The King's Privateer Page 13

  There were puppet shows, the rajah and ranee version of Punch and Judy. There were groups of singers, street-theatre troupes up on flimsy stages ranting some historical or religious dramas. Or they might have been comedies—Alan couldn’t tell.

  And India wasn’t all of a piece, either. Calcutta was a rich trading town. So down from the mountains inland, there were Afridis and Pathans, Nepalis and ancient Aryans, Persianlooking Moghuls, all with their pyjammy trousers stuffed into ornamented boots with love locks dangling from beneath their puggarees. They bore curved swords and knives with little bells jingling from their hilts. Poor zamindars in town to sell their produce, rich landowners shopping for bargains among the imported European items. Hindoos and Muslims, Jains, Sikhs, Parsees and the rare Buddhist. In time, Alan might learn to tell the difference between them, as well as the difference between the Bengali majority and the visiting Dravidians, Mahrattas, Dogras, the people from Assam and Nagaland to the east, the Tamils of the southeast and the harsher people who hailed from the Oudh north of the Vindhaya Hills, the great dividing line between permanently conquered India, and semi-autonomous India that the Aryans and the Moghuls had never been able to rule for long.

  “Worth the voyage, I swear,” Alan exclaimed as they sat in the shade of a tree, munching on dates, sugared almonds and pistachios.

  “Aye, ’tis a rare land, I’ll grant,” McTaggart agreed as he essayed his first banana, after watching the natives to see if one took the bright yellow husk off first, or ate it entire. Colin was Calvinist-Presbyterian dour most of the time, overeducated like most Scots compared to their English counterparts who thought that too much intelligence was a dangerous thing, but could be nudged to enthusiasm now and again, enough to prove that he was human. “But with food sae cheap, how do ye explain sae many mendicants?”

  Besides the exotic pleasures of the bazaar, there was the irritation of seeing so many poor, so many beggars minus a limb, an eye, covered with running ulcers. So many people barely clad in a ragged, filthy dhotee and puggaree who couldn’t even afford the cheap but well-made sandals the mochees nimbly cut from their sheets of leather.

  “Speaking of mendicants,” Alan said, sighing, as a pair of beggars appeared near them, one limping grandly on a crutch, one leg gone, and the other sightless—one eye rolling madly and the other flat gone, with the empty socket exposed.

  “Naheen, yer buggers!” Cony snapped, feeling protective of his people. “Juldi jao!” And the beggars sheered off. Under the amputee’s robes, Alan could almost spot a leg and a foot, bound to the man’s backsides. “Fakin’ h’it, Mister Lewrie. Fakin … ’r maimed o’purpose.”

  “God’s teeth, Cony, where’d you pick up such mastery of the language!” Alan marveled.

  “Been talkin’ t’ that servant, Ajit Roy, sir,” Cony replied, flushing. “Y’pick up a word’r two ’ere an’ there, ya do, sir. An’ Ajit done warned me h’about some o’ the shams they kin get up to, sir. Lame their own kiddies t’ make ’em look pitiable, worse’n Midland gypsies.”

  “But what did ye say ta them?” McTaggart inquired.

  “Naheen, that’s ‘no,’ plain as day, sir. Juldi jao is kinda like ‘bugger off,’ sir,” Cony replied, getting sheepish.

  “Ye’r a man o’ many parts, Cony,” McTaggart said, praising with an appreciative chuckle. “Lucky our Lewrie is, ta hae yer services.”

  Long as I don’t have to pay him more than I do already, Alan thought, chiming in with verbal appreciation as well.

  Cony’s paltry vocabulary came in handy once more on their way back to Fort William’s wide maidan, the drill ground, and the quieter regions of the European quarter. Frankly, after wandering about the bazaar and its many twists and turns, they were lost.

  They could see one of the fort’s ramparts down the length of a narrow, meandering lane of small two-story mud houses, and decided to take a shortcut. Music was more prominent in this quarter. Sitars and flutes, palms beating alien rhythms on madals that Alan couldn’t quite get the gist of no matter how hard he tried. The music was mildly irritating to a European ear, but oddly pleasing after a little while. One more wonder to be savored of this grand experience paid for with so much labor, terror, drudgery and misery at sea—savored for its difference even if it had been noxious.

  Several girls leaned out of doorways along the narrow street and came out to greet them, making the two-handed gesture of greeting and bowing gracefully to them.

  “Namasté, burra-sahibs. Namasté!”

  “Namasté,” Alan replied, feeling foolish giving them the two hands at brow level just to be polite, encumbered as he was with his little basket of nuts and fruits.

  “Hamare ghalee ana, achcha, din,”1 one lovely maiden intoned, giving him an appraising grin. Milk-coffee brown, not a minute above eighteen or so, bounteous breasts bound in by a snug sateen minijacket, bangles on her wrists and ankles, midriff tapering to tininess above taut but womanly hips contained in a sash and series of gauzy skirts. Her hair was long, loose and fly-away-curly under a gauze chudder head-cloth that hung to her hips, weighted down with little gold coins. “Meré sath chalenghé, burra-sahib?”2 she cooed.

  “Good God, Lewrie, ye dinna think …” McTaggart almost strangled in shocked prudery as the girl and her equally lovely compatriots wriggled their hips slow and sultry, comfirming their suspicions.

  “Whores, aye they are, Colin. Bit broad in the stern-quarters for my liking,” Alan replied, appraising them coolly. “And damn near strangle a man with those stout little legs of theirs. Suppose it’s the fashion in the East. Still …”

  “Man, ye canna be considerin’ …” McTaggart gargled, turning red as a throttled turnip.

  “Saat rupee, burra-sahib,” the girl whispered invitingly.

  “’A’s seven o’ them Hindoo shillin’s, sir,” Cony supplied in an even voice, feeling in his cummerbund for loose change between the folds. That little maid back in London had had a powerful effect on him. “Might be a bit steep, sir.”

  “And peppered wi’ the pox ta her very brows!” McTaggart gasped. “Ye may count on it. Tell her ‘No thank ye’!”

  “Ham bahut kaam hai, girl,” Cony told her. “We’re busy, don’t ya know? But …”

  “Not to my taste, Cony. However, she might be to yours,” Alan allowed. “We could meet you at the darzee’s.”

  “Thankee, sir,” Cony replied, brightening. “Main phir laut kar ahoongaa. Be back later, girl. Teen rupee? Three, darlin’? Make it easy on a poor sailor.”

  “Chha rupee,” the girl demanded, and she wouldn’t go any lower than six, much as Cony wheedled “panch” or “chaar”—five or four.

  Cony finally sighed and they proceeded on down the street, accompanied by the derisive shouts of the spurned girl. “Cutch-admi! Banchuts! Sastaa banchuts! Jahntee!”3

  “None too thrilled, sounds like,” Alan said with a grin, enjoying himself hugely.

  “What’s she saying?”

  “From the sound of it, I’d say it’s something close to ‘cheap bastards,’ Mister McTaggart. Right, Cony?”

  “Ajit, ’e didn’t learn me none o’ that, sir,” Cony admitted. “’Spect I’d better ’ave me another lesson’r two.”

  They got back to the docks and the factor’s offices just after midday, glad for the coolness of the mud-bricked walls and thick tile roof. Wythy had told them most white men took up the practice of napping through the heat of the afternoon and not stirring out until the sun was beginning to descend below the lowest yard-arms. To one so lazy as Lewrie if left to his own devices, it sounded like a marvelous invention. He had just found a bale of cotton on which to doze off when Burgess Chiswick came to look him up.

  “Damme, but you look hellish dashing,” Alan said in greeting. Chiswick was now clad in a red serge coat with broad white turnback lapels and cuffs, the uniform coat of the East India Company, with many figured buttonholes and brass buttons. A gorget of officer’s rank hung on his upper breast, and each shoul
der bore a silvered chainmail patch of rank, which could also turn a swordcut from above. “An ensign in ‘John Company’ now, are you?”

  “A captain, no less, Alan!” Burgess preened. “In charge of the light company of our battalion. Can you imagine it?”

  “By God, how bloody grand for you!” Alan laughed, shaking his hand warmly. “Here now, do I dine you out tonight in celebration, or is it your treat to ‘wet down’ your promotion?”

  “Oh, I’ve already been dined in at our mess,” Burgess replied, fanning himself with his black cocked hat. “Good bunch of rogues, they are, let me tell you. Settled into my quarters. Been swotting up my Hindee with my bearer, Nandu. I’m the only white officer in the company, you know. Rest are natives. God, you should dine at my bungalow. My own private bloody house, if you can feature it! And cheap at the price, too. Whole squad of servants. Well, I share it with another officer, but it’s so damned huge! You must see it. Had a chance to get leave yet?”

  “Just this morning, and more to come once the sun’s down tonight. Cony and I spotted a little street near here full of whores. Thought I might go back …”

  “Cutch-whores,” Burgess sniffed, having picked up the language awfully fast, a lot faster than Alan had. “Fessenden, the other captain I share the house with, has three native girls in his bibikhana. His own bloody harem! Rent clean un’s cheaper by the month than an hour or two with the public girls! Or just buy ’em outright.”

  “By God, I could get to love the East Indies!” Alan exclaimed in delight, knocked back on his heels by the possibilities.

  “But, why I’m here. Met my battalion major when I was dined in, and he’s asked me to supper at his bungalow this evening. And he extends an invitation to you as well.”

  “Now why the devil would he do that for me?” Alan wondered.

  “I mentioned your name whilst I was giving my record,” Burgess replied. “That business at Yorktown, the siege and our escape in those barges you cobbled into sea-worthy boats came up, and once he heard your name, he was dead keen on hearing the whole thing, start to finish. And when I told him you were fourth officer in the ship that brought me out here, he perked up sharp as a fox-hound, damned near ordered me to bring you round.”

  “Stap me if that don’t sound hellish like somebody in this world thinks I’m famous for something,” Alan exclaimed, beaming, still a little bemused by the whole thing, but eager for a chance to shine with his betters—and a shot at free victuals. God knew he’d had little of either in the last year. “So who is this fellow?”

  “Major Sir Hugo Willoughby,” Burgess informed him. “He was once in the 4th Regiment of Foot, the King’s Own. Knighted after Gibraltar in the Seven Years’ War. Can you imagine a hero such as he taking service with ’John Company’?”

  “Oh,” Alan replied weakly, positively shivering with dread. No, it can’t be him, not out here, he thought.

  “Heard of him, have you?”

  “We’ve met,” Alan allowed, turning pale. Has to be some imposter using the name, some poseur who can pull the sham off for a safe, profitable billet out here in the back of the beyond.

  “Back in London, or during the war in the Caribbean?”

  “London,” Alan admitted.

  “Know him well, then? I say, Alan, you look a trifle …” Burgess pried, his suspicions aroused by Lewrie’s sudden discomposure.

  “Well enough, I suppose, Burgess,” Alan confessed. “See, unless there’s two of ’em in this world, he’s my bloody father.”

  Chapter 3

  The old boy ain’t done half bad for himself, Alan had to admit as he partook of their regal meal. Officers of the East India Company, military or civilian, had to provide their own quarters unless they lived in collegiate commons in the rougher posts such as Bencoolen on Sumatra, or some tax-gathering fort far inland. And cheap as things seemed to be so far in India, the house must have set him back a pretty penny or two.

  They were dining on the second floor in a great room that ran the entire length of the building, and overlooked the huge courtyard where the horses were stabled and the carriage was kept, a courtyard aromatic with flowering bushes and trees. The lower level was kitchens, guest bedrooms, office and library. The bungalow was large enough for a rajah’s palace, Hindoo-Moghul style, more like a fairytale Persian fortress, set in a plot of ground that would have served for a small park back home. The floors were highly polished teak on the second floor, up where the breezes were, tile and marble on the lower level. The furnishings were a mixture of transportable military-functional, or Chinee filigreed mahogany, much like the Chippendale styles that were growing popular back in London just before Lewrie left.

  Sir Hugo’s major-domo, an older Bengali in full regimental fig—obviously his personal bearer as well—stood by the sideboards to oversee the meal, while younger males, some no more than stripling lads, neatly dressed in native styles, served as i to wait on table, one for every two guests. Silver candelabras, bowls and serving plates for the removes and made dishes made a parade up and down the long table, alongside the brass-ware. The plates were also Chinee in the latest Canton export pattern.

  They dined—they being Sir Hugo, Alan, Mr. Twigg and his partner Mr. Wythy, Captain Ayscough and Burgess Chiswick—on a pleasing mixture of the familiar and the novel. They had started with a rich oxtail soup, just like they would have back in England. But that had been followed by a spicy chillie omelet, then a prosaic fish dish. The khitmatgars next trotted out jangli murgee and teetar, jungle game hens and partridge, baked tanduri style, with removes of mashed curried peas and carrots, fried “lady-finger” okra and pulao rice. They had the traditional beef course, though stringy and hard to chew, possibly a recently expired munitions tonga ox.

  But then had come shami kabab, thick coinlike slabs of highly peppered minced mutton, with lentils, and instead of the thick, soft spade-shaped nan bread, the servers passed chapattis . And then came the last dish, the goat curry, with the sambals of blanched, slivered almonds, shredded fresh coconut, mango and coconut chautnee and a dozen more things Alan couldn’t identify, but made such a pleasingly hot, sweet, crunchy blend of textures and flavors.

  Since they were in Calcutta, in the middle of Bengal with all its sugarcane, they had a choice of desserts fetched out on a teak and silver cart. Alan opted for khir, a thick white milk and rice custard, flavored with a glutinous sugar and lemon juice syrup.

  Finally, the tablecloth was removed, the port and cheese and extra fine biscuit set out, along with a silver bowl of assorted sweet or salted nut-meats, and the servants left.

  “Sorry if I turn this splendid occasion into a durbar,” Twigg began, sighing in ecstasy as he eased his waistband and cummerbund . “But I thought a conference in social settings might be less noticeable than something more formal at Fort William or aboard ship. Do you know if any of your house-servants speak English, Sir Hugo?”

  “Chandra, my personal bearer, no others,” Major Willoughby replied. “And that, only a few phrases.”

  “Excellent!” Twigg barked, obviously much happier with native foods in his belly, and a superior port making the rounds. “Well, I suppose you must have been wondering why your regiment was chosen to deal with us.”

  “Obviously, Mister Twigg, you wish military forces that can cross the kala panee, the ocean, without breaking their caste,” Major Willoughby replied. “Something involving your trading ship, the Telesto. You’re not really a country ship, are you? Else you’d not have had Warren Hasting’s ear over in Fort William and gotten ‘John Company’ to cooperate with you. So this is something palatikal. And, I trust, secret, hmm?”

  “Well, I’ll be blowed!” Tom Wythy rasped out, his face red as a beet from the heat, the meal, and the cargo of wine he’d already put below decks. “Hope you’re the only one that can puzzle us out so easily.”

  Never knew the old fart was so smart, Alan mused to himself. Damme if he ain’t smart as paint! The old bastard.

&nbs
p; “The gup making the rounds is you’re something under the rose,” Sir Hugo went on, his face wearing a pleased expression of being more in the know than he was supposed to be, that same look of smug self-satisfaction Alan had quailed at when he was living under the same roof with the man. When Sir Hugo got pleased with himself, it usually meant a spell of the dirty for somebody else, and it was best to make one’s self scarce as hen’s teeth. “But, the other traders’ll keep mum. Really now, gentlemen! Don’t look so confounded! Big ship like yours, armed to the teeth, overmanned even by East India standards. And you arrived with a cargo that the Company snapped up at premium prices soon’s it hit shore, for which I say thank God, for I bought more’n my share of it, and welcome your wines and brandies are out here. You’re almost too late to make Canton for the trading season, September to March, even so, but early enough to keep an eye on all those Indiamen anchored out there in the Hooghly, loaded to the deck-heads as they are with taels of silver to trade for China goods.”

  “Well, I’m blowed,” Wythy reiterated, mopping his face clear of moisture from the afterglow of a hearty, spicy supper.

  “I see where your boy Lewrie gets his canniness, Sir Hugo,” Twigg nodded somberly, his thin lips pressed together so snugly between sentences they almost turned white, and one could not have shoved a slim nail between them. Veins on his temples pulsed, betraying the obvious agitation he felt. “Aye, we are palatikal. And we do have to get to Canton. Or at least, to Lintin Island, before September.”

  Where the hell was this Lintin Island, Alan wondered, a little disappointed that he might not see the fabled Canton after all. He poured himself another glass of port as the bottle made the rounds, and munched on a handful of salted almonds and cashews. After six months of dull ship’s fare, there was a gulf inside him that a week’s suppers such as this one could only begin to fill.

  “Lintin Island,” Wythy grunted. “A right pirate’s nest, aye.”

  “But what better place to search for French pirates?” Twigg commented. “They have as much need for deniability as we. So their ship, or ships, involved in this blood-thirsty trade among the native pirates have to be country ships like us, and need a place to unload their ill-gotten gains. English goods, looted from murdered crews. English ships disappeared, with no sign of their fate.”