The Moghul Page 3

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

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

  A round of cheers told him the last two casks of salt pork had finallyemerged from the smoky hold, and he moved to the railing to watch asthey were rolled toward the cauldron boiling on deck. As he surveyedthe faces of the gathering men, he asked himself how many could stillchew the briny meat he had hoarded so carefully for this final morningof the voyage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Finally, he directed the glass toward the remains of two Portuguesegalleons aground in the sandy shallows off his starboard quarter, blacksmoke still streaming from gaps in their planking where explosions hadripped through the hull. And for an instant his stomach tightened, justas it had earlier that morning, when one of those same galleons hadlaid deep shadows across the _Discovery's _decks, so close he couldalmost read the eyes of the infantry poised with grapples to swing downand board. The Portugals will be back, he told himself, and soon. Withfireships.

  He scanned the river mouth once more. It was deserted now. Even thefishing craft had fled. But upriver would be another matter. Portugueselongboats, launched with boarding parties of infantry, had beenstranded when the two galleons were lost. Together they had carriedeasily a hundred, perhaps two hundred musketmen.

  They made for the Tapti, he thought grimly, and they'll be upriverwaiting. We have to launch before they can set a blockade. Tonight. Onthe 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, beforethe last dog watch."

  The quartermaster pulled at his matted red curls in silence as hestudied the tree-lined river mouth. Then he turned abruptly toHawksworth. "Takin' the pinnace upriver'll be a death sentence, Cap'n,I warrant you. Portugals'll be layin' for us, thicker'n whores at aTyburn hangin'." He paused deliberately and knotted the string holdingback hair from his smoke-darkened cheeks. "I say we weigh at the tideand ease the frigates straight up their hell-bound river. She's wide asthe Thames at Woolwich. We'll run out the guns and hand the pox-rottedPapists 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 shallowsupriver."

  "All the more reason to sail. By my thinkin' the pilot's a full-bredMoor. An' they're all the same, Indian or Turk." Mackintosh blew hisnose over the railing, punctuating his disgust. "Show me one that's naa liar, a thief, or a damned Sodomite. Nae honest Christian'll creditthe 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 tothink of. Taken for all, it's got to be the pinnace. And this Moorishpilot'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. Evenafter two years apart. "But I'll be watchin' the bastard, e'ery move hemakes."

  Hawksworth turned and slowly descended the quarterdeck steps. As heentered the passageway leading aft to the Great Cabin and themerchants' cabins, he saw the silhouette of George Elkington. The ChiefMerchant of the voyage was standing by the quarter gallery railing,drawing on a long clay pipe as he urinated into the swells. When hespotted 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, aluxuriant 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'enbefore we've made safe anchorage for the cargo?"

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

  "Your first obligation, sirrah, is the goods. Every shilling theCompany subscrib'd is cargo'd in these two damn'd merchantmen. A finefortune in wool broadcloth, Devonshire kersey, pig iron, tin,quicksilver. I've a good ten thousand pound of my own accountsinvest'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 downthe coast in Goa. 'Tis sure they'll be laid full about this anchorageinside a fortnight."

  Hawksworth inspec
ted Elkington with loathing, musing what he dislikedabout him most--his grating voice, or his small lifeless eyes.

  And what you probably don't realize is they'll be back next time withtrained gunners. Not like today, when their gun crews clearly wereLisbon dockside rabble, private traders who'd earned passage out to theIndies on the easy claim they were gunners, half not knowing a linstockfrom 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'retaking the pinnace upriver tonight on the tide. And you'll be in it,along with your coxcomb clerk. Captain Kerridge of the _Resolve_ willtake command of the ships. I've already prepared orders to move bothfrigates 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 thebetter, particularly the men going upriver."

  "Well, I know this much, Hawksworth. This voyage to India may well bethe East India Company's last chance to trade in the Indies. If we failthree voyages in a row, we'd as well close down the Company and justbuy pepper and spice outright from the damn'd Hollanders. England's gotno goods that'll trade in the Spice Islands south o' here. RememberLancaster cargo'd wool down to the islands on the first two Companyvoyages, thinkin' to swap it for pepper, and discover'd for himselfwhat I'd guess'd all along--a tribe of heathens sweatin' in the sun haveno 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 tillwe make Surat. With luck you'll have your cargo aland before thePortugals locate us." Hawksworth pushed open the heavy oak door of theGreat Cabin and entered, stranding Elkington in the passageway. "Andnow I wish you good day."

  The cabin's dark overhead beams were musty from the heat and its airstill dense with smoke from the cannon. The stern windows were partlyblocked now by the two bronze demi-culverin that had been run out aft,"stern-chaser" cannon that could spit a nine-pound ball with deadlyaccuracy--their lighter bronze permitting longer barrels than those ofthe cast-iron guns below decks. He strode directly to the oil lanternswaying over the great center desk and turned up the wick. The cabinbrightened slightly, but the face of the English lute wedged in thecorner seemed suddenly to come alive, shining gold over the crampedquarters like a full moon. He stared at it wistfully for a moment, thenshook his head and settled himself behind the large oak desk. And askedhimself 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 finallyaccepted the Company's offer. . . .

  It had been a dull morning in late October, the kind of day when allLondon seems trapped in an icy gloom creeping up from the Thames. Hisweekly lodgings were frigid as always, and his mind was still numb fromthe previous night's tavern brandy. Back from Tunis scarcely a month,he already had nothing left to pawn. Two years before, he had beenleading a convoy of merchantmen through the Mediterranean when theirships and cargo were seized by Turkish corsairs, galleys owned by thenotorious _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 havebeen small matter to remedy. But no longer. England, he discovered, hadchanged.

  The change was apparent mainly to seamen. The lower house of Parliamentwas still preoccupied fighting King James's new proposal that Scotlandbe joined to England, viewed by most Englishmen as a sufferance ofproud beggars and ruffians upon a nation of uniformly uprighttaxpayers; in London idle crowds still swarmed the bear gardens towager on the huge mastiffs pitted against the chained bears; riotingtenant farmers continued to outrage propertied men by tearing downenclosures and grazing their flocks on the gentry's private huntingestates; and the new Puritans increasingly harassed everyone theydisapproved of, from clerics who wore vestments to women who worecosmetics to children who would play ball on Sunday.

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

  For a captain without a ship, another commission by a trading companyseemed out of the question, and especially now, with experienced seamenstanding idle the length of London. Worst of all, the woman he hadhoped to return to, red-haired Maggie Tyne of Billingsgate, haddisappeared from her old lodgings and haunts leaving no trace. Rumorhad her married--some said to the master of a Newcastle coal barge,others to a gentleman. London seemed empty now, and he passed thevacant 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 hisimmediate appearance at the Director's Office of the East IndiaCompany, should this coincide with his convenience. He found its toneominous. Was some merchant planning to have him jailed for his loss ofcargo to the Turks? But he'd been sailing for the Levant Company, notthe East India Company. He debated with himself all morning, andfinally decided to go. And face the mercantile bastards.

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

  And he was astonished by what awaited. Standing hard by the Director'sdesk--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 yearsapart had brought a change beyond anything he could have imagined.

  No one would have guessed what she once had been, a dockside girlhappiest at the Southwark bear-gardens, or in a goose-down bed. Andsomehow she had always managed to turn a shilling at both--wagering witha practiced eye on the snarling dogs brought in to bloody the bears, ortaking her pleasure only after deftly extracting some loan, to allay anurgent need she inevitably remembered the moment she entered hislodgings.

  That morning, however, she reigned like an exotic flower, flourishingamid the mercantile gloom. She was dressed and painted in the verylatest upper-class style--her red hair now bleached deep yellow,sprinkled thick with gold dust, and buried under a feathered hat; hercrushed-velvet bodice low-necked, cut fashionably just below thenipples, then tied at the neck with a silk lace ruff; her once-ruddybreasts now painted pale, with blue veins penciled in; and her facecarefully powdered lead-white, save the red dye on her lips and cheeksand the glued-on beauty patches of stars and half-moons. His docksidegirl had become a completely modern lady of fashion. He watched indisbelief 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 damnedTurks." He extended a manicured hand while he braced himself on thesilver knob of his cane. Although Spencer's flowing hair was purewhite, his face still clung tenuously to youth. His doublet wasexpensive, and in the new longer waist-length style Hawksworthremembered seeing on young men-about-town. "'Tis indeed a pleasure.Nay, 'tis an honor." The tone was practiced and polite, a transparentattempt at sincerity rendered difficult by Hawksworth's raggedappearance. He had listened to Spencer mutely, suddenly realizing hisloss of cargo had been forgotten. He was being congratulated for comingback alive.

  "'Twas the wife, Margaret here, set me thinkin' about you. Says you twowere lightly acquainted in younger years. Pity I never knew her thenmyself." Spencer motioned him toward a ca
rved wooden chair facing thedesk. "She ask'd to be here today to help me welcome you. Uncommonlywinsome lady, what say?"

  Hawksworth looked at Maggie's gloating eyes and felt his heart turn. Itwas obvious enough she'd found her price. At last she had what she'dalways 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, andI'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'sdispatchin' another voyage down to the Indies this comin' spring. Soonas our new frigate, the _Discovery_, is out of the yard. And this timeour first port of call's to be India." Spencer caught Hawksworth'slook, without realizing it was directed past him, at Maggie. "Aye, Iknow. 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 tryopenin' India to English trade."

  Spencer had paused and examined Hawksworth skeptically. A process ofsizing up seemed underway, of pondering whether this shipless captainwith the bloodshot eyes and gold earring was really the man. He lookeddown and inspected his manicured nails for a long moment, thencontinued.

  "Now what I'm about to tell you mustn't go past this room. But firstlet 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 hopesyou'd teach his damned Turks how to use the English cannon you had onboard."

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

  "God damn the Barbary Turks. And the Englishmen who've started helpingthem." Spencer bristled. "Next thing and they'll be out past Gibraltar,pillaging our shipping right up the Thames. But I understand yourevised 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. Butone night I managed to knife two of the guards and slip down to theyard. I worked till dawn and had the guns spiked before anybodyrealized I was gone."

  "And I hear you next stole a single-masted shallop and sail'd thelength of the Barbary coast alone, right up to Gibraltar, where youhailed 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 ofthe Turks while you were in Tunis. Well, sirrah, answer me now, can youspeak it or no?"

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

  "Hear me out, sir. If all I wanted was to anchor a cargo of Englishgoods 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 ahundred years back, and their king, the one they call the Great Moghul,still speaks some Turki, the language of the Central Asian steppes. NowI'm told this Turki bears fair resemblance to the language of thedamned Turks in the Mediterranean." Spencer assumed a conspiratorialsmile. "I've a plan in mind, but it needs a man who speaks this GreatMoghul's language."

  Hawksworth suddenly realized Maggie must have somehow convinced Spencerhe was the only seaman in England who knew Turkish. It could scarcelybe true.

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

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

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

  Hawksworth sensed the interview would not be short, and he settleduneasily into the chair. Maggie still stood erect and formal, affectinga dignity more studied than natural. As Spencer warmed to his subjecthe 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--andsoon enough we've got the locals edgy. Handle it right and pretty soonthey'll sign over exclusive trade. No more competition." Spencer smiledagain in private satisfaction. "Are you startin' to follow mythinkin'?"

  "What you've described is the very arrangement the Portugals have inIndia now." Hawksworth tried to appear attentive, but he couldn't keephis eyes off Maggie, who stood behind Spencer wearing a triumphantsmile. "And they've got plenty of cannon and sail to make sure theirtrade's exclusive."

  "We know all about the Portugals' fleet of warships, and theirshipyards 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 empireof the Portugals is rotten. I can almost smell it. But if we dallyabout, the damned Hollanders are sure to move in." Spencer had becomeincreasingly excited, and Hawksworth watched as he began pacing aboutthe room.

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

  "Damn me, Hawksworth, it's not that easy. We send some dandified gentrywho doesn't know the language, and he'll end up havin' to do all histalkin' through court interpreters. And who might they be? Well let mejust show you, sirrah." Spencer began to shuffle impatiently throughthe papers on his desk. "They're Jesuits. Damned Jesuits. Papistsstraight 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 ofhim. "We've just got hold of some Jesuit letters. Sent out from theMoghul capital at Agra, through Goa, intended for Lison. They'll tellyou plain enough what the Company's up against." His search becameincreasingly frenetic. "Damn me, they were here." He rose and shuffledtoward the door, waving his cane in nervous agitation. "Hold a minute."

  Hawksworth had watched him disappear through the doorway, then lookedback to see Maggie laughing. She retrieved a leather-bound packet fromthe mantel and tossed it carelessly onto the desk. He found himselfwatching 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'ercapable 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." Thenshe 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 spiedthe leather packet. "That's it." He seized the bundle and thrust ittoward Hawksworth. "Read these through, sirrah, and you'll see clearenough what we're up against. There's absolutely no point whatever inpostin' a real ambassador now." He hesitated for a moment, as thoughunsure how to phrase his next point. "The most amazing thing is whatthey say about the Great Moghul himself, the one they call Arangbar.The Jesuits claim the man's scarcely ever sober. Seems he lives on somekind of poppy sap they call opium, and on wine. He's a Moor sureenough, but he drinks like a Christian, downs a full gallon of wine aday. E'en holds audiences with a flagon in his hand. From the letters Ican sense the Jesuits all marvel how the damned heathen does it, butthey swear 'tis true. No, sirrah, we can't send some fancy-titledambassador now. That's later. We want a man of quality, it goes withoutsayin', but he's got to be able to drink with that damned Moor andparlay with him in his cups. No Jesuit interpreters."

  Hawksworth steadied his hand on the carved arm of the chair, stillamazed by Maggie. "What will your subscribers think about sending thecaptain 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 makelandfall. But you sail'd the Mediterranean half a decade, and you knowenough about the Turks." Spencer tapped his fingers impatiently on hisink-stained blotter. "And lest you're worried, have no doubt theCompany 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 youtold me all of it?"

  "Damn Elkington. What's he to do with this?" Spencer stopped in frontof the desk and fixed Hawksworth's gaze. "Aye, there's more. But whatI'm about to tell you now absolutely has to remain between us. So haveI 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. Andgifts. All the usual diplomatic falderal these potentates expect. You'ddeliver the whole affair. Now the letter'll offer full and free tradebetween England and India, nothing more. Won't mention the Portugals.That'll come later. This is just the beginning. For now all we want isa 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 theHollanders. Let the Papists and the Butterboxes look to their affairsafter we have a treaty. Remember the Portugals are swarmin' about theMoghul's court, audiences every day. Not to mention a fleet of warshipsholdin' the entire coast. And if they spy your colors, they're not aptto 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 thelength of Cheapside in a fortnight. He'll be on the voyage, I regret tosay, but just as Chief Merchant. Which is all he's fit for, though I'dwarrant he presumes otherwise."

  "I'd like a few days to think about it." Hawksworth looked again atMaggie, still disbelieving. "First I'd like to see the _Discovery_. AndI'd also like to see your navigation charts for the Indian Ocean. I'veseen plenty of logs down to the Cape, and east, but nothing north fromthere."

  "And with good reason. We've got no rutters north of the Cape. NoEnglish sea dog's ever sail'd it. But I've made some inquiries, and Ithink I've located a salt here who shipp'd it once, a long time past. ADutchman named Huyghen. The truth is he was born and rais'd right herein London. He started out a Papist and when things got a bit hot inEngland back around time of the Armada he left for Holland. E'en took aDutch 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 ofpopery soon enough, and came back to Amsterdam. Some years later hehelp'd out their merchants by tellin' them exactly how the Portugalsnavigate the passage round the Cape and out. The Hollanders say hadn'tbeen for the maps he drew up, they'd never have been able to double theCape in the first place. But he's back in London now, and we've track'dhim down. I understand he may've gone a bit daft, but perhaps 'twoulddo 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 bewell 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'scarriage inching through London's teeming streets for what seemed alifetime. His first sight of the shipyard was a confused tangle ofplanking, ropes, and workmen, but he knew at a glance the _Discovery_was destined to be handsome. The keel had been laid weeks before, andhe could already tell her fo'c'sle would be low and rakish. She was ahundred and thirty feet from the red lion of her beakhead to thetaffrail at her stern--where gilding already was being applied to theornate quarter galleries. She was five hundred tons burden, each tonsome six hundred cubic feet of cargo space, and she would carry ahundred and twenty men when fully crewed. Over her swarmed an army ofcarpenters, painters, coopers, riggers, and joiners, while skilledartisans were busy attaching newly gilded sculptures to her bow andstern.

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

  He noticed that barrels of beer had been stationed around the yard forthe workmen, to blunt the lure of nearby alehouses, and as he stoodwatching he saw Chandler seize a grizzled old bystander who had helpedhimself 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, hisface ravaged by decades of salt wind and hard drink-- reviling theCompany.

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

  Hawksworth realized he must be Huyghen. He intercepted him at the edgeof 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 gentryfingerin' their meat pies. They'll ne'er take in the likes o' me." Thenhe examined Hawksworth and flashed a toothless grin. "But there's analehouse right down the way where a man wi' salt in his veins can stilltaste a drop in peace."

  They went and Hawksworth had ordered the first round. When the tankardsarrived, Huyghen attacked his thirstily, maintaining a cynical silenceas Hawksworth began describing the Company's planned voyage, then askedhim what he knew of the passage east and north of the Cape. As soon ashis 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'eragain 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 sh
ootin' down toJava, like the Company's done before. 'Tis the roughest passage you'ree'er like to ship. Portugals post bottoms twice the burden o' theCompany's damn'd little frigates and still lose a hundred men e'eryvoyage out. When scurvy don't take 'em all. E'en the Dutchmen arescared o' it."

  Then Huyghen returned to his stories of Goa. Something in theexperience seemed to preoccupy his mind. Hawksworth found thedigression 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'vemade the passage."

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

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

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

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

  "He's the lyin' son of a Spaniard's whore. I made this chart o' theIndies wi' my own hand, years ago, for the Dutchmen. But what's thedifference? He copied it right." Huyghen spat on the floor and thenstabbed the east coast of Africa with a stubby finger. "Now you comeout o' the Mozambique Channel and into the Indian Ocean too early inthe 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, saypast the middle o' September, and you're fightin' a head wind all theway. She's already turn'd on you. But come north round by Sokatra nearthe 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 switchabout. Two weeks, three at most, that's all you'll get. But steer ittrue an' you'll make landfall just as India's ports reopen for theautumn tradin' season."

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

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

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

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

  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 Moorpart'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'vedecipher'd what 'tis. But 'tis not a thing easy to spell out."

  Huyghen was beginning to drift now, his eyes glazed in warmforgetfulness from the ale. But still he continued. "You know, lad, Iactually 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 nameclicked, and the date--1583. Huyghen must have been the Dutch Catholic,the one said to speak fluent English, who'd intervened for the Englishscouting party imprisoned in Goa that year by the Portuguese. He triedto 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 longtime past, lad. Aye, Goa was quite the place then. Lucky I escap'd whenI 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"--Huyghengestured fondly about the alehouse, where sweat-soaked laborers andseamen were drinking, quarreling, swearing as they bargained with ascattering of weary prostitutes in dirty, tattered shifts--"all thisseems . . ." He took a deep draft of ale, attempting vainly toformulate his thoughts. "I've ne'er been one wi' words. But don't doit, lad. You go in, go all the way in to India, an' I'll wager you'llne'er be heard from more. I've seen it happen."

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

  But Huyghen's words stayed. And that night Brian Hawksworth walkedalone on the quay beside the Thames, bundled against the wet autumnwind, and watched the ferry lanterns ply through the fog and heard themuffled harangues of streetwalkers and cabmen from the muddy streetabove. 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 beforeher rich widower discovered the truth. Or before she admitted the truthto 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 instinctivelytoward the pulley lines that secured the two bronze cannon. Then heremembered why he had left the quarterdeck, and he unlocked the topdrawer of the desk and removed the ship's log. He leafed one more timethrough its pages, admiring his own script--strong but with anoccasional flourish.

  Someday this could be the most valuable book in England, he toldhimself. If we return. This will be the first log in England todescribe what the voyage to India is really like. The Company will havea 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 takentheir daily speed and used it to estimate longitude every morning sincethe Cape, the last location where it was known exactly. And as hestudied the pages of the log, he realized how exact Huyghen'sprediction had been. The old man had been eerily correct about thewinds 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 andrain 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 goodhundred land miles a day. They rode the monsoon's tail, and it wasstill angry, but there was no longer a question that English frigatescould weather the passage.

  As August drew to a close, however, scurvy had finally grown epidemicon his sister ship, the _Resolve_. The men's teeth loosened, their gumsbled, 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 ofocean travelers might at long last be preventable. Lancaster, on thevery first voyage of the East India Company, had stumbled onto anhistoric _Discovery_. As a test, he'd shipped bottles of the juice oflemons on his flagship and ordered every seaman to take three spoonfulsa day. And his had been the only vessel of the three to withstandscurvy.

  Hawksworth had argued with Captain Kerridge of the _Resolve_, insistingthey both stow lemon juice as a preventative. But Kerridge had alwaysresented Lancaster, particularly the fact he'd been knighted on returnfrom a voyage that showed almost no profit. He refused to creditLancaster's findings.

  "No connection. By my thinkin' Lancaster just had a run o' sea-dogluck. Then he goes about claimin' salt meat brings on the scurvy. Apack o' damn'd foolishness. I say salt meat's fine for the lads. Boilit 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, Hollandercheese. Any fool knows scurvy comes from men sleepin' in the night dewsoff the sea. Secure your gu
nports by night and you'll ne'er see thedamn'd scurvy."

  Hawksworth had suspected Kerridge's real reason was the cost: lemonjuice was imported and expensive. When the Company rejected his ownrequest for an allowance, he had provisioned the _Discovery _out of hisown 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 byscurvy throughout the voyage, even though both vessels had put in forfresh provisions at Zanzibar in late June. Six weeks ago, he had had nochoice but to order half his own remaining store of lemon juicetransferred 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 couldalmost smell land, but he dared not try for landfall. Not yet. Notwithout an Indian pilot to guide them past the notorious sandbars andshoals that lined the coast like giant submerged claws. The monsoonwinds were dying. Indian shipping surely would begin soon. So they hoveto, waiting.

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

  Hawksworth reached the last entry in the log. Yesterday. The day theyhad 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 largeship from the country to heave to, by shooting four pieces across herbow. Took from this ship an Indian pilot, paying in Spanish rials ofeight. First offered English gold sovereigns, but these refused asunknown coin. Also purchased 6 casks water, some baskets lemons,melons, plantains."

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

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

  The previous night he had ordered the Indian pilot to sketch a chart ofthe coastline on both sides of the Tapti River delta. He did not tellhim why. And on the map he had spotted a cove five leagues to thenorth, called Swalley, that looked to be shallow and was also shieldedby hills screening it from the sea. Even if the Portuguese discoveredthem, the deep draft of Portuguese galleons would hold them at sea. Themost they could do would be send boarding parties by pinnace, orfireships. The cove would buy time, time to replenish stores, perhapseven to set the men ashore and attend the sick. The longer theanchorage could be kept secret, the better their chances. He hadalready prepared sealed orders for Captain Kerridge, directing him tosteer both frigates there after dark, when their movement could not befollowed 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 inIndia turned against him. He swabbed more sweat from his face andglanced one last time at the glistening face of the lute, wonderingwhat 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-boundvolume, inked it, and shoved back the sleeve of his doublet to write.