The Moghul Part 13

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 ash.o.r.e, 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 a.s.sessed 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 pa.s.sing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circ.u.mventing 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 antic.i.p.ation. 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 pa.s.sed 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 ash.o.r.e. 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 anch.o.r.ed 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 a.s.sembled 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 G.o.d'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.