‘The fabulous East,’ said Higgins, for the tenth time, raising a glass of European claret. They were sitting, coats and waistcoats off, stocks loosened, on a long low couch, almost lounging like Romans as they ate.
Nelson was drinking too, though not as swiftly, wondering why the liquid did not quench the thirst intensified by the heavily spiced food that filled the bowls in front of him. The air too, seemed full of spice, the aroma of cooking mingling with that of the perfumed candles. He was aware that there were other parties in the room, some Indian, others European, mingling easily with no hint of any group being superior to another.
Lithe young girls attended each table, wearing flimsy wrap-a-round garments that did little to disguise their figures. Occasionally a member of a supper party would depart with one. An allusion to that opened him up to a lecture from Higgins.
‘Were you to take up residence here, Nelson, you’d find soon enough that what our home country offers cannot stand comparison to the pleasures available in India. I have been to Bombay and Madras on my service and I can tell you that what stands for Calcutta stands for the whole of the sub-continent. They have no hypocrisy here in matters of the flesh. A man who claims to be of parts is lessened if he has no external attachments. For the Mussulman several wives are necessary to maintain status, without precluding other pleasures. Some have a predilection for male flesh that I do not share but, I must say, exposure to their ways has tempered what was initial hostility. You, in the King’s Navy, would not in that matter have been hampered by my reserve, sodomites being so common in your service.’
The temptation to defend his profession was strong, to refute the constant allegation that the King’s Navy was the home of rum, sodomy and the lash. But it failed from hesitation, and besides the Major, drunk and insistent, was speaking again.
‘Being in the East teaches you to be at ease with carnality, teaches you to shed the guilt our parsons berate us with in England. They do it here, too, of course.’ He emitted a loud laugh and inadvertently spat rice over the dress of the smiling young girl who had returned to serve them. ‘You’ll hear no end of sermons in Bengal about the sins of the flesh – from cassocked individuals who have concubines tucked away in the Vicarage, the filthy clerical dogs.’
Higgins took the girl’s wrist and pulled her forward. Her look remained complaisant, with not even a momentary flicker of anger. The Major rolled closer to Nelson, bringing the young girl with him, making him aware of both her youth and her beauty, and the lemony scent of her dark skin.
‘Temptation, Nelson, that’s what undoes them, from pompous trader to high church divine. They can’t get this close to willing flesh and resist the need to touch it.’ The chuckle that followed was low and sensuous. ‘And damn me, young fellow, if you ain’t just as struck.’
She was smiling at him, her dark brown eyes sending forth an invitation. And Higgins was still talking, in that low, lewd tone.
‘I’ll wager, boy, whatever meat you’ve had will not compare to this. For these eastern beauties have the one gift a man craves more than any other. They are patient enough to seek out that which pleases you, and submissive enough to provide it. Not, I think, that you will have any but the most everyday tastes.’
The move away from the table was seamless and natural, as though preordained to happen. The hand that led him was warm even to one whose blood was racing, the faint coarseness of the fingertips enough to register through his own callused hands. The cubicle they entered was barely large enough to accommodate the cot and two people, the faint light from another perfumed candle flickering off the hangings that stood for walls. Nelson was rooted to the spot, the back of his legs against the edge of the cot, as she slid his stock from round his neck.
It was folded neatly and laid on the small table that bore the candle and the jug of water. His shirt followed, and he gave an involuntary shudder as her hands touched his belly, one sliding into the back of his breeches, the other working on the first of the buttons. He was shaking, small tremors that racked his body as she eased them over his haunches and down his thighs, her forearms brushing his prick.
She spoke for the first time, her voice sweet and high pitched: an injunction for him to sit so that she could remove his pumps, breeches and stockings. He obeyed without protest, his eyes on the ceiling in a vain attempt to cool his passion. Having rendered him naked she stood up and undid her own cloth, a single movement followed by three more just as swift to fold and put it away.
A large part of Nelson’s mind was saying that he should not be here, that to consort with a common whore was a sin. But his conscience could not compete with the image that greeted his eyes, especially as she moved forward a fraction to lay her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to bring his gaze down to her. Small, perfectly rounded breasts with deep burgundy nipples, very erect; a flat belly above a bush of dark silky pubic hair, with just a trace of a wispy line running up to her umbilicus.
The hands were behind his head now, pulling it forward till his face was in contact with her breast. Not to open his mouth and suckle the nipple was impossible. He was shaking even more now, a permanent trembling that racked his whole body. Had he looked up he would have seen her smiling, a girl younger than him, who knew so much more than he about the sexual act. His need was great, his resistance low. She knew she must relieve that before she could go on to provide the services for which she was employed.
She pushed him on to his back, one leg swiftly straddling both of his. The speed with which she grabbed his erection and inserted it inside her was only matched by the speed at which he ejaculated as soon as she began to move. The pleasure was unbearable, almost painful, as a dozen spasms rocked his groin. His eyes were closed, his lower teeth biting his upper lip, as the first seeds of guilt replaced that sensation of pleasure.
The girl was still rocking back and forth delicately, waiting for his eyes to open. When they did, she slid free and stood up, picking up the jug of water and a cool cloth with which to bathe him. She started with the sweat on his brow, dabbing gently before descending to his cheeks and upper lip. The water was so cool and pleasant that the sensation almost matched what had gone before. His neck was on fire until she ran the cool cloth over it. Then she lifted each arm to wash there, the strokes including his own breast. His belly was next and finally the coolness was between his legs, a gentle rubbing that cleansed him of the fluids of both their bodies, and put paid to those feelings of remorse.
Her hand, cooled by the water, replaced the cloth, and she fondled him gently. Nelson lay there for ten minutes, lost in the sensuality of her touch, his eyes closed. Within a few minutes those small gentle movements had to lengthen as he became erect again. Expertly the girl stroked, with one wetted finger, the point at which the membrane connected his foreskin to his penis, making him groan out loud again. Then he felt her lie down next to him.
He turned on his side, gazed into her huge brown eyes. With his body pressed to hers, her breasts against his chest as obvious as his erection on her belly, he kissed her, tasting the spice that lingered on her dark red lips.
He awoke alone, eyes parting only a fraction, his body bearing a languor that comes only to the truly sated. He felt as though every muscle had been removed, leaving only the skin and bones, so that he would never move from here, just remain a willing victim of endless debauchery.
‘I didn’t ask her name,’ he said to himself.
His eyes snapped wide open and he sat up still naked, searching the tiny cubicle for his clothes. The cry that was supposed to alert everyone to his predicament came out as a croak, but that was clearly sufficient, since the curtain was pulled back to allow a bent retainer to enter with a tray, which he laid on the bed. Nelson could see that it contained tea, strips of unleavened bread and a bowl of saffron rice with small pieces of meat. It also contained his purse, which, judging by its flatness, was emptier than it had been the night before.
‘The Sahib Higgins left a message for you,
Excellency,’ said the old man, who pulled a note from under the bowl and handed it to him. Nelson opened it, leaning towards the candle so that he could read it.
My dear Nelson,
I trust you enjoyed your night as much as I did mine. Duty obliges me to leave you here in the tender arms of the girl whose services you engaged. My losses at the table force me to bear upon you for the cost of our evening’s entertainment. All your promissory notes are there, along with a new one from me, which I would beg you to delay before presentation, since my affairs are at something of a stand. The invitation my wife extended to you is still open, though I know that I can trust you not to let slip how much pleasure I derived from the duty that dragged me away from her side.
The fact that it was unsigned showed that Major Higgins, for all his bluff exterior and seeming simplicity, was cunning enough not to leave himself open to exposure.
‘My clothes?’ asked Nelson.
The old man bowed. ‘They are being prepared, Sahib. When you have eaten and been bathed they will await you.’
He checked the notes, with Colbourne’s florid signature, as he ate the repast, and recalled the events of the previous day: the drinking, the cards, but most of all the time spent in this cubicle. The tea was thick and sweet, the meat just as spicy as the food he had consumed the night before. Waves of guilt began to assail him, slowly at first, then in increasing fervour.
How far had he fallen from the standards he set himself? He blushed to think that his mother might look down on her son and see a gambler and a rake who had consorted with a common prostitute. Drink had lowered his resolve, and Higgins with his blandishments, had removed the protection of his faith. The lies he had told regarding his Orford relations swam round in his head.
When the old man returned with his uniform, he found Nelson kneeling by the cot, volubly begging his God, his father and his late mother for forgiveness.
But silently he was trying and failing to press down his glee. A question that had troubled him since his first days in the Navy was now resolved. He could take carnal pleasure from the company of a woman.
On Nelson’s return to the ship Colbourne’s Indian servant was waiting for him, at the foot of the gangplank, protected by two tall retainers, carrying a casket of coins, as well as a receipt that he required to be signed. Refusing to come aboard, the servant ensured that the payment of the gambling debt was made in public, the money counted out to the young man before the eyes of his shipmates.
Instead of feeling elated though, Nelson felt somewhat indisposed. He had a sore head and his mouth tasted of metal. His friends failed to lift his spirits with their jokes about where he had been, and the new nickname, the Nabob, that referred to his good fortune at the table. He wasn’t sure that it had been good fortune, since he had felt increasingly unwell since he had exchanged Colbourne’s promissory notes for golden guineas. He was sweating excessively, even given the heat, and lassitude made every physical act a chore.
Everyone aboard seemed to know precisely where he had been. Worse, most of the mids wanted a blow-by-blow account of his adventures. As a senior in the mess he could, and did, demand privacy, his growls chasing away the prepubescent, whose curiosity far outweighed that of his contemporaries. Gratefully, even in the fetid heat of the mid’s berth, he lay on his cot, his mind filled with whirring images of God, devils, sea battles and naked dark skinned whores disguised as mermaids. He fell into the first serious bout of the fever, thinking he was sinking into a refreshing sleep.
‘Malaria, no doubt about it.’
The disembodied voices seemed like part of the troubled dream. Yet through half-open eyes Nelson could make out the vague shape of the master. Surridge was holding a lantern above his head and another shape was looking into his face, lamenting, ‘Your young men will gad about the place as if it were part of England. I have said time and again that a warning should be issued. I’ll wager that not one of those who went on a picnic bothered to ascertain if their chosen site was in any proximity to a swamp.’
‘Surely the damaging vapours are confined?’ asked Surridge.
‘They are clearly not, sir,’ the other voice responded angrily, ‘as this young man in his cot testifies. The malodorous airs are on the winds, infecting all those in their path, even healthy young fellows eating cold collations on a sandy riverside beach. It is my belief that they take on an extra strength as the sun dips, the cool of the approaching evening giving them vigour. Have you not noted it, sir? The wind abates in the heat of the day, only to rise and stir as evening approaches.’
‘I am a ship’s master, Mr Underwood,’ said Surridge, coldly. ‘It is my trade to know such things.’
The name registered. Underwood was the chief surgeon of HMS Ramilles, a man noted for the forthrightness of his views, medical or not, a fractious, argumentative fellow who was a sore trial at the dinner table. This was true even to the Commodore, which Nelson had noted on his one visit to the flagship’s dining cabin.
It was as though Underwood hadn’t heard Surridge speak. ‘The shore hospital is full of them, men who swore that alive to the risk, they had never exposed themselves. And I daresay my sickbay will follow on this commission, just as it did when I was surgeon to the Dreadnought on the Windward Islands station.’
‘What can we expect?’
‘A crisis in the fever, which this fellow—’
‘Mr Nelson,’ Surridge interjected.
‘I know his name and it will not save him, Mr Surridge. He will either expire and go to meet his Maker, this within two days, or he will recover for a while. After that, it will be as God wills.’
‘There is no release.’
It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t treated as such. ‘It will be with him for life, and if another affliction does not carry him off, I daresay it will do for the young man in the end.’
‘Is there aught we can do?’
‘First we must wait to see how he fares, and that, I fear, will depend on his own vital spark.’
‘He’s a robust young man.’
‘That is of little account. I’ve seen physical giants go down in a twelve-hour bout and others who would not qualify to be called a yard and a half of piss survive to see old bones. It is the inner being that matters in these affairs – dare I call it the soul. But if he’s still with us at the end of the week we must do something to get him away from this deadly climate. A second malady is not impossible, and that will surely kill him. Get him to sea. Not even the strongest breeze can carry the disease out to the oceans. No man in any ship I have served on has fallen foul of the malarial disease unless close to an evil shore.’
Nelson closed his eyes as the cool wet cloth touched his forehead, which brought back memories of that narrow cubicle and the girl with whom he had shared it. An hour later, when they moved him, he was delirious, the sweat running off his body in rivulets, hardly able to drink the water that Mallory insisted he take, despite protests from the loblolly boy, who ran this sickbay, that it hadn’t been prescribed by the surgeon.
‘There’s water pouring out of him,’ Mallory insisted. ‘Stands to reason that if he leaks like dried-out planking, the only thing to tighten up his seams is more of the same. Too much loss and he’ll peg out for certain.’
‘You gone soft, Mallory?’ asked one of his shipmates, a pigtailed young topman, hovering to observe his ministrations.
‘Just returning a favour, mate.’
‘Or seeking to grasp hold of an easy duty,’ added another. That earned the speaker a hard look, which was returned in full measure. ‘You was overheard, mate, asking for the care of the lad.’
‘That’s my duty,’ squeaked the loblolly boy, an emaciated individual with a high, squeaky voice. He had no medical training and had only been given the job because he was utterly useless anywhere else. One of the visiting sailors poked him in the ribs.
‘Mallory here reckons Nellie’s got more chance with the Grim Reaper than he has with you.’
/> ‘Then I’ve got to keep him mortal to prove it, ain’t I?’ Mallory snarled. ‘Now, fuck off out of here, the lot of you, and give the poor bugger some air.’
The next forty-eight hours were harder to watch than to live, since the patient had no idea of his condition. Mallory tended him constantly, relieved from his other duties for the purpose, stuck in stifling heat that seemed increased to furnace level ’tween decks, which frayed his temper.
So did the attention of the officers, midshipmen and the master, who vexed the able seaman with their questions as to the youngster’s condition. The surgeon Mr Underwood was welcomed, though irritated himself as Mallory pressed forward, asking questions, suggesting remedies and interfering in the examination. No one else was well received, though Captain George Farmer and the premier, Mr Stemp, had to be indulged. They rated a rise to the feet and a touch of the forelock; other officers along with Mr Surridge, justified elevation to a half crouch and a nod, with enough gruff in the voice to denote displeasure. All the mids got was a stream of blasphemy, especially if they woke Mallory from one of his frequent catnaps. The loblolly boy was confined to fetching buckets of cool water.
It was three days before Nelson opened an eye. Mallory had strict instructions to inform his superiors at the first sight of improvement, but he hesitated, bathing the face till both eyes opened, the drooped lids showing just a hint of the blue-grey eyes.
‘There you are now, Nellie, back with us after a visit to the other side.’
‘Where am I?’ Nelson croaked.
‘Below decks, still berthed on Calcutta shore.’ Gently Mallory raised his head and allowed him to sip some water. ‘You’ve been right ill, you have, scaring the whole ship.’
‘Ill?’
‘A fever that’s laid you low these three days past, with half your berth wondering if your card winnings were to be shared if you pegged out or taken home to your family.’
On a Making Tide Page 21
