a terrible price. Yet even this
anchorage could not be kept. It was too exposed and vulnerable. He had
expected it to be so, and he had been right. But he also knew where
they might find safety.

The previous night he had ordered the Indian pilot to sketch a chart of
the coastline on both sides of the Tapti River delta. He did not tell
him why. And on the map he had spotted a cove five leagues to the
north, called Swalley, that looked to be shallow and was also shielded
by hills screening it from the sea. Even if the Portuguese discovered
them, the deep draft of Portuguese galleons would hold them at sea. The
most they could do would be send boarding parties by pinnace, or
fireships. The cove would buy time, time to replenish stores, perhaps
even to set the men ashore and attend the sick. The longer the
anchorage could be kept secret, the better their chances. He had
already prepared sealed orders for Captain Kerridge, directing him to
steer both frigates there after dark, when their movement could not be
followed by the hidden eyes along the coast.

He took a deep breath and flipped forward to a blank page in the log.

And realized this was the moment he had been dreading, been postponing:
the last entry for the voyage out. Perhaps his last ever--if events in
India turned against him. He swabbed more sweat from his face and
glanced one last time at the glistening face of the lute, wondering
what he would be doing now, at this moment, if he still were in London,
penniless but on his own.

Then he wiped off the quill lying neatly alongside the leather-bound
volume, inked it, and shoved back the sleeve of his doublet to write.




CHAPTER TWO


The events of that morning were almost too improbable to be
described. After taking on the Indian pilot, Hawksworth's plan had been
to make landfall immediately, then launch a pinnace for Surat, there to
negotiate trade for their goods and safe conduct to the capital at Agra
for himself. If things went as planned, the goods would be exchanged
and he would be on his way to the Moghul capital long before word of
their arrival could reach Goa and the Portuguese.

The pilot's worth was never in question. A practiced seaman, he had
steered them easily through the uncharted currents and hidden swallows
of the bay. They had plotted a course directly east-north-east, running
with topgallants on the night breeze, to make dawn anchorage at the
mouth of the Tapti River. Through the night the _Resolve_ had stayed
with them handily, steering by their stem lantern.

When the first light broke in the east, hard and sudden, there it lay--
the coast of India, the landfall, the sight they had waited for the
long seven months. Amid the cheers he had ordered their colors hoisted--
the red cross, bordered in white, on a field of blue--the first English
flag ever to fly off India's coast.

But as the flag snapped its way along the poop staff, and the men
struck up a hornpipe on deck, their triumph suddenly was severed by a
cry from the maintop.

"Sails off the starboard quarter."

In the sudden hush that rolled across the ship like a shroud, freezing
the tumult of voice and foot, Hawksworth had charged up the
companionway to the quarterdeck. And there, while the masts tuned a
melancholy dirge, he had studied the ships in disbelief with his glass.

Four galleons anchored at the river mouth. Portuguese men-of-war. Each
easily a thousand ton, twice the size of the _Discovery_.

He had sorted quickly through his options. Strike sail and heave to, on
the odds they may leave? It was too late. Run up Portuguese colors, the
old privateers' ruse, and possibly catch them by surprise? Unlikely.
Come about and run for open sea? Never. That's never an English
seadog's way. No, keep to windward and engage. Here in the bay.

"Mackintosh!" Hawksworth turned to see the quartermaster already poised
expectantly on the main deck. "Order Malloyre to draw up the gunports.
Have the sails wet down and see the cookroom fire is out."

"Aye, sir. This'll be a bloody one."

"What counts is who bleeds most. Get every able man

on station."

As Hawksworth turned to check the whipstaff, the long wooden lever that
guided the ship's rudder, he passingly noted that curious conflict of
body sensation he remembered from two encounters in years past: once,
when on the Amsterdam run he had seen privateers suddenly loom off the
coast of Scotland, and then on his last voyage through the
Mediterranean, when his convoy first spotted the Turkish pirate
galleys. While his mind calculated the elements of a strategy, coolly
refining each individual detail, his stomach belied his rational facade
and knotted in instinctive, primal fear. And he had asked himself
whether this day his mind or his body would prevail. The odds were very
bad, even if they could keep the wind. And if the Portuguese had
trained gun crews . . .

Then he spotted the Indian pilot, leaning casually against the steering
house, his face expressionless. He wore a tiny moustache and long,
trimmed sideburns. And unlike the English seamen, all barefoot and
naked to the waist, he was still dressed formally, just as when he came
aboard. A fresh turban of white cotton, embroidered in a delicate
brown, was secured neatly about the crown of his head, exposing his
long ears and small, jeweled earrings. A spotless yellow cloak covered
the waist of his tightly tailored blue trousers.

Damn him. Did he somehow know? Did he steer us into a trap?

Seeming to read Hawksworth's thoughts, the pilot broke the silence
between them, his Turki heavily accented with his native Gujarati.

"This is your first test. Officers of the Moghul's army are doubtless
at the shore, observing. What will you do?"

"What do you think we'll do? We'll stand the bastards. And with
Malloyre's gunners I think we can . . ."

"Then permit me an observation. A modest thought, but possibly useful.
Do you see, there"--he pulled erect and pointed toward the shore--"hard
by the galleons, there where the seabirds swirl in a dark cloud? That
is the river mouth. And on either side are many sandbars, borne there
from the river's delta. Along the coast beyond these, though you cannot
see them now, are channels, too shallow for the draft of a galleon but
perhaps safe for these frigates. Reach them and you will be beyond
range of all Portuguese ordnance save their stern demi-culverin. Then
they will be forced to try boarding you by longboat, something their
infantry does poorly and with great reluctance."

"Are there channels on both sides of the river mouth? To windward and
to leeward?"

"Certainly, my _feringhi _ captain." He examined Hawksworth with a
puzzled stare. "But only a fool would not hold to port, to windward."

Hawksworth studied the shoreline with the glass, and an audacious
gamble began to take form in his mind. Why try to keep both frigates to
windward? That's what they'll expect, and any moment now they'll weigh
and beat to windward also. And from their position, they'll probably
gain the weather gage, forcing us to leeward, downwind where we can't
maneuver. That means an open fight--when the _Resolve_ can barely muster
a watch. How can she crew the gun deck and man the sheets? But maybe
she won't have to. Maybe there's another way.

"Mackintosh." The quartermaster was mounting the quarterdeck
companionway. "Order the mains'l and fores'l reefed. And the tops'ls
shortened. We'll heave to while we run out the guns. And signal the
_Resolve_ while I prepare orders for Kerridge."

The grizzled Scotsman stood listening in dismay, and Hawksworth read
his thoughts precisely in his eyes. There's nae time to heave to. And
for wha'? We strike an inch o' canvas an' the fornicatin' Portugals'll
take the weather gage sure. Ha' you nae stomach for a fight? Why na
just haul down colors and ha' done with it?

But he said nothing. He turned automatically and bellowed orders aloft.

Hawksworth felt out the morning breeze, tasting its cut, while he
watched the seamen begin swinging themselves up the shrouds, warming
the morning air with oaths as the _Discovery _pitched and heeled in the
chop. And then he turned and strode down the quarterdeck companionway
toward the Great Cabin to prepare orders for the _Resolve_. As he
passed along the main deck, half a dozen crewmen were already unlashing
the longboat from its berth amidships.

And when he emerged again on deck with the oilskin- wrapped dispatch,
after what seemed only moments, the longboat was already launched,
oarsmen at station. He passed the packet to Mackintosh without a word,
then mounted the companionway ladder back to the quarterdeck.

The Indian pilot stood against the banister, shaded by the lateen sail,
calmly studying the galleons.

"Three of these I know very well." His accented Turki was almost lost
in a roll of spray off the stern. "They are the _St. Sebastian_, the
_Bon Jesus_, and the _Bon Ventura_. They arrived new from Lisbon last
year, after the monsoon, to patrol our shipping lanes, to enforce the
regulation that all Indian vessels purchase a trading license from
authorities in Goa."

"And what of the fourth?"

"It is said she berthed in Goa only this spring. I do not know her
name. There were rumors she brought the new Viceroy, but early, before
his four-year term began. I have never before seen her north, in these
waters."

My God. Hawksworth looked at the warships in dismay. Is this the course
of the Company's fortune? A voyage depending on secrecy blunders across
a fleet bearing the incoming Viceroy of Goa. The most powerful
Portuguese in the Indies.

"They are invincible," the pilot continued, his voice still matter-of-
fact. "The galleons own our waters. They have two decks of guns. No
Indian vessel, even the reckless corsairs along our southern coast of
Malabar, dare meet them in the open sea. Owners who refuse to submit
and buy a Portuguese trading license must sail hundreds of leagues off
course to avoid their patrol."

"And what do you propose? That we heave to and strike our colors?
Without even a fight?" Hawksworth was astonished by the pilot's casual
unconcern. Is he owned by the Portugals too?

"You may act as you choose. I have witnessed many vain

boasts of English bravery during my brief service aboard your ship. But
an Indian captain would choose prudence at such a time. Strike colors
and offer to pay for a license. Otherwise you will be handled as a
pirate."

"No Englishman will ever pay a Portugal or a Spaniard for a license to
trade. Or a permit to piss." Hawksworth turned away, trying to ignore
the cold sweat beading on his chest. "We never have. We never will."

The pilot watched him for a moment, and then smiled.

"You are in the seas off India now, Captain. Here the Portuguese have
been masters for a hundred years." His voice betrayed a trace of
annoyance at Hawksworth's seeming preoccupation, and he moved closer.
"You would do well to hear me out. We know the Portuguese very well.
Better perhaps than you. Their cruelties here began a full century ago,
when the barbarous captain Vasco de Gama first discovered our Malabar
Coast, near the southern tip of India. He had the Portuguese nose for
others' wealth, and when he returned again with twenty ships, our
merchants rose against him. But he butchered their fleet, and took
prisoners by the thousand. He did not, however, simply execute them.
First he cut away their ears, noses, and hands and sent these to the
local raja, recommending he make a curry. Next a Portuguese captain
named Albuquerque came with more warships to ravage our trade in the
north, that on the Red Sea. And when servants of Islam again rose up to
defend what is ours, Allah the Merciful once more chose to turn his
face from them, leaving all to defeat. Soon the infidel Portuguese came
with many fleets, and in a span no more than a male child reaching
manhood, had seized our ocean and stolen our trade."

The pilot's face remained blandly expressionless as he continued, but
he reached out and caught Hawksworth's sleeve. "Next they needed a
Portuguese trading station, so they bribed pirates to help storm our
coastal fortress at Goa, an island citadel with a deep port. And this
place they made the collection point for all the pepper, spices,
jewels, dyes, silver, and gold they have plundered from us. They lacked
the courage to invade India herself, as the Moghuls did soon after, so
they made our sea their infidel empire. It is theirs, from the coast of
Africa, to the Gulf of Persia, to the Molucca Islands. And they seek
not merely conquest, or enforced commerce, but also our conversion to
their religion of cruelty. They have flooded our ports with ignorant
priests. To them this is a crusade against Islam, against the one True
Faith, a crusade that has triumphed--for a time--where barbarous
Christian land assaults on our holy Mecca have always failed."

Then the pilot turned directly to Hawksworth and a smile flickered
momentarily across his lips. "And now you English have come to
challenge them by sea. You must pardon me if I smile. Even if you
prevail today, which I must tell you I doubt, and even if one day more
of your warships follow and drive them from our seas entirely--even if
all this should take place, you will find your victory hollow. As
theirs has been. For we have already destroyed them. The way India
consumes all who come with arms. The ancient way. They have robbed our
wealth, but in return we have consumed their spirit. Until at last they
are left with nothing but empty commodity. It will be no different for
you, English captain. You will never have India. It is India who will
have you."

He paused and looked again toward the galleons, their sails swelling on
the horizon. "But today I think the Portuguese will spare us the
trouble."

Hawksworth examined the pilot, struggling to decipher his words. "Let
me tell you something about England. All we ask is trade, for you and
for us, and we don't have any priests to send. Only Catholic traders do
that. And if you think we'll not stand well today, you know even less
about the English. The thing we do best is fight at sea. Our sea dogs
destroyed the entire navy of Spain twenty years ago, when they sent
their Armada to invade England, and even to this day the Spaniards and
Portugals have never understood our simple strategy. They still think a
warship's merely a land fortress afloat. All they know to do is throw
infantry against a ship and try to board her. The English know sea
battles are won with cannon and maneuverability, not soldiers."

Hawksworth directed the pilot's gaze down the _Discovery_.

The ship was of the new English "race-built" class, low in the water
and swift. Absent were the bulky superstructures on bow and stern that
weighed down a galleon, the "castles" that Spanish and Portuguese
commanders used to stage infantry for boarding an enemy vessel. A full
thirty years before, the English seaman and explorer John Hawkins had
scoffed at these, as had Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. They saw
clearly that the galleons' towering bow and stem, their forecastle and
poop, slow them, since the bluff beamy hull needed to support their
weight wouldn't bite the water. A superstructure above decks serves
only to spoil a warship's handling in a breeze, they declared, and to
lend a better target to an English gunner.

"Your ships assuredly are smaller than Portuguese galleons, I agree,"
the pilot volunteered after a pause, "but I see no advantage in this."

"You'll see soon enough. The _Discovery _may be low, but she'll sail
within six points of the wind, and she's quicker on the helm than
anything afloat."

Hawksworth raised the glass and studied the galleons again. As he
expected they were beating to windward, laboring under a full head of
canvas.

Good. Now the _Resolve_ can make her move.

The longboat was returning, its prow biting the trough of each swell,
while on the _Resolve_ seamen swarmed the shrouds and rigging.
Hawksworth watched with satisfaction as his sister ship's main course
swiveled precisely into the breeze and her sprits'l bellied for a run
down the wind. Her orders were to steer to leeward, skirting the edge
of the galleons' cannon range.

And if I know the Portugals, he told himself, they'll be impatient
enough to start loosing round after round of shot at her, even from a
quarter mile off. It takes courage to hold fire till you're under an
enemy's guns, but only then do you have accuracy. Noise and smoke are
battle enough for most Portugals, but the main result is to overheat
and immobilize their cannon.

As the _Discovery_ lay hove to, biding time, the _Resolve_ cut directly
down the leeward side of the galleons, laboring

under full press of sail, masts straining against the load. The Indian
pilot watched the frigate in growing astonishment, then turned to
Hawksworth.

"Your English frigates may be swift, but your English strategy is
unworthy of a common _mahout_, who commands an old she-elephant with
greater cunning. Your sister frigate has now forfeited the windward
position. Why give over your only advantage?"

Even as he spoke the four Portuguese warships, caught beating to
windward, began to shorten sail and pay off to leeward to intercept the
_Resolve_, their bows slowly crossing the wind as they turned.

"I've made a gamble, something a Portugal would never do," Hawksworth
replied. "And now I have to do something no Englishman would ever do.
Unless outgunned and forced to." Before the pilot could respond,
Hawksworth was gone, heading for the gun deck.

The ring of his boots on the oak ladder leading to the lower deck was
lost in the grind of wooden trucks, as seamen threw their weight
against the heavy ropes and tackles, slowly hauling out the guns. The
_Discovery_ was armed with two rows of truck-mounted cast-iron
culverin, and she had sailed with twenty-two barrels of powder and
almost four hundred round shot. Hawksworth had also stowed a supply of
crossbar shot and deadly langrel--thin casings filled with iron
fragments--for use against enemy rigging and sail at close quarters.

Shafts of dusty light from the gunports and overhead scuttles relieved
the lantern-lit gloom, illuminating the massive beams supporting the
decks above. Sleeping hammocks were lashed away, but the space was
airless, already sultry from the morning sun, and the rancid tang of
sweat mixed with fresh saltpeter from the gunpowder caught in
Hawksworth's mouth, bittersweet.

He walked down the deck, alert to the details that could spell victory
or loss. First he checked the wooden tubs of vinegared urine and the
long swabs stationed between the cannon, used for cleaning burning
fragments of metal from the smoking barrels after each round. Fail to
swab a barrel and there could be an unplanned detonation when the next
powder charge was tamped into place. Then he counted the budge-barrels
of powder, now swathed in water-soaked blankets to fend off sparks, and
watched as Edward Malloyre, the man some called the best master gunner
in England, inspected each cannon's touchhole as its lead plate was
removed, assuring himself it had not corroded from the gases expelled
during their last gunnery practice, in the Mozambique Channel.

"Master Malloyre."

"Aye, sir, all's in order. We'll hand the Spanish bastards a taste o'
English iron." Malloyre, who had never troubled to differentiate
Portugal from Spain, was built like a bear, with short bowed legs and a
tree-stump frame. He drew himself erect, his balding pate easily
clearing the rugged overhead beams, and searched the gloom. "The
Worshipful Company may ha' signed on a sorry lot o' pimpin' apple
squires, but, by Jesus, I've made Englishmen o' them. My sovereign to
your shilling we hole the pox-rotted Papists wi' the first round."

"I'll stand the wager, Malloyre, and add the last keg of brandy. But
you'll earn it. I want the portside battery loaded with crossbar
forward, and langrel aft. And set the langrel for the decks, not the
sail."

Malloyre stared at him incredulously. The command told him immediately
that this would be a battle with no quarter. The use of langrel against
personnel left no room for truce. Then suddenly the true implications
of Hawksworth's command hit him like a blow in the chest. "That shot's
for close quarters. We lay alongside, and the bastards'll grapple and
board us sure. Swarm us like curs on a bitch."

"That's the order, Malloyre. Be quick on it. Set the starboard round
first. And light the linstocks." Hawksworth turned to count the shot
and absently picked up one of the linstocks lying on deck--an iron-
plated staff used to set off a cannon--fingering the oil-soaked match
rope at its tip and inhaling its dank musk. And the smell awoke again
the memory of that last day two years before in the Mediterranean, with
Turkish pirate galleys fore and aft, when there had been no quarter,
and no hope . . .

"Beggin' your pardon, sir." Malloyre's voice was urgent, bringing him
back. "What's the firin' orders?"

"Just fire the starboard round as a broadside, and set for the lower
gun deck."

"Aye aye, sir." He paused. "And Lord Jesus pray we'll live to swab
out."

Malloyre's parting words would have followed him up the ladder to the
main deck, but they were swallowed in the muffled roll of cannon fire
sounding over the bay. The galleons were spreading, circling the
_Resolve_ as they bore down upon her, and they had begun to vomit round
after round, jets of water randomly around the frigate as she plunged
toward the shallows and safety. Any minute now, Hawksworth told
himself, and she'll be in the shallows. If she doesn't run aground on a
bar.

Then he saw the _Resolve_ begin to come about, reefing and furling her
sails. She's made the shallows. And the Portugals' guns have quieted.

"Permission to set sail, sir. The bleedin' Portugals'll be on her in a
trice." Mackintosh stood on the quarterdeck by the steering house. And
he made no attempt to disguise the anxiety in his eyes.

"Give the Portugals time, Mackintosh, and you'll see their second fatal
mistake. The first was overheating the cannon on their upper decks. The
second will be to short-hand their crews. They're out of cannon range
now, so they'll launch longboats, and assign half the watch as oarsmen.
Here, take the glass. Tell me what you see."

Mackintosh studied the shallows with the telescope, while a smile
slowly grew on his hard face. "I'm a motherless Dutchman. An' there's a
king's guard o' Portugal musketmen loadin' in. Wearin' their damn'd
silver helmets."

They haven't changed in thirty years, Hawksworth smiled to himself. The
Portugals still think their infantry is too dignified to row, so they
assign their crews to the oars and leave their warships shorthanded.
But they won't find it easy to board the _Resolve_ from longboats. Not
with English musketmen in her maintop. And that should give us just
enough time. . . .

"Are all the longboats out yet, Mackintosh?"

"Aye, sir." The quartermaster steadied the glass against the roll of
the ship. "And making for the _Resolve _like they was runnin' from hell
itself."

"Then bear full sail. Two points to windward of the bastard on the
left. Full press, and hoist the spritsail. Keep the wind and pay her
room till we're in range."

With an exultant whoop Mackintosh jabbed the sweat-soaked telescope
toward Hawksworth, and began bellowing orders to the mates. Within
moments sails unfurled and snapped in the wind, sending the
_Discovery_'s bow biting into the chop and hurtling spray over the
bulwarks. Hawksworth kept to the quarterdeck, studying the nearest
warship with the glass. The galleon's forecastle towered above the
horizon now like some Gothic fortress, and with the glass he could make
out pennants blazoned from all her yardarms. Then he turned toward the
Indian pilot, whose gaze was riveted on the Portuguese warships.

"What's the name of the galleon on the left, the large one?" Hawksworth
pointed toward the vessel he had been observing with the glass. "I
can't read it from this distance."

"That one is the _Bon Ventura_. We know her to be heavily armed."

"I'd say she's over a thousand tons burden. I wonder how handy she'll
be with her best men out in the longboats?"

"She'll meet you soon enough, with her full bounty. It is said that
last year she caught and sank a twenty-gun Dutch frigate trading in the
Moluccas."

"She'll still have to come about into the wind." Hawksworth seemed not
to hear the pilot now, so absorbed was he in the looming battle.

As though in answer to his thoughts, the _Bon Ventura _started to heel
slowly about, like an angered bull. But the _Discovery_ now had the
windward position secure, and the Portuguese ship would have to tack
laboriously into the wind. Her canvas was close-hauled and she would be
slow. We've got the weather gage now, Hawksworth told himself, and
we'll hold it. Then he noticed that the second galleon in the row, the
_St. Sebastian_, had also begun wearing around, bringing her stern
across the wind as she too turned to meet the _Discovery_.

"They've deciphered our plan," Hawksworth said quietly to himself, "and
now it's two of the bastards we'll face. But with luck we'll engage the
_Bon Ventura_ before the _St. Sebastian _can beat to range. And the
_Bon Ventura_ is drawing away from the fleet. That bit of bravado will
cost her."

The _Discovery _was closing rapidly on the _Bon Ventura_. In minutes
they would be within range. Mackintosh was at the whipstaff now,
holding their course, his senses alert to every twist in the wind. He
involuntarily clenched and unclenched his teeth, while his knuckles
were bloodless white from his grip on the hardwood steering lever.
Hawksworth raised the glass again, knowing what he hoped to see.

"The Portugals have just made their third mistake, Mackintosh." He
tried to mask his excitement. "They've sealed the lower gunports to
shut out water while they're tacking. So after they get position
they'll still have to run out the lower guns."

"Aye. That's why two-deckers won't buy a whore's chastity on a day like
this. But they'll have the upper guns on us soon enough."

"Wait and see, Mackintosh. I'll warrant their upper guns are overheated
by now. They'll think twice about trying to prime them just yet.
They'll have to wait a bit. Perhaps just long enough for us to get
alongside. Then the upper guns'll touch nothing but our rigging."

The breeze freshened even more, driving the _Discovery _rapidly toward
her target. Mackintosh eyed the galleon nervously, knowing the frigate
was heavily outgunned. Finally he could bear the tension no longer.

"We've got range now. Permission to bring her about."

"Steady as she goes. They're slow on the helm." Hawksworth glanced at
the line of seamen along the port side, untying bundles of musket
arrows and lighting the linstock. "Bosun! Are the men at stations?"

"Aye, sir." A gravel voice sounded through the din. "Stocks were a bit
damp, but I warrant the hellish sun's dryin' 'em out. We'll give the
fornicators a fine English salute."

Hawksworth gauged the galleon's course, estimating her speed and her
ability to maneuver. Then he saw her start coming about in the water,
turning to position the starboard battery for a broadside. Gunports on
the lower deck flipped up and cannon began slowly to emerge, like hard
black fangs. Nervous sweat began to bead on Mackintosh's brow as the
_Discovery _held her course directly down the galleon's windward side.

The _Bon Ventura_'s broadside battery was not yet set, but a sudden
burst of black smoke from her starboard bow-chaser sent a ball smashing
through the _Discovery's _quarter gallery, removing much of its ornate
embellishment. Then came another flare of smoke and flame, hurtling a
second ball through the lateen sail above Mackintosh's head. The
quartermaster went pale, and looked imploringly at Hawksworth.

"Steady as she goes, Mackintosh, they still haven't fully set their
guns." The knot in Hawksworth's stomach was like a searing ball of
fire. God, for a brandy. But we've got to hold till we've got sure
range. To come about now would keep our distance, and mean a classic
battle. One we're sure to lose.

He pushed away the realization of the immense chance they were taking.
But now there was no turning back, even if he wanted. Finally he could
bear it no longer. God make it right.

"Now, Mackintosh! Bring her hard about!"

The quartermaster threw his weight against the whipstaff, shouting
orders to the two seamen on the deck below to haul the tackles on the
tiller, helping him flip the rudder. Then he turned and bellowed
commands to the mates.

"Hands to the braces. Bring her hard about."

The seamen poised incredulously in the maintop and foretop cheered as
they began to haul in the ropes securing the yards, and in moments the
sails swiveled off the wind. The _Discovery _careened in the chopping
seas, responding readily to the shift in rudder and canvas. By this
time Hawksworth was standing over the scuttle above the gun deck,
shouting to Malloyre.

"Coming about. Prepare to fire the starboard battery when your guns
bear."

The _Discovery_ had wheeled a sharp arc in the water, laying herself
broadside to the galleon, hardly fifty yards away. The English seamen
aloft stared mutely at the towering forecastle of the Portuguese
warship, most never before having seen a galleon at close range.
Although the guns on her upper deck were still silent, had they spoken
now they would have touched nothing but the frigate's tops'ls. But as
the galleon turned, the cannon on her lower deck were coming into final
position. In moments she would lay the _Discovery_ with a broadside.
Hawksworth watched her carefully, calculating, and then the knot in his
stomach dissolved like ice in the sun. The _Discovery _would be in
position seconds ahead.

Malloyre's command to fire cut the awe-stricken silence. The next
instant a low roar seemed to emanate from all the timbers of the
English frigate, while red-tipped flame tongued from her starboard
side. The ship heeled dangerously sideways, while black smoke, acrid
and searing, boiled up through the scuttles and hatch, as though
propelled on its way by the round of cheers from below decks, the
traditional salute of ship's gunners. Hawksworth later remembered
noting that the battery had fired in perfect unison, not losing the set
of a single gun by the ship's recoil.

A medley of screams came first, piercing the blackened air. Then the
smoke drifted downwind, over the side of the _Bon Ventura_, revealing a
savage incision where her lower gun deck had once been. Cannon were
thrown askew, and the mangled forms of Portuguese gunners, many with
limbs shattered or missing, could be seen through the splintered hull.
But Hawksworth did not pause to inspect the damage; he was already
yelling the next orders to Mackintosh, hoping to be heard above the
din. The advantage of surprise would be short-lived.

"Pay off the helm! Bring her hard about!"

Again the rudder swiveled in its locks, while seamen aloft

hauled the sheets and braces, but this time the _Discovery _came about
easily, using the wind to advantage. As he turned to check the
whipstaff, Hawksworth heard a high-pitched ricochet off the steering
house and sensed a sudden dry numbness in his thigh. Only then did he
look up to see the line of Portuguese musketmen on the decks of the
_Bon Ventura_, firing sporadically at the English seamen on decks and
aloft.

Damn. A lucky shot by some Lisbon recruit. He seized a handful of
coarse salt from a bucket by the binnacle and pressed it against the
blood. A flash of pain passed briefly through his consciousness and
then was forgotten. The _Discovery's _stern had crossed the wind. There
was no time to lose. He moved down the companionway to again shout
orders to Malloyre on the gun deck. "Set for the fo'c'sle and rigging.
Fire as your guns bear."

The _Bon Ventura_ still lay immobile, so unexpected had been the
broadside. But a boarding party of Portuguese infantry was poised on
the galleon's forecastle superstructure, armed with swords and pikes,
ready to fling grapples and swing aboard the frigate. The Portuguese
had watched in helpless amazement as the _Discovery_ completely came
about and again was broadside. Suddenly the captain of the infantry
realized what was in store and yelled frantically at his men to take
cover. But his last command was lost in the roar of the _Discovery's
_guns.

This time flames and smoke erupted from the _Discovery's _portside
battery, but now it spewed knife-edged chunks of metal and twisting
crossbars. Again the screams came first, as the musketmen and infantry
on the fo'c'sle were swept across the decks in the deadly rain.
Crossbars chewed through the galleon's mainsail, parting it into two
flapping remnants, while the rigging on the foremast was blown by the
boards, tangling and taking with it a party of musketmen stationed in
the foretop. Now the galleon bobbed helpless in the water, as the last
seamen remaining on the shrouds plunged for the decks and safety.

"When you're ready, Mackintosh."

The quartermaster signaled the bosun, and a line of

seamen along the port gunwales touched musket arrows to the lighted
linstock and took aim. Streaks of flame forked into the tattered
rigging of the _Bon Ventura_, and in moments her canvas billowed red.
Again the Portuguese were caught unaware, and only a few manned water
buckets to extinguish the burning shreds of canvas drifting to the
deck.

They were almost alongside now, but no Portuguese infantry would pour
down the side of the forecastle onto their decks. The galleon's decks
were a hemorrhage of the wounded and dying.

"By Jesus, 'tis a sight for English eyes." Edward Malloyre's blackened
face, streaked with sweat, bobbed up through the hatch over the gun
deck, and he surveyed the wreckage of the _Bon Ventura_. "Had to give
'er a look, Cap'n. See if my lads earn'd their biscuit." He beamed with
open pride.

"Malloyre, how does it stand below decks?" Hawksworth yelled from the
quarterdeck.

"Starboard side's swabbed out. How shall we load 'em, sir?" Malloyre
leaned backward to gain a better look at the galleon, which now towered
above them.

"Round shot, and run them out fast as you can."

"Aye, sir. An' no more close quarters if you please. Ne'er want to be
this close to one o' the bastards again." Malloyre started to retreat
through the hatch, but then he turned, paused for a second, and yelled
at Hawksworth. "Beggin' your pardon, Cap'n. I knew all along 'twas best
to pull alongside and lay 'em wi' crossbar. Just wanted to give the
lads a bit o' a scare. Keep 'em jumpin'."

Hawksworth waved his hand and watched as Malloyre's pudgy frame dropped
through the gun-deck hatch like a rabbit diving for its warren.

Mackintosh was standing on the main deck, his tangled red mane
blackened with smoke, watching as the _Discovery _drifted slowly toward
the side of the bobbing galleon. Then, when they were only feet away,
he signaled the bosun, and a line of English seamen lit the waiting
fuses and began to loft clay powder pots across the waist of the _Bon
Ventura_, now almost above their heads. When they had finished, he
passed orders and the _Discovery _began to pull away, before her sails
could ignite. Then one by one the powder pots started to explode,
spewing burning sulphur over the Portuguese vessel's decks.

Hawksworth watched the carnage, and asked himself if he had been right
to do what he'd done. They'd have sunk us. Cut down the men and taken
the officers and merchants to a Goa prison. And then what? We couldn't
have sunk them with cannon in a week. The only choice was fire.

Then he turned to see the _St. Sebastian _making toward them. Her
cannon were already run out, and at any moment she would start coming
about for a broadside. Again he felt the throb in his thigh, and it
triggered a wave of fear that swept upward from his stomach. The Indian
pilot stood next to him, also watching the approaching galleon.

"I have seen a miracle, Captain. Allah the Compassionate has watched
over you today." The pilot's face showed none of the strain of battle.
And his clothes were still spotless, oddly immune from the oily smoke
that blackened all the English seamen. "But I fear there cannot be two
miracles on the same morning. You are about to pay for your fortune.
Perhaps there is still time to strike your colors and save the lives of
your men."

"We surrender now and we'll rot in a Goa prison forever. Or be pulled
apart on the _strappado_." Hawksworth glared back. "And I seem to
recall the Quran says 'Do not falter when you've gained the upper
hand.'"

"You do not have the upper hand, my Captain, and the Holy Quran speaks
only of those who trust in Allah, the Merciful. . . ." His voice
trailed off as he turned to stare at Hawksworth. "It is not common for
a _feringhi_ to know the Holy Quran. How is it you--?"

"I just spent two years in a Turkish prison, and I heard little else."
Hawksworth turned and was testing the wind, weighing his options. The
_St. Sebastian _was almost on them. Her cannon were already run out,
and at any moment she would start coming about for a broadside. He
could still hear the trucks of the cannon below decks, as the starboard
battery was being run out, and he knew the portside crews were only now
beginning to swab the last glowing shreds of metal from the cannon
barrels.

Good God, there's no time to set the ordnance. They'll blow us to hell.
He deliberated for a long moment, weighing his options. As he watched,
the _St. Sebastian _began to shorten sail, preparing to come about and
fire. Only minutes remained. Then he noticed that the wind on the
burning _Bon Ventura's _superstructure was drifting her in the
direction of the approaching _St. Sebastian_, and he hit on another
gamble. They've shortened sail in order to come about, which means
they're vulnerable. Now if I can make them try to take their bow across
the wind, with their sails shortened . . .

"Mackintosh, take her hard about! Set the courses for a port tack."

Once again the _Discovery_ heeled in the water, her stern deftly
crossing the wind, and then she was back under full sail, still to
windward of the burning galleon. The sudden tack had left the burning
_Bon Ventura _directly between the English frigate and the approaching
galleon. The _Discovery _pulled away, keeping the wind, forcing the
galleon to tack also if she would engage them. Hawksworth watched,
holding his breath as Portuguese seamen began to man the sheets,
bringing the _St. Sebastian's _bow into the wind.

It was fatal. The approaching galleon had shortened too much sail in
preparation to come about for the broadside, and now she lacked the
momentum to cross the wind. Instead the sluggish, top-heavy warship
hung in stays, her sails slack, her bulky bow fighting the wind,
refusing to pay off onto the opposite tack. All the while the _Bon
Ventura_ was drifting inexorably toward her, flaming.     I was right,
Hawksworth thought. She didn't have the speed to bring her bow around.
With his glass he watched the galleon's captain order her back to the
original tack. But time had run out.

Blinding explosions suddenly illuminated the gunports of the burning
_Bon Ventura_, as powder barrels on the gun decks ignited, first the
upper and then the lower. In only moments the fire found the powder
room aft of the orlop deck, and as the English seamen looked on
spellbound the galleon seemed to erupt in a single cloud of fire,
rocketing burning timbers and spars across the sea's surface. The
mainmast, flaming like a giant taper, snapped and heaved slowly into
the fo'c'sle. Then the superstructure on the stern folded and dropped
through the main deck, throwing a plume of sparks high into the morning
air.

Although the _St. Sebastian _had righted herself, she still had not
regained speed, for now the sails had lost their luff and sagged to
leeward. Why isn't she underway, Hawksworth asked himself, surely
she'll circle and engage us? He looked again with the glass and the
reason became clear. The Portuguese crewmen on the _St. Sebastian_ had
begun throwing themselves into the sea, terrified at the sight of the
_Bon Ventura's _blazing hull drifting slowly across their bow. The wind
had freshened again and was pushing the burning galleon rapidly now.
The blaze had become an inferno, fueled by casks of coconut oil stored
below decks on the galleon, and Hawksworth involuntarily shielded his
eyes and face from the heat that, even at their distance, seared the
_Discovery_. As he watched, the drifting _Bon Ventura _suddenly lurched
crazily sideways, and then came the sound of a coarse, grinding impact,
as her burning timbers sprayed across the decks of the _St. Sebastian_.
In moments the second galleon was also an abandoned inferno, her crew
long since afloat in the safety of the sea, clinging to debris and
making for shore.

"Allah has been merciful twice to you in one morning, Captain. I had
never before known the extent of His bounty. You are a man most
fortunate." The pilot's words, spoken softly and with pronounced
gravity, were almost drowned in the cheers that engulfed the decks and
rigging of the _Discovery_.

"The battle's just begun. Boarding parties are at the _Resolve_, and
there are two more galleons." Hawksworth reached for the glass by the
binnacle.

"No, Captain, I doubt very much the Portuguese will trouble you
further. Your luck has been too exceptional. But they will return
another day." The pilot squinted toward the shore, as though confirming
something he knew should be there.

Hawksworth trained his glass on the two galleons that still held the
_Resolve_ pinned in the shallows. They were heeling about, preparing to
run southward on the wind under full press of sail. He also realized
their longboats had been abandoned. Some were following futilely after
the retreating galleons, while others were already rowing toward the
river mouth. The English frigate had been forgotten. Then he noted that
although pennants no longer flew from the yardarms of the galleons, the
large, unnamed vessel had run out a brilliant red ensign on her poop
staff. He studied it carefully, then turned to the pilot, extending the
glass.

"Take a look and tell me what the colors are on the large man-of-war.
I've never seen them before."

The pilot waved away the telescope with a smile. "I need no Christian
device to tell you that. We all know it. With all your fortune, you
have failed to understand the most important thing that happened
today."

"And what is that?"

"Those are the colors of the Viceroy of Goa, flown only when he is
aboard his flagship. You have humiliated him today. The colors speak
his defiance. His promise to you."

As the pilot spoke, Mackintosh came bounding up the companionway to the
quarterdeck, his soot-covered face beaming. "What a bleedin' day! _What
_a bleedin' day!" Then his eyes dimmed for an instant. "But a man'd be
called a liar who told the story."

"How many dead and wounded, Mackintosh?"

"Two maintopmen killed by musket fire. And a bosun's mate took a
splinter in the side, very bad, when the bastards laid us wi' the first
bowchasers. A few other lads took musket fire, but the surgeon'll sew
'em up fine."

"Then break out the last keg of brandy. And see that Malloyre's men get
the first tot. . . but don't forget to send a tankard to the
quarterdeck."

Mackintosh broke an appreciative grin and headed down the companionway
ladder. The sun was baking the decks now, and a swarm of locusts had
appeared from nowhere to buzz about the maintop. The wind was beginning
to slacken in the heat, and silence slowly settled over the
_Discovery_. Hawksworth turned his glass one last time to the large
galleon. He could still make out the ensign over the crests of surf,
blood red in the sun.




CHAPTER THREE


The bells sounded ending the afternoon watch and calling the first dog
watch. Only four hours since noon, but already the morning's carnage
seemed a memory from a distant lifetime. Sultry tropic air, motionless
and stifling, immersed the _Discovery_ as the gaunt-faced seamen
labored to finish securing the mast of the pinnace. Mackintosh had
ordered the pinnace's sail unrolled on deck, and as he inspected the
stitches for rot he alternately reviled the men, the heat, the Company.
Hawksworth had completed the log and stood in the companionway outside
the Great Cabin to watch the preparations, take the air, and exercise
his leg. All the previous night he had stood on the quarterdeck,
keeping the helm and translating for the pilot. And tonight again there
would be no sleep. There's time for a rest now, his weary mind urged,
till the first bell of this watch, half an hour. Then he cursed himself
for his weakness, his readiness to yield, and shoved open the door of
the Great Cabin.

The oil lamp swayed with each roll of the ship, punctuating the
rhythmic creak of the wood paneling and adding to the sweltering heat.
He locked the door, then strode aft to push ajar the two stern windows.
But the stolid air lay inert, refusing to lift. He would have to
prepare the chest in suffocating misery. So be it.

Brushing the hair back from his eyes, he unlocked a bronzed sea chest
and began to extract one by one the articles entrusted to the Company
by King James. First was the letter, in English with a formal copy in
diplomatic Spanish, both scribed on parchment and sealed in a leather
case secured with His Majesty's impression in red wax. The seal, set in
London over seven months before, was soft in the heat now, pliant to
his touch. He surveyed the room for a moment and then his eye hit on
the pair of formal thigh- length stockings the Company had insisted he
pack. Perfect. He bound his hose around the king's letter, knotted it
protectively over the seal, and tossed the bundle into the smaller
wooden chest he would take ashore.

Then he began to transfer the royal presents: a brace of gold-plated
pistols, a half dozen silver-handled swords, a small silver-trimmed
saddle, a set of delicate Norwich crystal, jeweled rings, a leather-
bound mirror, a silver whistle studded with emeralds, a large cocked
hat trimmed in silk, a miniature portrait of King James, and finally, a
dozen bottles of fine English sack. He checked each item for damage and
then packed them tightly into the small chest. Finally he inserted a
tightly fitting false bottom and covered it with a coarse woolen rug.

Then the second packing began. He started with more gifts, these for
port officials, mainly silver-trimmed knives and rings set with small
inexpensive pearls. He also enclosed several boxed sets of English gold
sovereigns, which the Company had requested be distributed as widely as
possible, in hopes they would begin to be accepted.

Finally he looked about the room for personal goods. First he folded in
a new leather jerkin, then next to it packed a new pair of leather
boots. He stared at the boots for a moment, and then removed them while
he carefully wrapped two primed pistols and slid one deep into each
hollow toe. Next to the boots he packed a case of Spanish brandy he had
been saving, for personal use aland. Lastly he took his glistening
English lute from its corner berth, held it for a moment, and tested
the strings. He adjusted the tuning on one string, then wrapped the
lute's melon-shaped body in a silk cloth, and nestled it next to the
brandy.

As he secured the lock on the chest and pocketed the large brass key,
he suddenly asked himself how he would get the chest into India without
its being searched. I'm not a genuine ambassador. I'm the captain of a
merchantman, with no

diplomatic standing. The Company, for all its mercantile wisdom,
neglected to consider that small difficulty.

So I'll just have to sound like an ambassador. That shouldn't be so
hard. Just be impressed with your own importance. And find nothing,
food or lodgings, sufficiently extravagant.

Then he drew himself erect and unlocked the door of the Great Cabin.
Only one thing remained.

"Mackintosh!" The quartermaster was in the pinnace now, fitting the
tiller, and he glanced up in irritation. "Send the pilot to my cabin."

Hawksworth had scarcely seated himself behind the great oak table
before the tall chestnut-skinned man appeared in the doorway.
Hawksworth examined the face again, expressionless and secure, asking
himself its years. Is he thirty; is he fifty? The features seemed cast
from an ageless mold, hard and seamless, immune to time.

"May I be of service?"

"Repeat your name for me." Hawksworth spoke in Turkish. "And tell me
again the business of your vessel."

"My name is Karim Hasan Ali." The reply came smoothly, but almost too
rapidly for Hawksworth to follow. "My ship was the Rahimi, a pilgrim
vessel on her return voyage from Mecca, by way of Aden, to our northern
port of Diu. We carry Muslim pilgrims outbound from India in the
spring, and return after the monsoon. As you assuredly must know, for a
thousand years Mecca has been the shrine all followers of Islam must
visit once in their life. Our cabins are always full."

Hawksworth recalled the vessel, and his astonishment at her size. She
had had five masts and was easily twelve hundred tons, over twice the
burden of the _Discovery_ and greater than anything he had ever seen
before, even the most ambitious Spanish carrack. But when they spotted
her, tacking eastward across the Bay of Cambay, she was unarmed and
hove to almost before they had fired across her bow. Why unarmed, he
had asked himself then, and why strike so readily? Now he understood.

"And you were the pilot for the _Rahimi_?"

"I am called the _musallim_." A note of formality entered the Indian's
voice and he instinctively drew himself more erect.

"Is that the pilot?"

"Yes, but more. Perhaps it is like your first mate. But I am in full
charge of navigation for the _nakuda_, the owner. To you he would be
captain."

"And what was your salary for the voyage?"

"I received two hundred rupees for the trip to Aden, and am allowed two
extra cabins of goods for personal trade."

Hawksworth smiled resignedly to himself, remembering he had
unquestioningly delivered to the _nakuda _a bag of Spanish rials of
eight equivalent to five hundred Indian rupees to buy out the pilot's
contract. Then he spoke.

"Tonight, we go upriver to Surat. You're still in my service and you'll
be pilot."

"I had expected it. I know the river well."

"Will there be any Portugal traders on the river?" Hawksworth searched
his eyes hoping to monitor their truthfulness.

"I would not expect it. Although this year's monsoons are past and the
river has returned to normal, there are new sandbanks. Every season
they shift, becoming more treacherous. Only those of us who know the
river well understand the moods of her sands. I have never seen
_topiwallah _traders in Surat this early in the season." Karim paused,
following Hawksworth's puzzled expression, then continued, with an air
of condescension," _Topiwallah _is our word meaning 'men who wear
hats.' We call Christian traders _topiwallahs_." He fixed Hawksworth
squarely. "And we have other names for their priests."

"Call Christians what you will, but just remember England is not
Portugal." Hawksworth's tone stiffened. "England has rid herself of the
popery that still rules the Spaniards and Portugals. Along with their
fear-mongering Jesuits and their damned Inquisition. It's now treason
to practice Catholic rites in England."

"I have heard something of your petty European squabbles, your
Christian rivalries. Is it your intention now to spread them to India
as well?"

"All England wants is trade. Nothing else." Hawksworth shifted his leg,
leaning forward to tighten the bandage. "I'm here as an ambassador. To
convey the friendship of my king, and his offer of free and open
trade."

"And after you begin this trade, what then? Will you next try to drive
the Portuguese from our ports? So that you can steal away shipping from
our own merchantmen, as they have done, and demand we pay you for a
license to ply our own seas?"

"I told you we only want trade. England has no use for sailing
licenses, or priests. Our only enemies here are the Portugals. And the
damned Hollanders if they start trying to interfere."

Karim studied Hawksworth in silence, fingering his jeweled earring in
thought as he recalled the morning's battle. Two small English merchant
frigates had prevailed over four Portuguese warships, galleons. Never
before, he told himself, have the Portuguese been humiliated before our
eyes. Pigeons must already be winging word of this incredible encounter
to Agra. Separately, no doubt, to the Moghul and to the queen. But
Queen Janahara will know first. As always. And she will know her
Portuguese profits are no longer secure.

And what about Prince Jadar? Yes, the prince will already have heard,
hours ago. What will Prince Jadar decide to do? That's the most
important question now.

"Just tell me about the navigation of the river," Hawksworth continued
unable to decipher Karim's distant expression. "How long will it take
for our pinnace to reach Surat? We cast off at sunset."

"The tide will be running in tonight, and that will aid your oarsmen."
Karim instantly became businesslike. "There will also be a night breeze
off the sea. But the Portuguese have no authority on our river. Once
you are inland you are under the rule of the governor of Surat. . . .
and, of course, Prince Jadar, whom the Moghul has appointed to
administrate this province."

Hawksworth heard the first bell and walked to the stern

windows to monitor the slant of the dying sun and to inhale the fresh
evening air. Then he wheeled and examined Karim, the pilot's face
shadowed in the half light.

"And who are these officials? This governor and prince?"

Karim smiled and carefully secured the fold of his turban. "The
governor administers the port of Surat. He collects trading duties of
the Moghul's court in Agra. Prince Jadar is the son of the Moghul and
the military ruler of Gujarat, this province."

"Then who will I meet in Surat?" Hawksworth groped for a pattern. "The
governor or the prince?"

Again Karim paused, wondering how much to tell, before continuing
evenly, "Neither of these need concern you now. The first official you
must satisfy will be the Shahbandar, what the Moghuls call the
_mutasaddi_. The Shahbandar controls the customs house, the portal for
all who would enter the Moghul's domain. His power over the port is
absolute."

Hawksworth slapped one of the bronze cannon to punctuate his dismay.

In India also! Good Jesus, every Muslin port in the world must have
this same petty official. I've heard that Shahbandar is Persian for
"Lord of the Haven," and if that's true the office is named perfectly.
Every one I've known has had the right to refuse entry to anyone, at
his whim, if bribes are insufficient and no more powerful official
intervenes.

"Who does the Shahbandar here answer to? The governor? The prince? The
Moghul himself? Or somebody _else _you haven't told me about yet?"
Hawksworth tried to push back his rising anxiety.

"Captain, you have, in your guileless _feringhi _way, raised a question
it is wiser not to pursue. I can only assure you the Shahbandar is a
man of importance in Surat, and in India."

"But who should I seek out when we reach Surat?"

At that moment two bells sounded on the quarterdeck, and with them a
ray from the fading sun pierced the stern window, glancing off the oak
boards of the table. A twilight silence seemed to settle uneasily over
the _Discovery_, amplifying the creaking of her boards.

"Captain, I have already told you more than most foreigners know. You
would be wise to prepare now to meet the Shahbandar." Karim rose
abruptly and bowed, palms together, hands at his brow. "You must
forgive me. In Islam we pray at sunset."

Hawksworth stared after him in perplexity as Karim turned and vanished
into the darkened companionway.

Not yet even aland, and already I sense trouble. He fears the
Shahbandar, that's clear enough, but I'm not sure it's for the usual
reasons. Is there some intrigue underway that we're about to be drawn
into, God help us?

He took a deep breath and, fighting the ache in his leg, made his way
out to the quarter gallery on the stern. A lone flying fish, marooned
in the bay from its home in the open sea, burst from the almost placid
waters, glinting the orange sun off its body and settling with a
splash, annoying the seabirds that squabbled over gallery scraps along
the port side. Seamen carrying rations of salt pork and biscuit were
clambering down the companionway and through the hatch leading to the
lower deck and their hammocks. Hawksworth listened to them curse the
close, humid air below, and then he turned to inhale again the land
breeze, permeated with a green perfume of almost palpable intensity.

Following the direction of the sweetened air, he turned and examined
the darkening shore one last time. India now seemed vaguely obscured,
as through a light mist. Or was it merely encroaching darkness? And
through this veil the land seemed somehow to brood? Or did it beckon?

It's my imagination, he told himself. India is there all right, solid
ground, and scarcely a cannon shot away. India, the place of fable and
mystery to Englishmen for centuries. And also the place where a certain
party of English travelers disappeared so many years ago.

That should have been a warning, he told himself. It's almost too
ironic that you're the next man to try to go in. You, of all the men in
England. Are you destined to repeat their tragedy?

He recalled again the story he knew all too well. The man financing
those English travelers almost three decades past

had been none other than Peter Elkington, father of George Elkington,
Chief Merchant on this voyage. Like his son, Peter Elkington was a
swearing, drinking, whoring merchant, a big-bellied giant of a man who
many people claimed looked more and more like King Harry the older and
fatter he got. It was Peter Elkington's original idea those many years
back to send Englishmen to India.

The time was before England met and obliterated the Armada of Spain,
and long before she could hope to challenge the oceanic trade networks
of the Catholic countries--Spain to the New World, Portugal to the East.
In those days the only possible road to India for England and the rest
of Europe still was overland, the centuries-old caravan trail that long
preceded Portugal's secret new sea route around the Cape.

The idea of an English mission overland to India had grown out of Peter
Elkington's Levant Company, franchised by Queen Elizabeth to exploit
her new treaty with the Ottoman Turks, controllers of the caravan trade
between India and the Mediterranean. Through the Levant Company,
English traders could at last buy spices directly at Tripoli from
overland caravans traveling the Persian Gulf and across Arabia, thereby
circumventing the greedy Venetian brokers who for centuries had served
as middlemen for Europe's pepper and spices.

But Peter Elkington wanted more. Why buy expensive spices at the shores
of the Mediterranean? Why not extend England's own trade lines all the
way to India and buy directly?

To gain intelligence for this daring trade expansion, he decided to
finance a secret expedition to scout the road to India, to send a party
of English traders through the Mediterranean to Tripoli, and on from
there in disguise across Arabia to the Persian Gulf, where they would
hire passage on a native trader all the way to the western shore of
India. Their ultimate destination was the Great MoghuFs court, deep in
India, and hidden in their bags would be a letter from Queen Elizabeth,
proposing direct trade.

Eventually three adventurous traders were recruited to go,

led by Roger Symmes of the Levant Company. But Peter Elkington wanted a
fourth, for protection, and he eventually persuaded a young army
captain of some reputation to join the party. The captain--originally a
painter, who had later turned soldier after the death of his wife--was
vigorous, spirited, and a deadly marksman. Peter Elkington promised him
a nobleman's fortune if they succeeded. And he promised to take
responsibility for Captain Hawksworth's eight-year-old son, Brian, if
they failed.

Peter Elkington himself came down to the Thames that cold, gray
February dawn they set sail, bringing along his own son, George--a
pudgy, pampered adolescent in a silk doublet. Young George Elkington
regally ignored Brian Hawksworth, a snub only one of the two still
remembered. As the sails slowly dissolved into the icy mist, Brian
climbed atop his uncle's shoulders to catch a long last glimpse. No one
dreamed that only one of the four would ever see London again.

Letters smuggled back in cipher kept the Levant Company informed of
progress. The party reached Tripoli without incident, made their way
successfully overland through Arabia, and then hired passage on an Arab
trader for her trip down the Persian Gulf. The plan seemed to be
working perfectly.

Then came a final letter, from the Portuguese fortress of Hormuz, a
salt-covered island peopled by traders, overlooking the straits between
the Persian Gulf and the Gulf of Oman, gateway to the Arabian Sea and
India's ports. While waiting at Hormuz for passage on to India, the
English party had been betrayed by a suspicious Venetian and accused of
being spies. The Portuguese governor of Hormuz had nervously imprisoned
them and decreed they be shipped to Goa for trial.

After waiting a few more months for further word, Peter Elkington
finally summoned Brian Hawksworth to the offices of the Levant Company
and read him this last letter. He then proceeded to curse the contract
with Captain Hawksworth that rendered the Levant Company responsible
for Brian's education should the expedition meet disaster.

Peter Elkington admitted his plan had failed, and with that admission,
the Levant Company quietly abandoned its vision of direct trade with
India.

But Brian Hawksworth now had a private tutor, engaged by the Levant
Company, a tousle-haired young apostate recently dismissed from his
post at Eton for his anti-religious views.

This new tutor scorned as dogmatic the accepted subjects of Latin,
rhetoric, and Hebrew--all intended to help Elizabethan scholars fathom
abstruse theological disputations--and insisted instead on mathematics,
and the new subject of science. His anti-clerical outlook also meant he
would teach none of the German in fashion with the Puritans, or the
French and Spanish favored by Catholics. For him all that mattered was
classical Greek: the language of logic, pure philosophy, mathematics,
and science. The end result was that the commoner Brian Hawksworth
received an education far different from, if not better than, that of
most gentlemen, and one that greatly surpassed the hornbook alphabet
and numbers that passed for learning among others of his own class.

To no one's surprise, Brian Hawksworth was his father's son, and he
took naturally to marksmanship and fencing. But his first love came to
be the English lute, his escape from the world of his tutor's hard
numbers and theorems.

It lasted until the day he was fourteen, the day the Levant Company's
responsibility expired. The next morning Brian Hawksworth found himself
apprenticed to a Thames waterman and placed in service on one of the
mud-encrusted ferryboats that plied London's main artery. After three
months of misery and ill pay, he slipped away to take a berth on a
North Sea merchantman. There he sensed at once his calling was the sea,
and he also discovered his knowledge of mathematics gave him an
understanding of navigation few other seamen enjoyed. By then he
scarcely remembered his father, or the luckless expedition to India.

Until the day Roger Symmes appeared alone back in London, almost ten
years after that icy morning the Levant Company's expedition had
sailed. . . .

The _Discovery _groaned, and Hawksworth sensed the wind freshen as it
whipped through the stern quarter gallery and noticed the increasingly
brisk swirl of the tide. Almost time to cast off. As he made his way
back to the Great Cabin for a last check, his thoughts returned again
to London, those many years ago.

He had found Symmes at the offices of the Levant Company, nursing a
tankard of ale as he sat very close to their large roaring fireplace.
He bore little resemblance to the jaunty adventurer Hawksworth
remembered from that long-ago morning on the Thames. Now he was an
incongruous figure, costumed in a tight-fitting new silk doublet and
wearing several large gold rings, yet with a face that was haggard
beyond anything Hawksworth had ever seen. His vacant eyes seemed unable
to focus as he glanced up briefly and then returned his stare to the
crackling logs in the hearth. But he needed no prompting to begin his
story.

"Aye, 'tis a tale to make the blood run ice." Symmes eased open a
button of his ornate doublet and shakily loosened his new ruff collar.
"After the Venetian rogue gets us arrest'd with his damnable lie, the
bastard Portugals clap us in the hold of a coastin' barge makin' for
Goa, in company with near a hundred Arab horses. When we finally make
port, they haul us out of that stink hole and slam us in another, this
time the Viceroy's dungeons. We took ourselves for dead men."

"But what happened to my father?" Hawksworth blinked the sweat from his
eyes, wanting the story but wanting almost more to escape the
overheated, timbered offices that loomed so alien.

"That's the horrible part o' the story. It happen'd the next mornin',
poor luckless bastard. We're all march'd into this big stone-floor'd
room where they keep the _strappado_."

"What's that?"

"Tis a kindly little invention o' the Portugals, lad. First they bind
your hands behind your back and run the rope up over a hangin' pulley
block. Then they hoist you up in the air and set to givin' it little
tugs, makin' you hop like you're dancin' the French lavolta. When they
tire o' the sport, or they're due to go say their rosary beads, they
just give it a good strong heave and pop your arms out o' your
shoulders. Jesuits claim 'twould make a Moor pray to the pope."

Hawksworth found himself watching Symmes's wild eyes as he recounted
the story, and wondering how he could remember every detail of events a
decade past.

"Then this young captain comes in, struttin' bastard, hardly a good
twenty year on him. Later I made a point to learn his name--Vaijantes,
Miguel Vaijantes."

"What did he do?"

"Had to see him, lad. Eyes black and hard as onyx. An' he sports this
sword he's had made up with rubies in the handle. Ne'er saw the likes
o' it, before or since, e'en in India. But he's a Portugal, tho',
through an' through. No doubt on that one."

"But what did he do?"

"Why, he has the guards sling Hawksworth up in the _strappado_, lad,
seein' he's the strongest one o' us. Figur'd he'd last longer, I
suppose, make more sport."

"Vaijantes had them torture my father?"

"Aye. Think's he'll squeeze a confession and be a hero. But ol'
Hawksworth ne'er said a word. All day. By nightfall Vaijantes has
pull'd his arms right out. They carried him out of the room a dead
man."

Hawksworth still remembered how his stomach turned at that moment, with
the final knowledge that his father was not merely missing, or away--as
he had told himself, and others--but had been coldly murdered. He had
checked his tears, lest Symmes see, and pressed on.

"What happened to you, and to the others? Did he torture you next?"

"Would have, not a doubt on't. We all wonder'd who'd be the next one.
Then that night they post a Jesuit down to our cell, a turncoat
Dutchman by the name of Huyghen, who spoke perfect English, thinkin'
he'd cozen us into confessin'.  But he hates the Portugals e'en more'n
we do. An' he tells us we'd most likely go free if we'd pretend to turn
Papist. So the next day we blurt out we're actually a band o' wealthy
adventurers in disguise, rich lads out to taste the world, but we've
seen the error o' our ways an' we've decided to foreswear the flesh and
turn Jesuits ourselves. Thinkin' of donatin' everything we own to their
holy order." Symmes paused and nervously drew a small sip from his
tankard of spiced ale. "Vicious Papist bastards."

"Did they really believe you?"

"Guess the Dutchman must've convinc'd 'em somehow. Anyway, our story
look'd square enough to get us out on bail, there bein' no evidence for
the charge o' spyin' in any case. But we'd hardly took a breath of air
before our old friend the Hollander comes runnin' with news the
Viceroy's council just voted to ship us back to Lisbon for trial. That
happens and we're dead men. No question. We had to look to it."

Symmes seemed to find concentration increasingly difficult, but he
extracted a long-stemmed pipe and began stuffing black strands into it
with a trembling hand while he composed himself. Finally he continued.
"Had to leave Goa that very night. What else could we do? So we traded
what little we had for diamonds, sew'd 'em up in our clothes, and waded
the river into India. By dawn we're beyond reach o' the Portugals. In
India. An' then, lad, is when it began."

"What happened?"

"T'would take a year to tell it all. Somehow we eventually got to the
Great Moghul's court. I think he was named Akman. An' we start livin'
like I never thought I'd see. Should've seen his city, lad, made London
look like a Shropshire village. He had a big red marble palace called
Fatehpur Sekri, with jewels common as rocks, an' gold e'erywhere, an'
gardens filled with fountains, an' mystical music like I'd ne'er heard,
an' dancin' women that look'd like angels . . ."

His voice trailed off. "Ah, lad, the women there."

Symmes suddenly remembered himself and turned to examine Hawksworth
with his glassy eyes. "But I fancy you're a bit young to appreciate
that part o' it, lad." Then his gaze returned to the fire and he
rambled on, warming to his own voice. "An' there was poets readin'
Persian, and painters drawin' pictures that took days to do one the
size of a book page. An' the banquets, feasts you're ne'er like to see
this side o' Judgment Day."

Symmes paused to draw on his pipe for a moment, his hand still shaking,
and then he plunged ahead. "But it was the Drugs that did it, lad, what
they call'd affion and bhang, made out o' poppy flowers and some kind
of hemp. Take enough of them and the world around you starts to get
lost. After a while you ne'er want to come back. It kill'd the others,
lad. God only knows how I escap'd."

Then Symmes took up his well-rehearsed monologue about the wealth he'd
witnessed, stories of potential trade that had earned him a place at
many a merchant's table. His tale expanded, becoming ever more
fantastic, until it was impossible to tell where fact ended and wishful
fabrication began.

Although Symmes had never actually met any Indian officials, and though
the letter from Queen Elizabeth had been lost en route, his astonishing
story of India's riches inspired the greed of all England's merchants.
Excitement swelled throughout London's Cheapside, as traders began to
clamor for England to challenge Portugal's monopoly of the sea passage
around the Cape. Symmes, by his inflated, half-imaginary account, had
unwittingly sown the first seeds of the East India Company.

Only young Brian Hawksworth, who nourished no mercantile fantasies,
seemed to realize that Roger Symmes had returned from India quite
completely mad.




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 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 . . .

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 horror 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




CHAPTER FIVE


The room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had
not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters
they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno,
but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.

Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned
out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined,
milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded
large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that
continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the
heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would
return before the day was out.

"God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the
grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen
bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then
gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested
the substance--tangy curds smelling faintly of spice--and his face
hardened.

"Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a
piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men."

"What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the
corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no
guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the
window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were
total.

"The goods are still where they unloaded them." Hawksworth revolved
toward the room. "They say nothing happens till the Shahbandar
arrives."

"What'd they say about him?" Elkington slowly drew himself to his feet.

"They said he arrives at mid morning, verifies his seal on the customs
house door, and then orders it opened. They also said that all traders
must be searched personally by his officers. He imposes duty on
everything, right down to the shillings in your pocket."

"Damn'd if I'll pay duty. Not for samples."

"That's what I said. And they ignored me. It seems to be law."
Hawksworth noticed that the gold was dissolving from the dawn sky,
surrendering to a brilliant azure. He turned, scooped a portion of
curds onto a piece of fried bread, and silently chewed as he puzzled
over the morning. And the night before.

Who had saved them? And why? Did someone in India hate the Portuguese
so much they would defend the English before even knowing who they
were? No one in India could know about King James's letter, about the
East India Company's plans. No one. Even George Elkington did not know
everything. Yet someone in India already wanted the English alive. He
had wrestled with the question for the rest of the trip upriver, and he
could think of no answers. They had been saved for a reason, a reason
he did not know, and that worried him even more than the Portuguese.

Without a pilot they had had to probe upriver slowly, sounding for
sandbars with an oar. Finally, when they were near exhaustion, the
river suddenly curved and widened. Then, in the first dim light of
morning, they caught the unmistakable outlines of a harbor. It had to
be Surat. The river lay north-south now, with the main city sprawled
along its eastern shore. The tide began to fall back, depleted, and he
realized they had timed its flow perfectly.

As they waited for dawn, the port slowly revealed itself in the eastern
glow. Long stone steps emerged directly from the Tapti River and
broadened into a wide, airy square flanked on three sides by massive
stone buildings. The structure on the downriver side was obviously a
fortress, built square with a large turret at each corner, and along
the top of walls Hawksworth could see the muzzles of cannon--they looked
to be eight-inchers--trained directly on the water. And in the waning
dark he spotted tiny points of light, spaced regularly along the top of
the fortress walls. That could only mean one thing.

"Mackintosh, ship the oars and drop anchor. We can't dock until
daylight."

"Aye, Cap'n, but why not take her in now? We can see to make a
landin'."

"And they can see us well enough to position their cannon. Look
carefully along there." Hawksworth directed his gaze toward the top of
the fortress. "They've lighted linstocks for the guns."

"Mother of God! Do they think we're goin' to storm their bleedin'
harbor with a pinnace?"

"Probably a standard precaution. But if we hold here, at least we'll
keep at the edge of their range. And we'd better put all weapons out of
sight. I want them to see a pinnace of friendly traders at sunup."

The dawn opened quickly, and as they watched, the square blossomed to
life. Large two-wheeled carts appeared through the half-dark, drawn by
muscular black oxen, some of whose horns had been tipped in silver. One
by one the oxen lumbered into the square, urged forward by the shouts
and beatings of turbaned drivers who wore folded white skirts instead
of breeches. Small fires were kindled by some of the men, and the
unmistakable scent of glowing dung chips savored the dark clouds of
smoke that drifted out across the river's surface.

Then Hawksworth first noticed the bathers that had appeared along the
shore on either side of the stone steps: brown men stripped to
loincloths and women in brilliantly colored head-to-toe wraps were
easing themselves ceremoniously into the chilled, mud-colored water,
some bowing repeatedly in the direction of the rising sun. Only the
waters fronting the stairway remained unobstructed.

When the dawn sky had lightened to a muted red, Hawksworth decided to
start their move. He surveyed the men crowded in the pinnace one last
time, and read in some faces expectation and in others fear. But in all
there was bone-deep fatigue. Only Elkington seemed fully absorbed in
the vision that lay before them.

Even from their distance the Chief Merchant was already assessing the
goods being unloaded from the carts: rolls of brown cloth, bundles of
indigo, and bales of combed cotton fiber. He would point, then turn and
gesture excitedly as he lectured Spencer.

The young clerk was now a bedraggled remnant of fashion in the powder-
smudged remains of his new doublet. The plumed hat he had worn as they
cast off had been lost in the attack downriver, and now he crouched in
the bottom of the pinnace, humiliated and morose, his eyes vacant.

"Mackintosh, weigh anchor. We'll row to the steps. Slowly."

The men bobbed alert as they hoisted the chain into the prow of the
pinnace. Oars were slipped noisily into their rowlocks and Mackintosh
signaled to get underway.

As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the
sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the
steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men
shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the
pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who
are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset.

"Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice
slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd.

"The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a
tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace.
"Who are you? Portuguese?"

"No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we
were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private
trade.

The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over
the waters.

"You are not Portuguese?"

"I told you we're English."

"Only Portuguese _topiwallahs_ are allowed to trade." The man was now
scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity.

"We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of
a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink."

"You cannot land at this hour."

"In name of Allah, the Merciful." Hawksworth stretched for his final
ploy, invocation of that hospitality underlying all Islamic life.
Demands can be ignored. A traveler's need, never. "Food and drink for
my men."

Miraculously, it seemed to work. The bearded man stopped short and
examined them again closely. Then he turned and dictated rapidly to the
group of waiting porters. In moments the men had plunged into the
chilled morning water, calling for the mooring line of the pinnace. As
they towed the pinnace into the shallows near the steps, other porters
swarmed about the boat and gestured to indicate the English should
climb over the gunwales and be carried ashore.

They caught hold of George Elkington first. He clung futilely to the
gunwales as he was dragged cursing from the bobbing pinnace and hoisted
on the backs of two small Indian men. Arms flailing, he toppled himself
from their grasp and splashed backward into the muddy Tapti. After he
floated to the surface, sputtering, he was dragged bodily from the
water and up the steps. Then the others were carried ashore, and only
Mackintosh tried to protest.

The last to leave the pinnace, Hawksworth hoisted himself off the prow
and onto the back of a wiry Indian whose thin limbs belied their
strength. The man's turban smelled faintly of sweat, but his well-worn
shirt was spotless. His dark eyes assessed Hawksworth with a practiced
sidelong glance, evaluating his attire, his importance, and the
approximate cash value of his sword in a single sweep.

Only after the porters had deposited them on the stone steps did
Hawksworth finally realize that India's best port had no wharf, that
human backs served as the loading platform for all men and goods. As he
looked around, he also noticed they had been surrounded by a crowd of
men, not identified by turbans as were the porters but uniformed more
expensively and wielding long, heavy canes. Wordlessly, automatically,
the men aligned themselves in two rows to create a protected pathway
leading up the steps and into the square. Hawksworth watched as they
beat back the gathering crowd of onlookers with their canes, and he
suddenly understood this was how the port prevented traders from
passing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circumventing
customs.

Then the tall bearded man approached Hawksworth, smiled professionally,
and bowed in the manner of Karim, hands together at the brow. "You are
welcome in the name of the Shahbandar, as a guest only, not as a
trader."

Without further greeting he directed them across the open square toward
a small stone building. "You will wait in the porters' lodge until the
customs house opens." As he ordered the heavy wooden door opened, he
curtly added, "The Shahbandar will rule whether your presence here is
permitted."

He had watched them enter, and then he was gone. Shortly after, the
food had appeared.

Hawksworth examined the room once more, its close air still damp with
the chill of dawn. The walls were squared, and the ceiling high and
arched. In a back corner a niche had been created, and in it rested a
small round stone pillar, presumably a religious object but one
Hawksworth did not recognize. Who would venerate a column of stone, he
mused, particularly one which seems almost like a man's organ? It can't
be the Muslims. They worship their own organs like no other race, but
they generally honor their law against icons. So it must be for the
gentiles, the Hindus. Which means that the porters are Hindus and their
overseers Moors. That's the privilege of conquerors. Just like every
other land the Moors have seized by the sword.

He glanced again at the tray and noted that the food had been
completely devoured, consumed by ravenous seamen who would have scorned
to touch milk curds six months before. After a moment's consideration,
Hawksworth turned and seated himself on the edge of the carpet. There's
nothing to be done. We may as well rest while we have the chance.

George Elkington had rolled himself in a corner of the

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.

I must be tired. I hadn't noticed the door until now.

Then he realized it had been concealed in the decorations on the wall.
When he did not move, the porters surrounded him.

No, they're not porters. They're the guards who held back the crowds
from the steps. And they're armed now.

"I think you will find your lodgings suitable." The Shahbandar watched
Hawksworth's body tense. "My men will escort you. Your chest will
remain here under my care."

The Shahbandar returned again to his gurgling hookah.

"My chest will not be subject to search. If it is to be searched, I
will return now to my ship." Hawksworth still did not move. "Your
officials will respect my king, and his honor."

"It is in my care." The Shahbandar waved Hawksworth toward the door. He
did not look up from his pipe.

As Hawksworth passed into the midday sunshine, he saw the Shahbandar's
own palanquin waiting by the door. Directly ahead spread the city's
teeming horse and cattle bazaar, while on his right, under a dense
banyan tree, a dark-eyed beggar sat on a pallet, clothed only in a
white loincloth and wearing ashes in his braided hair and curious white
and red marks on his forehead. His eyes were burning and intense, and
he inspected the new _feringhi _as though he'd just seen the person of
the devil.

Why should I travel hidden from view, Hawksworth puzzled?

But there was no time to ponder an answer. The cloth covering was
lifted and he found himself urged into the cramped conveyance, made
even more comfortless and hot by its heavy carpet lining and bolster
seat. In moments the street had disappeared into jolting darkness.




CHAPTER SIX


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 t

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