by Wilbur Smith
Stay awake, he told himself. You are not safe yet.
He pinched his own cheek to keep himself awake. But felt no pain. He could resist no longer. He dropped into a deep dark hole in his own mind.
He woke to feel hands shaking him. He had been dreaming of Sarah, and for a moment he thought it was her.
His eyes snapped open. They were no longer alone in the hut. A group of villagers had entered and were tugging at him, pulling him to his feet. He looked around for Sarah and the others, but they were gone. Suddenly he was fully awake. He jumped to his feet, shrugging off their hands. Then he ducked under the door jamb and stepped outside.
Sarah, Ana and Francis were standing in the centre of a wide circle of villagers. In front of them were seven strange men mounted on horseback. Their faces were grim and scarred; they wore body armour, and their turbans were wrapped around steel helmets. All of them were armed heavily. They wore pistols and short swords on their belts. Four of them carried lances, the other three swords.
Tom stepped in front of Sarah and Ana to shield them. ‘Who are these people?’ he demanded.
The lead rider kicked his horse forward. He circled the four of them, peering haughtily down at them. He wore a yellow feather tucked into the band of his turban, and the inlay on his breastplate was gold. A thin white scar snaked down between his eyes and along his nose. It gave his face a crooked look, as if his head had once been split in two, and then clumsily reassembled.
He shouted something at the headman, who replied in a nervous high-pitched voice, bowing and clasping his hands in front of his eyes.
‘The arrogant one is named Tungar,’ Ana translated. ‘He is a Subeldar in the army of the local ruler, the Rani of Chittattinkara.’
Tungar stared enviously at the sapphire in the Neptune sword. Tom put his hand on the hilt and stared back at him.
‘Tell him we were shipwrecked. Tell him we ask only for a little food, and safe conduct to the nearest European settlement.’
Ana spoke, but Tungar showed little interest in what she had to say. Before she had finished he interrupted her brusquely.
‘What is he saying?’ Tom asked.
‘He says that all travellers in this country must pay a tribute to the Rani.’
‘Tell him we have lost everything we own in the wreck.’
Ana translated but Tungar sneered at Tom in response, then leaned forward in the saddle and pointed at the Neptune sword with his riding whip.
‘No,’ Tom shook his head firmly, ‘not the sword. It is a family heirloom. However we have a cargo of ivory on the wreck. When the sea is calmer, we will dive for it and present some of it to his queen.’
Tungar unfurled the long lash of the whip. Then shot it out like a live serpent. The tip of it wrapped around Tom’s wrist and jerked his hand from the hilt of the sword. Then with his spurs Tungar backed his mount, keeping the whip lash taut. Two of his men jumped from the backs of their mounts and ran forward to grab the sword. Tom kicked at them, twisting away. Two more men dismounted and circled around Tom, levelling their lances at his chest. Defiantly Tom drew the sword left-handed from its sheath and menaced his assailants with the blade.
But Sarah screamed at him, ‘Let them have it, Tom! The Good Lord knows it is not worth dying for. There are six of them to your one. They will cut you down like a rabid dog.’
Tom lowered the sword. Then he tossed it towards Tungar. The point of the bright blade pegged into the ground and it stood there quivering upright. With a single shake of his wrist hilt Tungar unwrapped the lash from Tom’s wrist, and spurred his horse forward.
He leaned from the saddle and seizing the hilt of the sword he jerked it free. Then he spurred his mount onwards, riding straight at Tom with the point of the blade aimed at his face. Tom stood unflinching. Sarah screamed again and ran forward to try and interpose her own body. But both Ana and Francis grabbed her arms and held her.
At the last possible instant Tungar lifted the blade to the vertical and slammed the glittering blue sapphire on the pommel into the centre of Tom’s forehead as he swept past him. Tom dropped to his knees, clutching at the wound, while blood dribbled down his face and balled into the dust of the yard.
Tungar wheeled his horse back to stand over Tom. Tungar was grinning, not bothering to hide his triumph as he mocked Tom.
‘What is the arrogant swine saying now?’ Sarah was weeping bitterly.
‘He says that his mistress, the Rani, may her name be exalted for all time, will be amused by his gift. She may even reward him with the crust of bread for which he is begging, before she sends him on his way again.’
Tungar lost interest. He spoke sharply to his men and they fell in behind him. Before he rode away, he shouted something at Ana, and then he urged his horse into a gallop. In a thunder of hooves he led his men out of the village and away along the bank of the river.
Sarah crouched beside Tom. ‘Are you hurt?’
Tom wiped the blood from his forehead. He would have a mighty bruise, but the cut was not deep. ‘I have had worse.’
Even so, he winced as he came to his feet. ‘What was that parting quip of his?’
‘He says there is a settlement of hat-wearers a few miles down the coast. Perhaps the village head man can have one of his men take us to him.’
‘Hat-wearers?’ Tom shook his head to clear it.
‘That is their name for a European. They wear turbans and we wear hats.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Tom conceded.
Ana negotiated with the village elder for the services of a guide to lead them to the European settlement. Tom offered the guide as a reward the cross belt which had supported the blue sword. It was no longer of use to him, but the guide was delighted with it.
They left the village and went to find Alf Wilson and his surviving crew members on the beach on which the Kestrel had floundered.
Then their guide led northwards through the coastal forest, along almost-obscured footpaths and stretches of open beach against which the surf thundered. At times they were forced to wade through the creeks and backwaters that dissected the coastline.
All of them were famished and weakened with fatigue, although they found a few rotten mangoes under the trees where the reapers had discarded them.
At last they came to the bank of a broad river running into the sea. On the opposite side stood a stout stone fort. On her flagstaff fluttered the English East India Company’s standard, red and white stripes with a Union Jack in the corner.
Heavy breakers burst and foamed on the beach in front of the fort. On the coral sands, above the tideline, were drawn up a number of sharp-prowed surf boats. Beyond the fortress stood half a dozen godowns, warehouses for the Company’s goods, surrounded by a cluster of palm-thatched cottages.
‘I never expected I would be so happy to see that flag,’ Tom remarked.
Their guide whistled, and several of the native boatmen ran to the surfboats and shoved them into the river to ferry them across. By the time they reached the far bank of the river, a small group of spectators from the fort had gathered to welcome them. Tom saw the red coats of a dozen or more East India Company soldiers, the blue coats of English merchants and three or four ladies peeking out from under their parasols. It seemed that they had at last reached civilization again, and that their ordeal was almost over.
A stout fellow in a tight-fitting scarlet waistcoat strode out from among the spectators. Even in the monsoon heat, he wore a wig. The light rain washed trickles of powder down over his face and clothing, leaving white snail trails.
‘Who the Devil are you? What are you doing here?’ he demanded in English.
‘Do not use my real name,’ Tom whispered to the others. ‘These may be Guy’s men. You know what will happen if Guy hears that we have arrived on his front lawn.’
‘Tom Weald,’ he announced to the fat man. ‘My nephew, Francis; my wife, Sarah; our travelling companion, Ana Duarte.’
Tom was aware of
how ragged and dishevelled they all appeared. The man stared at them with ill-disguised distaste.
‘Lawrence Foy,’ he said. ‘I am the Governor of the British factory here at Brinjoan.’
‘Our ship was wrecked in the storm,’ Tom explained.
‘Ship?’ Foy peered at Tom suspiciously. ‘What ship is that?’
‘The Kestrel. Outward bound from Cape Town at Good Hope for Madras.’
‘I know of no Company ship by that name, what?’ Foy complained. ‘I hope that you are not interlopers?’
Tom sidestepped the question. ‘At the moment, sir, we are little better than castaways.’
Foy sniffed. ‘Good God, sir. You smell frightful.’
‘We would be grateful for a change of clothes,’ Tom conceded
Foy pursed his lips. He had a pained expression on his face – as if he wanted to pass wind but was unable to do so. Tom smiled inwardly. No doubt he was wondering whether there was any way, in all decency, that he could rid himself of these unwanted guests.
‘You had better come and explain yourselves,’ he gruffed at last.
He led them into the fort. Discipline was lax, Tom noted as he looked about him. There were no sentries posted at the gates, and the only lookout he could see was on the ramparts, huddled under an awning to escape the rain. The Governor’s house in the inner courtyard was made of wood, with palm-frond thatching that would burn like a bonfire in the dry season.
‘I trust you have amicable relations with the locals,’ Tom asked.
Foy swatted away a fly. ‘They give us a little trouble now and then, but a sharp slap on the wrists shows them the error of their ways.’
Tom thought of the horsemen in the village who had deprived him of his sword, but he kept his own counsel as they entered the house. The floor underfoot was gritty with sand, and the air was stifling. A young Indian boy, naked but for a loin cloth, sat in a corner and waved a fan of matted palm leaves. It stirred soft currents of the air, without having any noticeable cooling benefit.
Foy slumped in a chair. A tray of dates sat on his desk. He stuffed three in his mouth, but did not offer them to his guests, who stayed standing. Tom’s stomach turned with hunger.
‘Now,’ Foy said through a mouthful of fruit. ‘You were shipwrecked, you say. What was your cargo?’
The question took Tom by surprise. ‘I hardly think that is relevant, sir.’
‘On the contrary, it is of the utmost relevance.’ Foy fixed him with a keen stare. Beneath his country-parson manner, Tom realized, lurked a mean and vicious intelligence.
‘Ivory. Lace. Some worked goods.’
‘European goods.’
‘We bought them in Cape Town.’
‘So you say. You have logbooks? Manifests? Receipts that can support your story?’
Tom tried to control his temper. ‘All our papers were lost with the ship.’
‘How convenient.’ Foy spat the date stones onto the floor. ‘You know what the Company does to interlopers. I could have you locked up and shipped back to England in shackles. I could send you to Bombay, and give you over to Governor Courtney. Bombay is a long way from the English courts. There, the Governor’s word is absolute law.’
Foy went silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then he leaned forward over the table. ‘Unless, perhaps, we could reach an accommodation.’
He wants a bribe, Tom realized. He relaxed. This was a situation he had been in many times and understood fully.
‘Alas, since the shipwreck we have nothing.’ Tom adopted a forlorn expression.
Foy steepled his fingers. ‘That is a great pity.’
‘However,’ Tom continued, ‘we carried a substantial cargo of ivory. If the storm did not rip the bottom out of our ship, it may still be there. She lies in shallow water. In consideration of the loan of a boat, we could give you a quarter of anything we retrieve from the wreck.’
‘What manner of offer is that?’ Foy composed his face so that Tom could see the insult he had taken. ‘I could salvage it myself and claim the entirety of your cargo.’
‘But you would have to travel to the Admiralty Court in London to claim it,’ said Tom, calling up memories of his conversation with Captain Inchbird on the Dowager. ‘I have powerful friends in London. While the case was heard, we might seek a lien on all your exports. An entire season of your trade could be lost.’
Foy made a growling noise, uncannily like a dog. ‘Do you presume to threaten me, sir?’
‘Not at all, sir! I wish only to show you how we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
Foy frowned, staring at the papers on his desk. He popped another date in his mouth and chewed it noisily.
‘Half,’ said Foy.
‘Half,’ Tom agreed. ‘And you will give us board and lodging until we find a passage home.’
‘You may lodge with the garrison, and eat at the Company table. I will deduct the costs from our final settlement.’ He flapped his hand irritably. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I have correspondence I must attend to.’
Tom wondered if he was about to write to Guy to inform him of this turn of events. He paused at the door. ‘You mentioned Governor Courtney in Bombay. Are you acquainted?’
Foy puffed up. ‘I pride myself we are most intimate. Guy Courtney is my patron – nay, my friend. It was he who secured me this position, after I rendered him some small service in a dispute with the Surat merchants.’
Tom gave inward thanks he had not told Foy his true name. ‘Is he well?’
‘In rude good health. He seems quite at home in this damnable climate.’
‘And his family? He has a son, does he not?’
Beside Tom, Sarah stiffened. She kicked his ankle, but Foy was too keen to show off his connection with Guy to notice.
‘Alas, his son is a great disappointment. A great disappointment,’ he repeated. ‘He defied his father and ran away to sea. He has not been heard of since. I believe Guy blames his mother’s influence.’
Tom wanted to ask more. But Foy, belatedly, had gauged the interest in Tom’s voice. He shot him a jealous look.
‘Are you and Guy familiar?’
‘A long time ago,’ said Tom. ‘Does he ever call at this factory?’
‘Alas, so far he has not graced us with his presence.’ This was clearly a matter of some concern to Foy. ‘But his brother-in-law is with us. Here, in this very fort.’
A chill went through Tom. Had he been recognized? How could Foy have known? And why say ‘his brother-in-law’? Tom and Guy had married sisters, but they were brothers above all else.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Tom with a glassy stare. He scanned the room for a weapon, anything he could use. Could he take a musket from the sentry on the door? If shots were fired, how long would it take before the garrison arrived?
Foy mopped his brow, entirely oblivious to the effect his words had had on Tom. ‘Captain Hicks and his wife have been here in Brinjoan since January. Though I do not think Guy sent them here for their personal benefit.’
Tom paused. What do you mean? he wanted to shout. But before he could betray himself, Sarah spoke up.
‘Of course,’ she said brightly. ‘Captain Hicks married Agnes Beatty, the sister of Guy’s wife Caroline. Dear Agnes. She and I were the greatest of friends growing up in York together.’
Tom leaned on the desk. ‘You mean to say Agnes Beatty is here?’
‘Agnes Hicks, as she is now. I saw her this very morning. Her husband is captain of our garrison.’ Foy looked at the Courtneys with new appreciation. Clearly, they were of more importance than he had assumed, though he could not tell precisely how much importance. That fact made him anxious. His entire career had been built on Guy Courtney’s coat-tails, and he knew his master’s temper if he did anything to disappoint him. Equally, though he was not as intimate with Guy as he pretended, he knew well enough that he bore little love for his family. This would require all his tact.
First, he had to get
rid of his guests. He put on a broad smile. ‘You asked for lodgings. I am certain Captain Hicks and his wife would be delighted to entertain you in their home. I will take you there at once.’
Tom’s natural curiosity couldn’t resist examining the fortifications as Foy led them out. The walls were strong, stone-built with triangular bastions giving interlocking fields of fire – but they were built on sand.
‘Do you have fresh water in the fort?’ he enquired.
‘We get our water from the river.’ Foy, sweating heavily once again, pointed along a well-worn path to a place on the riverbank, about four hundred yards away.
‘You would go thirsty in a siege,’ Francis pointed out.
‘Oh! It would never come to that. The darkies have no stomach for a fight. At the first musket shot, they’d run screaming into the jungle.’
Sarah sneezed. They were passing the godowns, and the smell of black pepper tickled their noses. The warehouse doors were locked, for there were no ships in the bay.
‘Now the rains have started, the coast is impassable. We will see no commerce until the autumn,’ Foy lamented.
‘Is pepper the chief object of your trade?’ Francis asked.
Foy nodded. ‘It does not pay so well as formerly, but the East India Company requires its ships to carry a certain weight as ballast. Our treaty with the natives gives us a monopoly on all the pepper this country produces, so we have captive markets on both sides of the ledger. Enough that with sound management we may hope to realize a small profit.’
Tom could imagine what Foy meant by ‘sound management’. From all he had heard, the Governors of these small outposts of the Company’s empire ran their stations as personal fiefdoms, cheating their own employers as much as they cheated the natives. Whatever profit Foy turned, little would find its way back to Leadenhall Street.
‘Are the local merchants happy with the arrangement?’ Ana wondered.
‘Happy?’ Foy looked appalled at the notion. ‘If they were happy with the price I gave them, I would regard it as a personal failure.’
‘A trade must benefit both parties if it is to endure.’
