The Moghul Part 17

"Do Rajputs also serve the governor?"

The man laughed broadly and smoothed the braided mane of his horse as he twisted sideways in the saddle and repeated Hawksworth's question for the other riders. A peal of amus.e.m.e.nt cut the quiet of the evening streets.

"My dear English captain, he might wish to hang them, but he would never hire them. His Excellency has the pick of the Moghul infantry and cavalry in this district, men of lineage and breeding. Why should he need Hindus?"

Hawksworth monitored the riders carefully out of the corner of his eye and thought he detected a trace of nervousness in their mirth. Yes, he told himself, why use Hindus--except the Shahbandar's Hindu mercenaries got the advantage of you in only seconds. While you and your pick of the Moghul cavalry were fiddling with your unc.o.c.ked muskets. Perhaps there's a good reason the Shahbandar doesn't hire men of lineage and breeding.

Hawksworth noticed they were paralleling a wall of the city, a high brick barrier with iron pikes set along its capstone. Abruptly the wall curved across the road they were traveling and they were facing a ma.s.sive wooden gate that spanned the width of the street. Suddenly guards appeared, each in uniform and holding a pike. They hurriedly swung wide the gate as the procession approached, then snapped crisply to attention along the roadside.

"This is the Abidjan Gate." The secretary nodded in response to the salute of the guards. "You can just see the field from here." He pointed ahead, then urged his horse to a gallop. A cooling dampness was invading the evening air, and now the sun had entirely disappeared into the cloud of dense cooking smoke that boiled above the city, layering a dark mantle over the landscape. Again Hawksworth felt his apprehension rising. What's the purpose of bringing me to a field outside the city, with dark approaching? He instinctively fingered the cool handle of his sword, but its feel did nothing to ease his mind.

Then he heard cheers from the field ahead, and saw a burning ball fly across the evening sky. Ahead was a large green, and on it hors.e.m.e.n raced back and forth, shouting and cursing in several languages, their horses jostling recklessly. Other mounted hors.e.m.e.n watched from the side of the green and bellowed encouragement.

As they approached the edge of the field, Hawksworth saw one of the players capture the burning ball, guiding it along the green with a long stick whose end appeared to be curved. He spurred his mottled gray mount toward two tall posts stationed at one end of the green. Another player was hard in chase, and his horse, a dark stallion, was closing rapidly toward the rolling ball. As the first player swept upward with his stick, lofting the burning ball toward the posts, the second player pa.s.sed him and--in a maneuver that seemed dazzling to Hawksworth--circled his own stick over his head and captured the ball in midair, deflecting it toward the edge of the green where Hawksworth and his guards waited.

Cheers went up from some of the players and spectators, and the hors.e.m.e.n all dashed for the edge of the green in chase of the ball, which rolled in among Hawksworth's entourage and out of play. The horseman on the dark stallion suddenly noticed Hawksworth and, with a shout to the other players, whipped his steed toward the arriving group.

As he approached, Hawksworth studied his face carefully. He was pudgy but still athletic, with a short, well-trimmed moustache and a tightly wound turban secured with a large red stone that looked like a ruby. He carried himself erect, with a confidence only full vigor could impart, yet his face was incongruously debauched, almost ravaged, and his eyes deeply weary. There was no hint of either triumph or pleasure in those eyes or in his languorous mouth, although he had just executed a sensational block of an almost certain score. He reined his wheezing mount only when directly in front of Hawksworth, sending up a cloud of dust.

"Are you the English captain?" The voice was loud, with an impatient tone indicating long years of authority.

"I command the frigates of the East India Company." Hawksworth tried to keep his gaze steady. What sort of man can this be, he asked himself?

Is this the one who can demand the Shahbandar's signature and seal whenever he wishes?

"Then I welcome you, Captain." The dark stallion reared suddenly for no apparent reason, in a display of exuberance. The man expertly reined him in, never removing his gaze from Hawksworth, and continued in an even voice. "I've been most eager to meet the man who is suddenly so interesting to our Portuguese friends. Although I have a personal rule never to dabble in the affairs of Europeans, as a sportsman I must congratulate you on your victory. A pity I missed the encounter."

"I accept your congratulations on behalf of the East India Company."

Hawksworth watched him for some sign of his att.i.tude toward the Portuguese, but he could detect nothing but smooth diplomacy.

"Yes, the East India Company. I suppose this company of yours wants something from India, and I can easily imagine it might be profit.

Perhaps I should tell you straightaway that such matters bore me not a little." The man glanced impatiently back toward the field. "But come, it's growing darker as we talk. I'd hoped you might join us in our little game. It's elementary. Should be child's play for a man who commands at sea." He turned to one of the men standing by the side of the field. "Ahmed, prepare a stick for Captain ... by the way, I wasn't given your name."

"Hawksworth."

"Yes. Prepare a stick for Captain Hawksworth. He'll be joining us."

Hawksworth stared at the man, trying to gauge his impulsiveness.

"You, I presume, are the governor."

"Forgive me. I so rarely find introductions required. Mukarrab Khan, your humble servant. Yes, it's my fate to be governor of Surat, but only because there's no outpost less interesting. But come, we lose precious time." He pivoted his pawing mount about and signaled for a new ball to be ignited.

"You'll find our game very simple, Captain Hawksworth. The object is to take the ball between the posts you see there, what we call the _hal_.

There are two teams of five players, but we normally rotate players every twenty minutes." His horse reared again in antic.i.p.ation as the new ball was brought onto the field. "Years ago we played only during the hours of day, but then our Moghul's father, the great Akman, introduced the burning ball, so he could play at night. It's _palas _wood, very light and slow-burning."

Hawksworth felt a nudge on his hand and looked down to see a stick being pa.s.sed upward by one of the attendants. The handle was sheathed in silver, and the stick itself was over six feet long, with a flattened curve at the bottom, like a distorted shepherd's crook.

Hawksworth lifted it gingerly, testing its weight, and was surprised by its lightness.

"You will be playing on the team of Abul Hasan." He nodded toward a middle-aged man with a youthful face and no moustache. "He is a _qazi_ here in Surat, a judge who interprets and dispenses law, and when he's not busy abusing the powers of his office, he presumes to challenge me at _chaugan_." The official bowed slightly but did not smile. His dappled gray mare was sniffing at the governor's stallion. "He thinks he has me at a disadvantage, since in Agra we played with only one goal, whereas here they use two, but _chaugan _is a test of skill, not rules. He leads the white turbans." Only then did Hawksworth notice that the governor's team all wore red turbans.

The governor waved to his attendant. "A clean turban for the English captain."_

_"I'd prefer to play as I am." Hawksworth saw a flash of disbelief in the governor's eyes. It was obvious he was never contradicted. "I never wear a hat, though it seems in India I'm still called a _topiwallah_.

"Very well, Captain Hawksworth. The _topiwallah _wears no turban." He seemed to smile as he turned to the other players and signaled for play to start. "Abul Hasan's team is composed of Surat officials, Captain.

You will notice, however, that I am teamed with some of our merchants-- Muslim, of course, not Hindus--something I must do to ensure challenging opponents. The mere presence of merchants here today should give you some idea how very tedious I find living in Surat. In Agra no merchant would be allowed near a _chaugan _field. But here my officials enjoy winning their money so much that I am forced to relent." And he laughed warmly.

The burning ball was slammed toward the middle of the field, and the players spurred their horses after it in lunging pursuit. Hawksworth gripped the _chaugan_ stick in his right hand and the reins in the other as his mount galloped after the others, obviously eager to begin.

The red turbans reached the ball first, with the governor in the lead.

He caught the ball on a bounce and, wielding his stick in a graceful arc, whipped it under the neck of the dark stallion and directly toward the _hal_, while in the same motion reining in his mount sharply to follow its trajectory.

But a white turban had antic.i.p.ated his shot and was already in position to intercept the ball. He cut directly in front of the governor's path and with a practiced swipe bulleted the ball back toward the center of the field, knocking a spray of sparks across the face of the governor's horse. Mukarrab Khan's stallion seemed scarcely to notice as he reared, whirled, and flew in chase.

The shot had pa.s.sed over the heads of the three other white turbans and bounced off the gra.s.s a few feet behind Hawksworth, still well to the rear. Hawksworth reined his mount about and bore down on the ball, beginning to feel some of the exhilaration of the play. He reached the ball on its second bounce and with a rigid arc of his arm swung the _chaugan _stick.

The impact recoiled a dizzying shock through the wood and up his right shoulder. He dimly heard the cheers of his teammates, seeming to congratulate him on his stroke. But where's the ball? he wondered as he scanned the darkened, empty expanse down the field. Then he realized he had only deflected it, back toward the three white turbans in the center of the field. The last white turban in the row snared the ball with his stick, deflecting it again, but now in the direction of the reds.

Dust was boiling from the surface of the field, increasingly obscuring the players and the play. The darkened arena had become a jostling mob, friend scarcely distinguishable from foe, and all in pursuit of the only certain object, the still-glowing ball. Hawksworth's eyes seared and his throat choked as he raced after the others--always, it seemed, bringing up the rear, while his mount took her head and rarely acknowledged his awkward attempts to command. He clung to the iron ring of his saddle, content merely to stay astride.

Give me a quarterdeck any day.

The red turbans again had command of the ball, and Hawksworth watched as the governor now raced to the lead, urged on by his teammates. He snared the ball effortlessly and with a powerful swing sent it arcing back toward his own _hal_.

The other red turbans rushed in pursuit, but a white turban was already at the _hal_, waiting to deflect the play. He snared the ball in the crook of his stick and flung it back toward the center. The reds seemed to antic.i.p.ate this, for they reined as one man and dashed back. But now a white had control, and he guided the ball alone across the gra.s.sy expanse, while a phalanx of other whites rode guard. Hawksworth was still lagging in front of his own _hal_ when suddenly he saw the ball lofting toward him, a flaming mortar in the darkened sky.

It slammed to earth near his horse's flank, spewing sparks. He cut his mare sharply to the left and galloped in pursuit. Above the shouts he only dimly heard the reds thundering behind him, closing in as he reached the ball and caught it in the curve of his stick.

Roll it, he told himself, keep it on the ground . . .

The reds were on him. In what seemed a swing for the ball, Abul Hasan brought his stick in a wide arc, its hardened crook accurately intersecting Hawksworth's directly in the middle. Hawksworth felt an uneven shudder pulse through his arm and heard his own stick shatter.

The lower half flew to his right, and he watched in dismay as it sailed across the path of Mukarrab Khan's mount, just as the governor cut inward to block Hawksworth. The hard wood caught the dark stallion directly across its front shins, and the horse stumbled awkwardly.

Hawksworth stared at horse and rider dumbly for a moment, as the stallion lost its stride, and he suddenly realized the governor's horse would fall. And when it did, Mukarrab Khan would be thrown directly below the horses thundering behind them.

He cut his mount sharply to the right and deliberately slammed into the governor's stallion. Mukarrab Khan's dazed eyes flashed understanding and he stretched for the center ring of Hawksworth's saddle during the fractional second their horses were in collision. At the same instant, he disengaged himself from his own stirrups and pulled himself across the neck of Hawksworth's mare.

Two alert reds pulled their mounts alongside Hawksworth and grabbed the reins of his mare. The dark stallion collapsed in the dust behind them with a pitiful neigh. Then it rose and limped painfully toward the edge of the field, its left foreleg dangling shattered and useless. Mukarrab Khan lowered himself to the ground with an elaborate oath.

A cheer sounded as the whites scored the ball unmolested.

Hawksworth was still watching the governor when one of the attendants rushed from the sidelines, seized the silver-topped fragment of his broken stick, and thrust it toward him.

"The silver is yours to keep, Sahib. It is the custom that one whose _chaugan_ stick is broken in play may keep its silver tip. As a token of bravery. For you it is especially deserved." He was short, swarthy, and dressed in a dust- covered white shirt. He bowed slightly, while his eyes gleamed their admiration in the darkness.

"Take it, Captain. It is an honor." Abul Hasan rode up stiffly, brushing the dust from the mane of his horse. "No _feringhi_, to my knowledge, has ever before attempted _chaugan_, and certainly none has earned a silver k.n.o.b."

"Captain Hawksworth, you rode well." Mukarrab Khan had commandeered a mount and also drew alongside. There was a light scratch along the right side of his face, and the whimsical look had vanished from his eyes as he searched the faces cl.u.s.tered around. "A very curious accident. It has never happened before." He stared directly at Hawksworth. "How was your stick broken?"

"The _feringhi_ made an unfortunate swing, Excellency," Abul Hasan interjected. "He played superbly, for a beginner, but he has still to fully master the stroke."