The Moghul Page 5

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bells sounded ending the afternoon watch and calling the first dogwatch. Only four hours since noon, but already the morning's carnageseemed a memory from a distant lifetime. Sultry tropic air, motionlessand stifling, immersed the _Discovery_ as the gaunt-faced seamenlabored to finish securing the mast of the pinnace. Mackintosh hadordered the pinnace's sail unrolled on deck, and as he inspected thestitches for rot he alternately reviled the men, the heat, the Company.Hawksworth had completed the log and stood in the companionway outsidethe Great Cabin to watch the preparations, take the air, and exercisehis leg. All the previous night he had stood on the quarterdeck,keeping the helm and translating for the pilot. And tonight again therewould 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 himselffor his weakness, his readiness to yield, and shoved open the door ofthe Great Cabin.

  The oil lamp swayed with each roll of the ship, punctuating therhythmic 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 toprepare the chest in suffocating misery. So be it.

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

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

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

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

  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 withoutits being searched. I'm not a genuine ambassador. I'm the captain of amerchantman, 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 sohard. 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 thetiller, and he glanced up in irritation. "Send the pilot to my cabin."

  Hawksworth had scarcely seated himself behind the great oak tablebefore the tall chestnut-skinned man appeared in the doorway.Hawksworth examined the face again, expressionless and secure, askinghimself its years. Is he thirty; is he fifty? The features seemed castfrom 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 meagain the business of your vessel."

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

  Hawksworth recalled the vessel, and his astonishment at her size. Shehad had five masts and was easily twelve hundred tons, over twice theburden of the _Discovery_ and greater than anything he had ever seenbefore, even the most ambitious Spanish carrack. But when they spottedher, tacking eastward across the Bay of Cambay, she was unarmed andhove to almost before they had fired across her bow. Why unarmed, hehad 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'svoice 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 fullcharge of navigation for the _nakuda_, the owner. To you he would becaptain."

  "And what was your salary for the voyage?"

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

  Hawksworth smiled resignedly to himself, remembering he hadunquestioningly delivered to the _nakuda _a bag of Spanish rials ofeight equivalent to five hundred Indian rupees to buy out the pilot'scontract. Then he spoke.

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

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

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

  "I would not expect it. Although this year's monsoons are past and theriver has returned to normal, there are new sandbanks. Every seasonthey shift, becoming more treacherous. Only those of us who know theriver 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 airof condescension," _Topiwallah _is our word meaning 'men who wearhats.' We call Christian traders _topiwallahs_." He fixed Hawksworthsquarely. "And we have other names for their priests."

  "Call Christians what you will, but just remember England is notPortugal." Hawksworth's tone stiffened. "England has rid herself of thepopery that still rules the Spaniards and Portugals. Along with theirfear-mongering Jesuits and their damned Inquisition. It's now treasonto practice Catholic rites in England."

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

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

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

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

  Karim studied Hawksworth in sil
ence, fingering his jeweled earring inthought as he recalled the morning's battle. Two small English merchantfrigates had prevailed over four Portuguese warships, galleons. Neverbefore, he told himself, have the Portuguese been humiliated before oureyes. Pigeons must already be winging word of this incredible encounterto Agra. Separately, no doubt, to the Moghul and to the queen. ButQueen Janahara will know first. As always. And she will know herPortuguese 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 mostimportant question now.

  "Just tell me about the navigation of the river," Hawksworth continuedunable to decipher Karim's distant expression. "How long will it takefor 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 breezeoff the sea. But the Portuguese have no authority on our river. Onceyou are inland you are under the rule of the governor of Surat. . . .and, of course, Prince Jadar, whom the Moghul has appointed toadministrate 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 freshevening air. Then he wheeled and examined Karim, the pilot's faceshadowed in the half light.

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

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

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

  Again Karim paused, wondering how much to tell, before continuingevenly, "Neither of these need concern you now. The first official youmust satisfy will be the Shahbandar, what the Moghuls call the_mutasaddi_. The Shahbandar controls the customs house, the portal forall who would enter the Moghul's domain. His power over the port isabsolute."

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

  In India also! Good Jesus, every Muslin port in the world must havethis 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, athis whim, if bribes are insufficient and no more powerful officialintervenes.

  "Who does the Shahbandar here answer to? The governor? The prince? TheMoghul 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 questionit is wiser not to pursue. I can only assure you the Shahbandar is aman 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 aray from the fading sun pierced the stern window, glancing off the oakboards of the table. A twilight silence seemed to settle uneasily overthe _Discovery_, amplifying the creaking of her boards.

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

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

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

  He took a deep breath and, fighting the ache in his leg, made his wayout to the quarter gallery on the stern. A lone flying fish, maroonedin the bay from its home in the open sea, burst from the almost placidwaters, glinting the orange sun off its body and settling with asplash, annoying the seabirds that squabbled over gallery scraps alongthe port side. Seamen carrying rations of salt pork and biscuit wereclambering down the companionway and through the hatch leading to thelower deck and their hammocks. Hawksworth listened to them curse theclose, humid air below, and then he turned to inhale again the landbreeze, permeated with a green perfume of almost palpable intensity.

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

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

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

  He recalled again the story he knew all too well. The man financingthose 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 aswearing, drinking, whoring merchant, a big-bellied giant of a man whomany people claimed looked more and more like King Harry the older andfatter he got. It was Peter Elkington's original idea those many yearsback 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 networksof 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 restof Europe still was overland, the centuries-old caravan trail that longpreceded Portugal's secret new sea route around the Cape.

  The idea of an English mission overland to India had grown out of PeterElkington's Levant Company, franchised by Queen Elizabeth to exploither new treaty with the Ottoman Turks, controllers of the caravan tradebetween India and the Mediterranean. Through the Levant Company,English traders could at last buy spices directly at Tripoli fromoverland caravans traveling the Persian Gulf and across Arabia, therebycircumventing the greedy Venetian brokers who for centuries had servedas middlemen for Europe's pepper and spices.

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

  To gain intelligence for this daring trade expansion, he decided tofinance a secret expedition to scout the road to India, to send a partyof English traders through the Mediterranean to Tripoli, and on fromthere in disguise across Arabia to the Persian Gulf, where they wouldhire passage on a native trader all the way to the western shore ofIndia. Their ultimate destination was the Great MoghuFs court, deep inIndia, 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 afourth, for protection, and he eventually persuaded a young armycaptain of some reputation to join the party. The captain--originally apainter, who had later turned soldier after the death of his wife--wasvigorous, spirited, and a deadly marksman. Peter Elkington promised hima nobleman's fortune if they succeeded. And he promised to takeresponsibility for Captain Hawksworth's eight-year-old son, Brian, ifthey failed.

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

  Letters smuggled back in c
ipher kept the Levant Company informed ofprogress. The party reached Tripoli without incident, made their waysuccessfully overland through Arabia, and then hired passage on an Arabtrader for her trip down the Persian Gulf. The plan seemed to beworking perfectly.

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

  After waiting a few more months for further word, Peter Elkingtonfinally summoned Brian Hawksworth to the offices of the Levant Companyand read him this last letter. He then proceeded to curse the contractwith Captain Hawksworth that rendered the Levant Company responsiblefor 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 withIndia.

  But Brian Hawksworth now had a private tutor, engaged by the LevantCompany, a tousle-haired young apostate recently dismissed from hispost 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 fathomabstruse theological disputations--and insisted instead on mathematics,and the new subject of science. His anti-clerical outlook also meant hewould teach none of the German in fashion with the Puritans, or theFrench and Spanish favored by Catholics. For him all that mattered wasclassical Greek: the language of logic, pure philosophy, mathematics,and science. The end result was that the commoner Brian Hawksworthreceived an education far different from, if not better than, that ofmost gentlemen, and one that greatly surpassed the hornbook alphabetand numbers that passed for learning among others of his own class.

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

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

  Until the day Roger Symmes appeared alone back in London, almost tenyears after that icy morning the Levant Company's expedition hadsailed. . . .

  The _Discovery _groaned, and Hawksworth sensed the wind freshen as itwhipped through the stern quarter gallery and noticed the increasinglybrisk swirl of the tide. Almost time to cast off. As he made his wayback to the Great Cabin for a last check, his thoughts returned againto London, those many years ago.

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

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

  "But what happened to my father?" Hawksworth blinked the sweat from hiseyes, wanting the story but wanting almost more to escape theoverheated, 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'droom where they keep the _strappado_."

  "What's that?"

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

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

  "Then this young captain comes in, struttin' bastard, hardly a goodtwenty 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 thissword he's had made up with rubies in the handle. Ne'er saw the likeso' 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, Isuppose, 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 haspull'd his arms right out. They carried him out of the room a deadman."

  Hawksworth still remembered how his stomach turned at that moment, withthe final knowledge that his father was not merely missing, or away--ashe had told himself, and others--but had been coldly murdered. He hadchecked 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 turncoatDutchman by the name of Huyghen, who spoke perfect English, thinkin'he'd cozen us into confessin'. But he hates the Portugals e'en more'nwe do. An' he tells us we'd most likely go free if we'd pretend to turnPapist. So the next day we blurt out we're actually a band o' wealthyadventurers in disguise, rich lads out to taste the world, but we'veseen the error o' our ways an' we've decided to foreswear the flesh andturn Jesuits ourselves. Thinkin' of donatin' everything we own to theirholy order." Symmes paused and nervously drew a small sip from histankard of spiced ale. "Vicious Papist bastards."

  "Did they really believe you?"

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

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

  "What happened?"

  "T'would take a year to tell it all. Somehow we eventually got to theGreat Moghu
l'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 Londonlook like a Shropshire village. He had a big red marble palace calledFatehpur 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 Hawksworthwith his glassy eyes. "But I fancy you're a bit young to appreciatethat part o' it, lad." Then his gaze returned to the fire and herambled on, warming to his own voice. "An' there was poets readin'Persian, and painters drawin' pictures that took days to do one thesize of a book page. An' the banquets, feasts you're ne'er like to seethis 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, whatthey call'd affion and bhang, made out o' poppy flowers and some kindof hemp. Take enough of them and the world around you starts to getlost. 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'dwitnessed, stories of potential trade that had earned him a place atmany a merchant's table. His tale expanded, becoming ever morefantastic, until it was impossible to tell where fact ended and wishfulfabrication began.

  Although Symmes had never actually met any Indian officials, and thoughthe letter from Queen Elizabeth had been lost en route, his astonishingstory of India's riches inspired the greed of all England's merchants.Excitement swelled throughout London's Cheapside, as traders began toclamor for England to challenge Portugal's monopoly of the sea passagearound the Cape. Symmes, by his inflated, half-imaginary account, hadunwittingly 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 quitecompletely mad.