by Olivia
Listening with undivided attention, Ransome nodded but vaguely as his memory started to uncloud. "Now that you mention it, yes, I do recall saying something of the sort. And yes, I recall that it was Jai's mother who had carved that figure-head. She was sitting in the garden one day, Josh said, chiselling it when he saw her and, on an impulse, bought it for the Daffodil. We did mount it on the prow, come to think of it, but good grief—you came to deduce all that just from the few words I had let drop?"
"No. In fact, I had forgotten about them. It was something Estelle later mentioned that brought them back to mind. In Raventhorne's house, she said, she had seen a few of those wooden toys his mother was fond of making, although at the time Estelle had no idea who the artist was. One of the toys, she told me casually, was in the shape of a female figure that reminded her of a ship's mascot. Her comment meant nothing to me at the time, but later, when I heard that Raventhorne had made an offer for the Daffodil, I suddenly remembered that, curiously enough, both you and Estelle had used the words ship's mascot. What Estelle of course was thinking of was the Daffodil, where she had seen the figure-head. Raventhorne obviously still retained a miniature replica, possibly a sort of draft design for the larger model." Having suitably doctored the story for Ransome's benefit, she added carefully, "Raventhorne, Estelle felt, was very . . . particular about his mother's little souvenirs."
"Yes, I daresay he was," Ransome said absently, still not able to shed his bafflement. "But if he wanted only the figure-head, why in God's name did he have to pay for the whole ship? Had I known, I would have been pleased to let him have that figurehead with my compliments!"
"He paid for the whole ship because there was no other way he could have procured that figure-head. Certainly, he would never have asked you for it!"
"Well, he could have just... just taken it! The ship was lying out in the open. Two meagre watchmen were not enough to stop other vandals."
"He didn't consider it worth the trouble. He was so sure of getting the Daffodil for next to nothing. By the time he must have realised that it wouldn't be quite that easy, it was too late to remove the figure-head." She smiled in renewed apology. "You see, I already had."
"God bless my soul!" Ransome exclaimed. "You removed it? How . . .?"
"I took one of Mary Ling's brothers to saw it off the prow. On the day Raventhorne made you payment in full, I retrieved it from my basement store-room where I had hidden it and had it delivered to Raventhorne's house."
Amazed, Ransome said nothing for a while. Then he asked slowly, "Who told Raventhorne that his bid for the Daffodil wouldn't be considered unless he raised it—was it you? Is that why you went to see him?"
"I went to see him to request him to restore our credit facilities. In passing, I might have mentioned something about the Daffodil."
He lowered his eyes towards his drink and kept them there. "You have taken a great deal of trouble on our behalf, Olivia," he said, uneasy. "Are you sure that was wise?"
Olivia shrugged. "Wise or not, Raventhorne has paid you a fair price for what he wanted. That's all that matters."
"Is it? He has lost face, Olivia. He does not forgive easily. However grateful I might be for your extraordinary endeavours, and I am, believe me, it is Farrowsham that must be considered. Raventhorne will harass you mercilessly, and do God knows what other damage."
"Yes, I am not unaware of that possibility, Uncle Arthur. We will just have to tackle each harassment as it comes." She quickly reassured him with a gesture. "What you must forgive me for are all the liberties I have taken, unbidden. I have done things behind your back, lied to you, been far from straightforward . . ."
He dismissed her apologies with a wave, but he could not shake off his visible distress with the valiant smile he attempted. Like Willie Donaldson, Ransome knew that the sale of the Daffodil was by no means the end of the matter.
As, of course, it was not.
Three days later Raventhorne struck again. Farrowsham's most recent consignment of indigo intended for London, packed and ready for loading at the wharf, was refused space aboard Trident's clipper scheduled to sail the following day on the morning tide. The consignment had been paid for in full as per the new requirements, and the bills of lading were all in order, as was the clearance from the Customs. No reason was specified for the refusal to accept the cargo. Moitra's businesslike letter only stated bluntly Trident's inability to oblige. It also added that no guarantee could be given for hold space for future cargo from Farrowsham in any of the company's clippers. Enclosed with the letter was a banker's draft for the sum paid in advance for freight.
After Donaldson had expended his rage and much of his choice verbiage on Trident's hapless messenger boy, his own nervous staff and the world in general, he sat slumped over his desk sunk in gloom blacker than any he had ever known before. "I knew it would come to this, I knew it!" was what he kept muttering to himself over and over again, now with no pious glow of perverse satisfaction at having been proved right. He had passed beyond that. All he could think of was that Farrowsham, his Farrowsham, held in sacred trust by him for the soul of Caleb Birkhurst and the comfortable profit of his son, had become the ham in a sandwich neither to his taste nor of his making. Without a sin to its fair name, Farrowsham was being pilloried, put in the stocks.
Privately, not even Olivia could deny that she was shaken. Trident's blanket ban on their cargo was indeed a severe broadside, and she could not insult Donaldson's intelligence by trying to minimise it. Their profitability would be badly hurt, for in the export-import business, as in any other, time translated automatically into money. It was not that there were no other clippers available; American lines sent plenty of vessels, but they called irregularly and their schedules were erratic. Raventhorne guaranteed sailings as regular as clockwork; the speed and accuracy with which his ships delivered goods to their destinations were admirable. Which, of course, was the reason for his considerable success as a shipowner. To secure other hold space now in outgoing vessels, Farrowsham would have to pay through its nose and bribe Company officials and captains heavily. It would mean stealing cargo space booked by others, which would, understandably, create dissension and bad blood in the business community—something Donaldson had always avoided with his scrupulous code of ethics. In any case, only Indiamen were available and these took double the time Trident's clippers did. Not to be overlooked were the gleeful gains of competitors, already at wharfside scrambling furiously for the hold space vacated by Farrowsham in the Jamuna, as well as for future bookings.
Ensconced in her own office, Olivia sat thinking hard. The summer's heat in the middle of the day was punitive. The humidity was making it even more difficult to bear. Even her light calico dress was soaked through with perspiration and clung uncomfortably to her damp petticoats. From the large clay pot balanced on an iron stand in a corner of her room, she poured herself another glass of cool water, drank it thirstily and then sent for Willie Donaldson.
"We have an annual contract with Trident. If they flout it, can we appeal to the Chamber for redress?"
"The Chamber!" In short, succinct words, Donaldson proceeded to tell her exactly what he thought of the Chamber of Commerce and then, despondent again, shook his head. "Na we can't. A clause in the contract warns that if our indigo stains any part of the hold, Trident will hold us responsible for heavy damages. That last consignment, if you recall, was imperfectly packed," he paused to heap liberal curses on the absent warehouse manager, "and it made a god-awful mess. Raventhorne will cite that as justification for cancelling the contract altogether."
"But supposing we agreed to pay damages and dispatched only," she riffled through a ledger, "saltpetre, camphor, salt, timber and that Dacca muslin that is on order?"
He gave a bark of a derisive laugh. "What he's telling us, plain as plain can be, is that he's na going to lift our cargo again, any cargo. You can see what he thinks of that damned contract." He dug in his pocket and strewed her table top with sc
raps of paper. "These also came with Moitra's letter."
Understanding his anger, all his resentments and his unspoken accusations, Olivia made no attempt to comfort him. For a while she merely stood at her window peering through the bamboo slats of the chik that did nothing to keep out the searing midday heat. Picking up a palm leaf fan, she waved it across her face, her mind now racing along quite another track.
"The Trident clipper that sails next month is the Tapti, isn't it?"
"Aye." His eyebrows locked horns like battling bulls. "What of it?"
"Well, since it appears that we cannot avail ourselves of the Jamuna, we will just have to wait for the Tapti to sail. Or, maybe, the clipper after that. This much delay we can easily afford. In the meantime, we'd better get that indigo back from the wharves for repacking. If there's a nor-wester storm in the offing and the river turns blue, we'll have every dhobi on the Hooghly panting for our blood."
Slowly Donaldson sat up straight and stared. "Perhaps Your Ladyship has na yet fully understood the import of this!" He waved Moitra's letter in the air. "Moitra says—"
"I know what Moitra says," she interrupted gently. "What I am trying to convey to you, Mr. Donaldson, is that when the Tapti or the next clipper sails, Farrowsham's cargo will be on board despite Moitra's letter, as it will be on board every Trident clipper sailing thereafter." She swept up the pieces of the torn contract and put them inside an envelope. "In the meanwhile, why don't we get that nice young Sol Abrahams to stick these together again?"
Jesus! That glint is back in her eyes, so help me God! thought Donaldson. He swallowed hard. "We'll na need them again ...," he began weakly.
"Yes, you're right. We won't." She tossed the envelope carelessly into her waste bin. "We will get Trident to draw up a fresh contract with more reasonable freight rates. Double duties for foreign shipping were abolished two years ago and they can well afford to reduce their charges. In fact, I have been meaning to talk to you about this for some time, Mr. Donaldson."
Wildly, his eyes flew to the liquor cabinet where Olivia kept her supplies to entertain business visitors. God's nails—she'd been at it herself, she bloody had! Olivia caught his glance and her eyes twinkled. "Seriously, Mr. Donaldson, do you know what I think Farrowsham needs to do now?"
He saw that she had intercepted his glance and, only to hide his embarrassment, growled, "Na, what?"
"I think Farrowsham needs to diversify. There's something very sordid about being held for ransom, don't you think?" Dreamily, she again gazed out of the window.
"Diversify?" He now had no doubts about her insobriety. "Farrowsham does na need any bleeding diversifications! We have more damn business than we can reck'n what to do with!"
"Oh, I disagree entirely, Mr. Donaldson." She picked up a pencil and started to doodle. "In America we believe there is always room for expansion. For instance, Mr. Donaldson, how does the idea strike you of acquiring a Farrowsham hotel?"
The idea struck Willie Donaldson forcefully. In fact, it struck him dumb.
Almost a century had passed since 1756 when Siraj-ud-Daula, Nawab of Bengal, had marched from Murshidabad to attack and capture Calcutta. It had been a fearsome, uneven battle and at least part of the blame for it (for the consequent rout of the Company's garrison at Fort William and even for the hideous deaths of one hundred twenty-three British prisoners from suffocation in the notorious Black Hole) many still ascribed indirectly to the evil machinations of one Amin Chand, a Hindu money-lender of alleged ill repute. It was this man that Ram Chand Mooljee proudly counted among his forbears.
Like his ancestor, Ram Chand was a money-lender by profession, a manipulator by inclination and a crook by sheer natural instinct. If Clarence Pennworthy's Imperial East India Bank was the conduit between the Company Bahadur and its masters on London's Leadenhall Street—as it was between most respectable merchants—it was Ram Chand who was the pipeline in every clandestine, illicit but lucrative financial transaction in town. Also like his ancestor, he had amassed a considerable sterling fortune to become one of the richest Hindu merchants in Bengal. He, like Amin Chand, boasted a privileged residence in Calcutta's White Town—not surprising, since it was his money that had financed the construction of several European homes.
Unlike his forbear, however, Ram Chand despised politics. Money, he often said, remained money regardless of political affiliations, and to its pursuit he dedicated his life. As the fiscal conscience of many—black, white, brown and yellow—Ram Chand thrived on financial adventurism. He had learned through his exploits that nothing denuded a man's soul as much as the lure of lucre. Consequently, nothing surprised him, for in satisfying everyone's greed—and, indeed, using it to his own profit—he had become a canny calculator of human nature. It was his boast that to him what was unexpected was the expected.
But now, as he sat facing the white mem called Lady Birkhurst, on one of the extremely rare occasions of his life Ram Chand found himself taken by surprise. "A loan?" he murmured slowly to give himself time to think. Why should she, with all those Farrowsham funds, need to ask him for another loan? The first, he knew, was for Ransome sahib, but now...? He concealed his surprise behind an obsequious smile and declared himself a humble servant whose command was her wish, then said, "Yes, certainly a loan can be arranged, even though what little this miserable slave has could not be more than a pittance compared to your esteemed lord and husband's—"
"It is in my personal capacity again that I wish to take the loan," Olivia interrupted, answering the convoluted question he slyly asked. "I do not wish it to involve either the Agency or my husband."
"Ah, I understand perfectly, perfectly." The oily folds of his fleshy face lifted in a smile, but his eyes remained cool and appraising. "It takes time, I know, for money to arrive from Lloyd's in your Blighty—whereby, of course, this honour for your unworthy servant."
Olivia was not surprised at his information. In her one previous dealing with him, she had learned to regard his espionage system with the same awe that she regarded Jai Raventhorne's. "Yes, precisely. I need the money immediately to cover a certain transaction I wish to make."
"A private transaction, no doubt."
Since Ram Chand disliked having to ask questions, this too was inflected as a statement. "Not at all," Olivia smiled. "It will be quite public. I intend to acquire a property with a view to starting a top-grade hotel. As you know, Mr. Mooljee, there is only Spence's, which is inadequate. We could well do with another. I consider this to be a sound business proposition."
"A hotel?" He could not have been more taken aback, and he was peeved. All this was being planned and he had not an inkling? He decided to instantly dismiss his informer on Old Court House Street and replace him with a more competent man. "A hotel owned by your noble self?" he was forced to ask.
"At the outset, yes. Then I might lease it to Farrowsham. Or, perhaps, offer shares to investors."
Ram Chand forgot his chagrin in order to ponder. It was indeed an inspired project. Not that he would ever consider losing caste by patronising such a place, but it was true that decent lodging houses in the city were sadly lacking. Those that did exist were ill kept and dirty, with atrocious food, he had been told, and worse services. Usually friends and family offered hospitality to visitors, but should a top-grade hotel become available, he had no doubt it would attract excellent custom. And he, of course, could make a killing on those "shares" she had mentioned . . . But, the lady mem in the hotel business? Why, her people would never stand for it! It would be worse than shopkeeping, and he had learned enough about firanghi prejudices to know how that was despised! However, Ram Chand took care not to reveal any of his reactions.
"Yes, it could be a viable proposition," he said, looking dubious, but then he turned expansive. "However, first we must have refreshments. Forgive this coarse animal for having the manners of a donkey. It is deplorable!"
He clapped and half a dozen minions appeared. Berating them soundly for not having though
t of it themselves, he ordered spiced tea and English biscuits. Olivia watched, amused. In spite of his wealth, she knew Ram Chand deliberately maintained this mean little office in a crowded bazaar not far from, appropriately enough, the Royal Mint. Many of his clients were rich and politically powerful, but his bread and butter (and jam!) came from hundreds of modest salaried employees of Company Bahadur for whom he performed financial services forbidden by the rules of employment. For a fee (high but never too high), he invested their funds in buying commodities in Calcutta to sell in the hinterland. He loaned them money at murderous interest rates to cover their various short term embarrassments, such as imprudent gambling debts. Without the knowledge of either Pennworthy or other bankers, he arranged to remit illegally acquired funds to England, earning not only undying gratitude but generous commissions. With at least two Company Directors as his clients, he was in a position to extract various favours for his Indian patrons in exchange for handsome "gifts." He advanced to impecunious young civil and military English gentlemen passage money to send for lovelorn fiancees and pining wives, was willing to keep in hock even the meanest of mean household articles and propped up limping commercial ventures with transfusions that ensured worth-while returns later. It was rumoured that he could mate and match supply and demand with such skill that he could name his own fee in the middle and frequently did. In the burgeoning middle class of Calcutta's Indian businessmen, Ram Chand Mooljee was an undoubted pioneer.
