Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  It was Hector’s turn to be shocked. He stood appalled. Salima’s leap had taken her overboard nowhere near the thoni, tied alongside.

  Jacques was the first to recover. ‘No one move!’ he shouted, bringing his musket up to his shoulder and aiming at the thick of the crowd.

  But Mayes had seen his chance. He knocked aside the pistol that Vieira was holding to his ribs, and swung a savage blow at the deputy governor’s head that sent the Portuguese reeling. Glancing round for the nearest weapon, Mayes decided on taking Jezreel’s cutlass. He lunged, grabbed Jezreel by the wrist and twisted savagely. Mayes was squat and powerful, accustomed to using brute strength to make his victims submit. But he had not dealt with someone who had spent years as a prize-fighter. Jezreel brought his free hand across and clamped down on the captain’s grip. Taking hold of a middle finger, he deliberately bent it back. Mayes gave an agonized gasp and found himself being forced down on his knees.

  Hector’s mind was in a whirl. He swung the blunderbuss from side to side, menacing the crowd with its bell-shaped muzzle. In front of him, a ginger-haired sailor, braver or more stupid than his fellows, reached for the knife in his belt. There was a popping sound from Hector’s right, and the sailor clutched his shoulder. Hector flicked a sideways glance to see Vieira lowering his pocket pistol. He had fired its single shot.

  ‘Back to our boat! We can pick her up from the sea,’ Hector shouted and watched as Vieira threw aside his empty weapon, kicked off his high-heeled shoes and ran in his stockinged feet to the ship’s rail. A moment later his feathered hat was disappearing from sight as he went down the rope ladder.

  Suddenly Jacques was beside Hector. Shoulder to shoulder they began to back away from the crowd towards the safety of the ladder, still aiming their weapons at the crowd.

  ‘Time to go,’ Jacques called to Jezreel. The big man bent Mayes’s finger farther back until it dislocated, then kicked Pearl’s captain hard in the chest, knocking him over backwards.

  In the scramble to get off the ship, Hector was first down the ladder with Jacques close behind. Jezreel remained still on deck, roaring and making great sweeps with his cutlass to discourage any of the freebooters from coming closer. Jacques’s head was still showing above the rail when the Frenchman called down for Hector to pass him up the blunderbuss. Knives and blades had appeared in the crowd of sailors and in another moment they would surge forward. ‘Stand aside, Jezreel!’ Jacques called. He placed the blunderbuss on the rail, and pulled the trigger. There was a loud report, a cloud of black smoke and the gun’s load of small shot spewed into the crowd. Two men fell and the crowd hesitated. Jezreel, cutlass in hand, vaulted the rail, and together he and Jacques tumbled in a heap into the waiting thoni.

  Hector grabbed the cutlass from Jezreel and hacked through the rope that held Pearl’s boat. He gave it a shove with his foot and it floated away. If the thoni could get clear, no pursuit was possible.

  Vieira, incongruous in his finery, was down on his hands and knees in the bilges of the boat scrabbling at the palm fronds that concealed the weapons. Above them heads began to appear at Pearl’s rail, and the first musket barrels. It was point-blank range and the sailors could hardly miss.

  Vieira was just in time. He twisted round holding a loaded musket and fired upward. It was a lucky shot. The crack of his musket was followed by a splash as one of the freebooter marksmen dropped his weapon into the sea.

  The crew of the thoni were using their oars to fend off from Pearl, and as soon as they had enough room to row, each man jabbed his oar blade into the water. He half rose from his seat, then threw himself backward as he heaved on the handle. The crew who earlier had seemed so lethargic and feeble now sent the boat surging forward as they set themselves a quick, short stroke.

  Hector heard the whizz of musket balls overhead, and the surface of the sea around the thoni puckered with sudden water spouts. They were near misses from Pearl’s musketeers. Several sharp knocks sounded whenever the bullets struck the thoni, and one of the native oarsmen gave a thin cough. He slumped sideways, leaving his oar trailing alongside. ‘Here, take over!’ Vieira shouted in Hector’s ear, thrust a musket into his grasp, then scrambled forward into the bows. Some thirty yards away a patch of yellow on the sea marked where Salima was managing to keep her head above water, her gown floating up around her. Hector knelt in the stern of the thoni, faced aft and braced himself as he tried to hold the sights on a sailor with a musket who had climbed into Pearl’s lower shrouds. The boat underneath him was rocking with each surging stroke from the crew, and a steady aim was impossible. He held his fire, aware that the thoni was slowing down, then felt a slight tilt. He presumed that Salima was being hauled aboard. He kept his attention on his target, waiting for the right moment, then pulled the trigger. He missed.

  ‘Here’s the next one. Priming’s checked.’ Jacques had moved up beside him and was handing him another loaded musket. Again he aimed and fired. The butt kicked against his shoulder. His eyes watered as the smoke drifted back in his face and the air reeked of gunpowder.

  He was amazed at how quickly the native oarsmen were moving the boat. They had picked up their rhythm again, grunting with effort. Another minute or two and the thoni would be out of accurate musket range. It would take Pearl too long to load her cannon, and with his ship caught at anchor in a flat calm, Mayes was unable to hoist sail in pursuit.

  ‘Here’s the last of them, might as well use it,’ said Jacques, passing Hector the final loaded musket. But the gunpowder and flint were damp, and there was nothing but a click and a tiny spark when he pulled the trigger. He laid down the weapon, his hands shaking as a sense of relief washed through him. The plan to rescue Salima had so nearly failed.

  He took several deep breaths to calm himself, then got up from where he had been crouching. Next to him Jacques was peeling back the bloodstained sleeve of his shirt to examine a cut where a flying splinter must have nicked him. Jezreel sat among the native oarsmen. He had gone forward and taken the place of the man who had been shot. For a moment Hector could not see where Vieira had got to, and then he saw him upright in the bows. The deputy governor had lost his hat and wig, and no longer wore his magnificent peacock-blue coat. Trails of sweat had streaked and blotched the white powder on his face and made it look as if he had been crying, so too did his haggard expression. Then Hector saw the coat. It was rolled up and being used as a cushion for Salima’s head. She lay propped against the thoni’s hull, and blood was seeping through her yellow gown.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘She will have been buried already,’ Vieira stated gloomily. ‘In an unmarked grave within twenty-four hours, that’s the custom. Her body was taken away by men sent by the local raja. He’s a prince who’s tributary to Aurangzeb.’

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked Hector. It was mid-morning on the second day after the bungled rescue and the deputy governor had asked him to call at his office. The air in the room was muggy and still, and Hector could feel his sweat-soaked shirt sticking to the back of the chair where he sat in front of Vieira’s desk.

  Vieira got up from his own seat, walked across to a window and stood there, staring out. Hector had an uneasy feeling that the deputy governor was avoiding looking him in the eye.

  After a long moment the deputy governor spoke, and there was embarrassment as well as finality in his tone. ‘I’m sending you and your companions to Delhi, to the Great Mogul’s court, to give an account of what happened to the hajj fleet and to Salima.’

  Hector shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to make of this turn of events. It seemed a poor reward for the attempt to rescue Salima.

  ‘I haven’t a choice,’ Vieira said, his voice now full of regret as he turned to face Hector. ‘Aurangzeb is very devout. His own brother nicknamed him “the fanatic” and it’s still spoken behind his back. When he hears that a pilgrim convoy was attacked while coming back from the hajj, he’ll be enraged. I cannot afford to risk his wrath.’

  ‘Bu
t you had nothing to do with what happened at the Gates of Alexander.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. If the Mogul thinks that I am sheltering someone who took part in the assault on the pilgrims, he’ll send an army against Diu.’ He sighed and took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief he drew from the sleeve of his loose cotton shirt. ‘Hector, you’ve seen for yourself that Diu is a hollow shell, impressive from the outside but the garrison is far too small to resist a serious attack. A Mogul army would take no more than a week to batter down our defences and break in. We’d be crushed, and I’m responsible for the security of the people of the surrounding town.’

  ‘But Aurangzeb’s sister is safe. When Ganj-i-Sawa’i reaches Surat with Gaucharara Begum on board, Aurangzeb will learn that she has come to no harm.’

  ‘I know that.’ The deputy governor spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘But there’s Salima’s death to consider. Her uncle Abdul Ghafar oversees the collection of taxes for Aurangzeb. You might say that he is the minister in charge of imperial revenue. Here in Diu we have a special tax concession that dates to the early days when we Portuguese established ourselves on these shores: we pay no import duties on goods from abroad. It’s the single advantage that lets us compete with larger, more successful ports like Surat. Remove that concession – as Salima’s uncle can arrange – and Diu will die a slow death, her commerce will dry up.’

  He walked back to his desk, his face lined with concern. ‘Hector, please believe me when I say that I have no choice but to send you and your companions to Delhi. You must appear before whomever Aurangzeb appoints to enquire into the assault on the pilgrim fleet, and give an account of what happened. Make the case that you and your friends should not be blamed.’

  He picked up a document lying on his desk, the ink still wet in the muggy air. ‘I’ve written an official report, very favourable to you of course. It is addressed to an omrah in Delhi who has helped me in the past. He’s not as influential as Salima’s uncle, but he is a senior figure at court, and may be able to assist you.’

  ‘An omrah?’ Hector said. ‘What sort of person is that?’

  ‘A grandee, a high noble,’ Vieira explained. ‘The Great Mogul surrounds himself with men to whom he gives titles and rank, gifts and salaries – his omrahs. They come from the same families as himself, descendants of the Persian invaders who over-ran Hindustan. They run his empire for him . . . just as long as he approves their actions.’

  ‘And this raja who took away Salima’s body? You described him as a prince.’

  ‘The Mogul allows the outlying provinces of his empire to be ruled by their long-established princely dynasties on condition that they pay him tribute. Most of them go by the title of raja. However, if a raja makes trouble, he can expect to be overthrown by the forces sent from Delhi.’

  ‘So I’m to go to Aurangzeb’s capital to answer for what happened at the Straits of Alexander and aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i. At the same time I’m to make it clear that Diu cannot be held responsible for Salima’s death?’ Hector asked sourly. He knew he was sounding aggrieved and bitter.

  ‘I only expect you to tell the truth,’ said Vieira wearily. ‘We Portuguese have been in Hindustan much longer than the other European nations. We have learned to bend to the will of those far more powerful than ourselves.’

  ‘And what will happen to me and my friends? What sort of punishment can we expect?’

  The deputy governor was clearly distressed by the situation in which he found himself. He came across to where Hector sat, and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are resourceful and astute. I saw that for myself aboard Pearl,’ he said. ‘I’m sending my most trusted assistant to accompany you. He’s young, but he’s very clever and he has lived in Delhi. He speaks several languages and with his help you may be able to navigate the whirlpools of court politics.’

  ‘So you’re not prepared to come to Delhi yourself?’

  Vieira shook his head. ‘Impossible. I have to stay here in Diu looking after my people. The government in Portugal would never forgive me if I left my post.’

  Hector was feeling too resentful to respond at once.

  ‘What’s to stop me and my two companions quietly disappearing while we are on our way to Delhi?’ he said after a while. ‘Then slipping out of the country?’

  ‘Because the raja is equally interested in seeing that you appear in Delhi to account for yourself and your friends. It’s a chance to ingratiate himself with the Great Mogul. He’s assigned one of his officials to escort you there under guard. He should be here by now.’

  Hector let Vieira lead him down the stairs to the guardroom where a thin, dark-complexioned man with a long narrow face and hooded eyes was already waiting. He was austerely dressed in a plain white gown and turban. Loitering in the background were half a dozen natives armed with spears and short swords who Hector supposed were his retinue. Vieira introduced him as a fawjdar by the name of Darshan, in the service of the raja.

  ‘Darshan’s duties are similar to those of a senior magistrate,’ Vieira explained. ‘His men are what you might call his constables.’

  The fawjdar said something in his own language and the deputy governor beckoned to a young man hovering nearby. ‘Luis, I need your help,’

  The young man came forward. He was a handsome lad in his late teens, with light brown skin, fine regular features, long straight jet-black hair, and long eyelashes to match. Hector guessed that he was part Portuguese and part native. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

  ‘This is Luis,’ Vieira said to Hector. ‘He’ll be travelling to Delhi with you. He speaks Arabic, Persian, and English much better than I do, as well as Portuguese and the local language, Gujerati.’ He turned to the young man. ‘Perhaps you would assist us by translating for the fawjdar.’

  Luis listened as Darshan repeated what he had just said, then told Vieira that the fawjdar wanted to inspect all six prisoners he had been instructed to deliver to Delhi.

  ‘The others have already been sent for,’ said Vieira and indicated Hector, ‘but this man is not to be treated as a prisoner, merely to be escorted to Delhi.’

  Quartermaster Gibson and the two sailors from Pearl were the first to arrive. Clearly Gibson was in a foul mood.

  ‘What’s going on, Lynch?’ he demanded angrily, though Hector caught a trace of fear beneath the bluster. ‘I’ve been kept locked in my room these past two days. And who’s this?’ He nodded towards the fawjdar.

  ‘He’s taking us to Delhi to explain to the authorities what happened aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i,’ Hector told him. So much had happened in the past couple of days that Hector had given little thought to him and his two colleagues.

  ‘What about Captain Mayes?’ Gibson retorted. ‘If we don’t get back to Pearl, he’ll make sure that Her Highness never sees her family again.’

  ‘There is no member of the Great Mogul’s family on Pearl, and never was,’ Hector explained. ‘It was a case of mistaken identity.’

  Gibson’s mouth fell open, then the look of pure hatred that flashed into his eyes warned Hector to step back. ‘You double-crossing shit,’ he snarled and sprang at Hector, reaching for his throat with both hands.

  Two of the fawjdar’s men darted forward and grabbed Gibson by the arms. A third – a burly individual with a wrestler’s physique – clasped the quartermaster around the waist and dragged him backward. At the same time, their colleagues quickly moved to surround the two sailors and levelled their spears. It was clear to Hector that the fawjdar’s men were well practised in dealing with troublemakers.

  Gibson, his face flushed with anger, was still struggling to break free of his captors when Jacques and Jezreel strolled into the room. The quartermaster glared at them. ‘I knew you were trouble,’ he hissed.

  Darshan had watched the scuffle calmly. He gave an order, and his men produced lengths of leather thong with which they quickly lashed together Gibson’s wrists. They then searched him
for hidden weapons, finding a short knife in his belt, and knotted a hobble between his ankles. They did the same for the two sailors, stood back, and waited for further instructions.

  ‘Luis, tell the fawjdar that these men,’ said Vieira, pointing out Jezreel and Jacques, ‘helped in the attempt to rescue Salima and should not be tied.’

  The fawjdar shot him a cold glance. ‘He says that is for him to judge,’ Luis translated.

  ‘If he asks the lady we brought ashore earlier,’ Hector cut in, ‘she’ll confirm that neither Jacques nor Jezreel had a hand in kidnapping Her Highness Gaucharara Begum.’

  Darshan regarded Hector impassively while he listened to Luis’s translation. ‘I have already spoken with the lady,’ came the fawjdar’s stiff reply. ‘She says that you and a hazari of artillery were the only feringhee who gave any help to her and her highness. All the others are criminals who deserve to be put to death.’

  He nodded to his constables and they closed in on Jezreel and Jacques.

  Hector turned to the young interpreter. ‘Luis, please explain that Jezreel and Jacques are my close friends, and that I give my word that neither they nor I will try to escape.’

  The young man was still translating his request when the man who had been searching Jacques approached the fawjdar and gave him what he had found.

  With a hint of a sneer on his narrow features Darshan held out his open hand. On his palm lay half a dozen bright new gold coins. Each bore the stamp of the Mogul’s mint.

  ‘The fawjdar asks,’ Luis hurriedly translated, ‘how your friend came by these gold rupees. This is a very large sum for a common sailor to possess.’

  Hector felt the blood rush to his face. He remembered Jacques taking his chance to pilfer coins from the display of loot aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i while the freebooters were quarrelling over the division of the spoil.

  He was still groping for some sort of excuse to give the fawjdar when Vieira intervened smoothly. ‘Luis, offer my congratulations to Darshan on his efficiency in carrying out his duties. The coins are proof of the unlawful activities of the feringhees. He must take them to Delhi to be used in evidence at their trial.’