Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey
Page 29
Captain de Ruiter joined them and held out his hand to Harry. “Mister Heron, I am in your debt. Your Captain has informed me of your generosity in looking after Pieterzoon and the other boys in your gunroom.” He glanced to where Midshipman Barclay stood berating a group of men a little distance away. “It cannot haf been easy always for you. You are one of the juniors, no?”
Harry accepted the compliment. “It was a pleasure, sir. I am sorry your good lady is not also here to be with you and Pieterzoon.”
The Captain looked surprised. “You know of her death? Of course!” He looked down at his son and continued. “We shall miss her greatly, but we have each other.” His hand found Pieterzoon’s shoulder and gripped it. “I am confident I shall soon find a means to create the home she would have wanted for us.”
BATAVIA WAS A BUSTLING SEAPORT TOWN, a busy marketplace for the Dutch East India Company ships and traders. It was also a slave market, where the small Javanese people were regularly sold to Dutch, Chinese and other masters then shipped to the Cape of Good Hope (de Kaap van Goede Hoep in the Dutch language) and to tea and spice plantations around the islands. Harry and his fellow midshipmen were taken to one such plantation for a brief respite from the ship’s confines as guests of Captain de Ruiter and his plantation manager. Het Companje’s servants certainly knew how to make the most of their good fortune.
“I could easily get used to such luxury as this,” Kit said to Harry as they sat in the shade of a wide veranda.
“I too,” said Harry, “though I cannot entirely reconcile myself to the enslavement of the local people to provide it.”
Kit gave a quick snort of laughter. “You’re too sensitive, old fellow. Surely it is better for people as primitive as this to have a master over them who provides all they need.”
“I cannot agree that they are primitive or even that they are less able than we,” Harry retorted. “Might is all we have on our side, my friend, and might is not always in the right. Have you forgotten how near run the game was against the Barbary Corsairs? Think on it, we could just as easily even now be serving in some Musselman’s palace. How would they argue for our enslavement? That we are more primitive than they?”
Kit was silent for a long moment. Then he mused, “I wonder how this fan that waves above us is worked?”
Harry chuckled, recognising that he had hit home and his friend did not wish to continue the discussion. “Beyond that screen you will find a boy our age pulling a pair of ropes. He is the power behind the fan. A boring task, I should think.”
“Damn you, Harry,” Kit replied staring at the screen Harry had indicated. “Now you have quite taken the pleasure out of my enjoying the coolness it brings!”
They were interrupted by the arrival of several others and Lieutenant Beasley accompanied by their hosts from a shooting expedition. “Poor shooting in this heat,” the Lieutenant remarked. “You fellows chose wisely to remain close to the house.” He accepted a dish of tea from a servant who had silently materialised with a tray and settled beneath the fan. Glancing up at its languid revolution on the ceiling of the veranda, he commented, “Now there is a device we could use aboard ship, especially in this clime.”
Kit shot a look at Harry and said, “Perhaps, sir, but it requires an operator such as he behind the screen to make it work.”
The Lieutenant stared at the screen then at Harry and Kit and frowned. “Yes, perhaps the wind scoops suffice after all.”
SAYING FAREWELL TO PIETERZOON WAS MORE DIFFICULT for Harry, who had come to enjoy the boy’s company. Pieterzoon obviously regarded Harry as a brother and seemed to realise that they would never again see one another. He shed some tears, which he manfully tried to hide in the presence of his father and the other onlookers. They parted with an exchange of small gifts, Harry promising to write from time to time if he got a reply. Captain de Ruiter had been very generous, and there was a small purse and a fine sextant waiting for Harry on his return to the ship. This embarrassed him immensely, especially as Eamon Barclay chose to make a noise about it.
He wrote a polite thank you, expressing his gratitude for the gifts and his hope that he would one day be able to express his thanks in person.
The Spartan sailed with the dawn, threading her way between the islands and thence to the straits leading out into the great Indian Ocean. Shaping her course for the Indian subcontinent, the master remarked, “Well, the mysterious East lies all about us, and from what little we have seen to date it is filled with heat and insects that wish to consume us alive, and the seas are infested with pirates, sharks and dangerous reefs.” He laughed. “Still better than the freezing rain and gales off Brest!”
“Aye, or rotting away on the beach as so many of our friends are at this present,” retorted the surgeon.
Chapter 31
The Bustling East
The anchorage at Colombo, on the west coast of the island marked on their charts as Ceylon, was thronged with shipping.
“Must be a homeward bound convoy assembling,” remarked Lieutenant Rae. “This is the season with the most favourable winds for it.”
The first Lieutenant lowered his telescope. “You may be in the right of it, though many of these seem to be coastal vessels and not John Company. See, the large frigate to seaward of the Indiaman, she wears the colours of the Bombay Marine, John Company’s private navy, and her people more prosperous than we are like to be.”
“She seems well built and carries a heavy battery,” Lieutenant Rae said as he studied the frigate. “A handy ship to have in a fight I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Aye, she’ll be the Hindustan,” said Mister Wentworth joining them. “Teak built and carrying forty twenty-fours on her gundeck.”
The signal telescope revealed the frigate’s colours as those of the red and white barred ensign of the HEIC, colours worn only by the Bombay Marine (by statute) when east of the Cape of Good Hope. The thirteen red and white bars replaced the solid red of the red ensign worn by all private ships of British registry and some naval ships when detached from a fleet. The upper quadrant held the union flag, its combination of the crosses of St George, St Andrew and St Patrick forming a block of red, white and blue against the bars. Several other ships at anchor wore this same ensign making the company ships easy to identify as Spartan sailed slowly into the anchorage.
The conversation ceased as the officers broke away to deal with their duties as the ship came up to her signalled anchorage. Harry and his party were kept busy responding to signals hoisted by the Port Signal Station, situated on the sandy headland that marked the southernmost edge of the shallow bay. Through the signal telescope, Harry could see two rivers discharging into the sea as they approached, one a mile or so south of the Signal Station and the other further to the north discharging into the bay itself. He heard the sailing master telling the Captain that the rivers had substantial sand bars at their mouths, and a quick check with the telescope showed the discolouration of the water, a distinct indication of shallows lurking beneath.
“Signal from the Port, sir,” he called out as a string of flags soared aloft on the signal mast ashore. He read it off quickly and Kit Tanner called out the meaning, signal book in hand.
“Anchor as instructed by the Guard Boat, sir.”
“Very good, Mister Tanner. Acknowledge, Mister Heron.” The Captain was watching a bobbing cutter, her oars dipping and rising in near unison as she made her way toward a distant point at which her course and the Spartan’s would intersect. “Watch for the signal to anchor, Mister Bell,” he called to the first Lieutenant on the fo’c’s’le. When he received an acknowledgement, he said, “Be ready, Mister Wentworth, we are closing fast.”
“Brail up the topsails!” The Captain watched as the ship slowed. “Take in the headsails. Jib and staysails only for the moment, Mister Rae.”
“Guard boat’s signalling, sir.”
“Put the helm over, Mister Wentworth! Let go forward!”
“Lieutenant Digby, sir, of the Bombay Marine, late of HMS Centurion,” he introduced himself, his eyes taking in the holystoned decks, the polished brass and the ordered guns and their accoutrements.
“Welcome aboard, Mister Digby.” Captain Blackwood accepted the packet. “I know the Centurion well, a fine ship, though a slow one. What news from Europe? We are three months from Port Jackson, and there were rumours abounding in Batavia that the Peace may soon be at an end.”
“It was said of her that she sailed like a haystack, sir,” the Lieutenant replied wryly. “And that was probably the right of it, but a good ship nonetheless. We have no clear news here either, sir, though rumour abounds. It is said that Bonaparte is planning an invasion and preparing shipping along the channel to do it.”
“So it was said in Batavia, though our Dutch friends there seemed less enthusiastic about it than I expected. Pray go with Lieutenant Rae. He will no doubt provide some refreshment for you while I read these despatches.”
The stay in Colombo proved exciting for the midshipmen and for many of the crew permitted ashore or sent ashore on errands. Harry visited a temple with Kit and several others and found himself both profoundly shocked and at the same time fascinated by the idols and the intricacy of the carvings. Everywhere there were new scents, strong spices and explosions of tropical flowers. Intense poverty rubbed shoulders with incredible wealth, the chasm between the two extremes all the more obvious due to the opulence and overt display by the wealthy. They learned too that the governor’s palace was not as opulent as one near the city of Kandi in the South East of the island occupied by the former rulers.
“These idols are disturbing,” Harry said to Kit as they surveyed the great layer-cake construction of the temple. Each tier was decorated with images of demons, dancing girls and men. The entrance passed beneath the great central tower, layer on layer of statues rising to a crenulated platform. It was flanked by wings, each having a smaller tower at its corner, and the interior was cool and dark and filled with the scent of incense and flowers offered by devotees. Fantastic animals supported cornices, and niches held statues of gods, some of whom seemed, to Harry and his friend, decidedly unfriendly. A constant tide of brightly attired locals offered gifts at these shrines, some lingering for lengthy prayers, others simply making their gift and moving on.
“I say,” Kit interjected. “Look at that fellow; some sort of priest, I think, by his robes, and it seems he’s gathering the garlands from those shrines.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “He and others do it regularly; look, there is another. They take them back to the stallholders at the entrances to this place and sell them a second and even a third time, I suspect.” He frowned disapprovingly.
“A good wheeze obviously.” Kit laughed. “The worshippers and the gods don’t seem to mind. It must turn a good profit for them though.”
“I expect it does.” Harry glanced around him, distracted. He was worrying about his shoes, which he had been required to leave at the entrance to the temple, and was not at all sure he would find them there on his return. “I hope our shoes will be where we left them; those are my best pair. I had them made in Batavia.”
Kit laughed. “Don’t worry, old fellow, the local people don’t seem to wear our footwear—look, sandals are the thing here.” He glanced around the enclosure. “Come on, I fancy finding a dish of tea and some food other than salt beef. Shall we see what’s on offer near the company offices?” He looked around. “That goddess with the six arms and forked tongue makes my flesh crawl, and I swear she’s watching me. Let’s find our way out of here.”
A robed attendant intercepted them as they tried to return to the entrance. Smiling, bowing but insistent, he ushered them to the opposite end of the building and out through a door into a street behind. To Harry’s surprise and relief, a child, also robed as a temple servant, was waiting with their shoes. He parted with a small coin, saying, “Thank you, that is most kind.”
A rickshaw puller now drew up and with much bowing and smiling conveyed the idea that they should board his chariot.
Kit was dubious, but Harry felt emboldened. “Come on then, the fellow undoubtedly knows his way ’round.” To the rickshaw man he said, “Take us to the company office please.”
This drew a broad grin from the recipient who responded in good, if accented, English. “Certainly, sah. You look for good food? Perhaps nice place to meet friends?”
Kit burst out laughing. “Oh, famous! Harry, your face is a study.” To the rickshaw man he said, “Yes, take us to the merchants’ centre please. We have a fancy to try some of the local foods. Is there a good place we may try?”
“One rupee, sah, and I show you temples and markets on the way.”
“One rupee?” Harry thought carefully of what this sum represented and then said, “Very well, show us these sights.”
THE RUPEE WAS A GOOD INVESTMENT, AS THEY WERE NOW taken on a fascinating tour through the winding streets past a decorated mosque, its striped façade and onion-domed turrets giving it a strong resemblance to the temple architecture. Everywhere market stalls abounded, and the variety of goods on sale astonished them. Everything from gossamer delicate fabrics to silks, cotton goods and linen was on sale and then, of course, there were the tea sellers and the spice merchants. The rickshaw threaded its way through the crowded streets, their human horse and guide cheerfully maintaining a running commentary on the sights and customs as he pulled them through the throng. When they finally drew to a stop, the sun was dipping toward the hills far to the west.
“At least it is a short walk to the landing stage from here,” Kit said while Harry paid the rickshaw man.
“True,” Harry said absently, as he quietly added a second rupee to the fare. “What is your name?” He asked cutting off an explosion of effusive thanks.
“Guptah, sah.” The man’s smile seemed likely to split his face in half as he added, “I wait for sah. Good food in that place, sah. Many officer eat there.”
Harry followed the pointed finger and said to Kit, “That sounds like a good recommendation. Shall we try it? Guptah here says he will wait and take us back to the ship.”
“Will he?” Kit grinned. “Come on, then, let us see what delights they have to offer.”
The scent of strongly spiced food rolled out to meet them as the traditionally dressed owner greeted them at the door.
“Welcome, sahibs,” he said, bowing. “You wish to eat?”
“We do.” Kit took charge. “But we need some refreshment first and wish to sit where we may watch the street.”
The man smiled and nodded. “This way, sah.” He led them to the back of the shop and up a flight of stairs, then forward to a wide veranda. Here they found themselves joining other Europeans and, to their surprise, Mister Bell and the third and fourth Lieutenants as well.
Seeing them Thomas Bell called across, “Mister Heron, Mister Tanner, join us, gentlemen. We are about to dine; will you take supper with us?”
Harry led the way. “Thank you, sir. We were intending to try some of the local food; we are told it is heavily spiced.”
“That’s one way to describe it.” Mister Beasley laughed. “I think you will discover that the spices they use will even make salt beef palatable.”
The attendant reappeared and placed tankards on the table in front of them. Thomas Bell said, “They make a passable light beer, very refreshing in this heat.”
Earlier Harry and Kit had sampled a refreshing drink made with limes and lemons and sweetened with sugar, and this was what Harry would have most liked to taste now. But the beer was, as the
First had said, refreshing, and he sipped appreciatively.
“So what think you of the Indies, Mister Heron?” asked Michael Beasley, the fourth Lieutenant.
“Fascinating, sir. We visited a temple earlier, and I found the gods there a strange mix, some most unsavoury I’m sure.” He grinned. “We hired a rickshaw man and he showed us many other temples and even a mosque, though it looked almost the same as one of the temples except it lacked any statues.”
Kit interrupted. “Everywhere they seem to have little shrines to some god or goddess with people making offerings.”
“Yes. And someone collecting the offerings and reselling them.” Harry’s sense of morality was outraged by this practice.
Mister Rogers said, “Enterprise, Harry, enterprise. That is how many of the monks make a living.”
They paused as the food arrived, bowls of rice and a large bowl of meat in heavily spiced gravy. Just the smell brought a burning sensation to the nostrils, and Harry was glad to see coconut milk, grated coconut, chopped onion and fruit with a wide range of something he had learned were called chutneys with it.
“You will find that sprinkling the coconut over the food and eating it with the fruit and the chutneys increases the flavour and reduces the burn of the spices.” Mister Bell had apparently visited the Indies in the past and knew the food well.
Strange bread, folded and refolded, was also provided, and the older men tore off chunks of this, loading it with rice and meat mixed with the seasoned sauce and sprinkled with some of the condiments. Harry and Kit followed their example.
His nose proved to be a reliable guide. The spices used produced a ferocious yet delicious flavour. It burned on the palate, demanding slaking with copious swigs from the beakers of the citron drink that had appeared with the food. Following Mister Bell’s advice, Harry and Kit quickly discovered that the best way to truly appreciate this dish was to mix the grated coconut and some of the fruit chutney with it, interspersing the meat and rice with chopped fruits and vegetables. Even so, the ferocious spices made them perspire copiously, which curiously had the effect of making them feel cooler, though they drank deeply of the coconut milk as well.