The Moghul Part 12

"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 pa.s.sed, 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 gra.s.sy 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.

"G.o.d 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 d.a.m.ned 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."

"d.a.m.n'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 sh.o.r.e. 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 ma.s.sive 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, s.p.a.ced 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 G.o.d! 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 sh.o.r.e 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 un.o.bstructed.

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 a.s.sessing 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 a.s.sumed 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 ash.o.r.e.