Part 37 (2/2)
Hawksworth was standing on the steps of the maidan when the sail of the English longboat showed at the turn of the river. News of the s.h.i.+pwreck had reached Surat by village runner an hour after sunup, and barks had already been sent to try to recover the remaining silver before the s.h.i.+p broke apart. The frigate was reportedly no more than a thousand yards off the coast, and all the men, even Kerridge, the bosun, and the pilot, had been safely carried ash.o.r.e by the current.
Hawksworth watched the longboat's sail being lowered in preparation for landing and tried to think over his next step, how to minimize the delay and loss.
We can't risk staying on past another day or two, not with only one vessel. If we're caught at anchor in the cove, there's nothing one s.h.i.+p can do. The Portugals can send in fires.h.i.+ps and there'll be no way to sink them with crossfire. The _Discovery _has to sail immediately.
We've enough cotton laded now to fill the hold with pepper in Java.
d.a.m.n Kerridge. Why was he steering so close to sh.o.r.e? Didn't he realize there'd be a current?
Or was it the pilot?
Were we steered into this disaster on the orders of our new friend Mirza Nuruddin? Has he been playing false with us all along, only claiming to help us stay clear of the Portugals? By the looks of the traders on the _maidan_ this morning I can tell they all think we were played for fools.
He tried to remember all the Shahbandar had said the night before, particularly the remarks he had not understood, but now the evening seemed swallowed in a fog of brandy.
But the game, he finally realized, had been more than a game.
”The voyage will be lucky to break even now.” George Elkington slid from the back of the sweating porter and collapsed heavily on the stone steps. ”The _Resolve _was old, but 'twill take forty thousand pound to replace her.”
”What do you plan to do?” Hawksworth eyed Kerridge as he mounted the steps, his doublet unrecognizable under the smeared mud, and decided to ignore him.
”Not a d.a.m.n'd thing we can do now, save lade the last of the cotton and some indigo on the _Discovery_ and weigh anchor. And day after tomorrow's not too soon, by my thinkin'.” Elkington examined Hawksworth and silently cursed him. He still had not swallowed his disbelief when Hawksworth had announced, only three days before, that he planned to leave the s.h.i.+ps and travel to Agra with a letter from King James.
”The Shahbandar has asked to meet with you.” Hawksworth motioned to Elkington as the last seaman climbed over the side of the longboat and onto the back of a waiting porter. ”We may as well go in.”
A crowd of the curious swarmed about them as they made their way across the _maidan_ and through the customs house. Mirza Nuruddin was waiting on his bolster.
”Captain, my sincere condolences to you and to Mr. Elkington. Please be sure that worthless pilot will never work out of this port again. I cannot believe he was at fault, but he'll be dealt with nonetheless.”
Which is partially true, Mirza Nuruddin told himself, since my cousin Muhammad Haidar, _nakuda _of the Rahimi, will take him on the pilgrim s.h.i.+p for the next Aden run, and allow him to work there until his reputation is repaired. ”You were fortunate, at least, that the largest part of her cargo had already been unladed.”
Elkington listened to Hawksworth's translation, his face growing ever more florid. ”'Twas the d.a.m.ned pilot's knavery. Tell him I'd see him hanged if this was England.”
Mirza Nuruddin listened, then sighed. ”Perhaps the pilot was at fault, perhaps not. I don't quite know whose story to believe. But you should know that in India only the Moghul can impose the death penalty. This matter of the pilot is past saving, however. It's best we move on. So tell me, what do you propose to do now?”
”Settle our accounts, weigh anchor, and be gone.” Elkington bristled.
”But you've not heard the last o' the East India Company, I'll warrant you. We'll be back with a fleet soon enough, and next time we'll do our own hirin' of a pilot.”
”As you wish. I'll have our accountants total your invoices.” Mirza Nuruddin face did not change as he heard the translation, but his spirit exulted.
It worked! They'll be well at sea within the week, days before the Portuguese wars.h.i.+ps arrive. Not even that genius of intrigue Mukarrab Khan will know I planned it all. And by saving these greedy English from certain disaster, I've lured to our seas the only Europeans with the spirit to drive out the Portuguese forever, after a century of humiliation.
India's historic tradition of free trade, the Shahbandar had often thought, had also brought her undoing. Open-handed to all who came to buy and sell, India had thrived since the beginning of time. Until the Portuguese came.
In those forgotten days huge single-masted arks, vast as eight hundred tons, freely plied the length of the Arabian Sea. From Mecca's Jidda they came, groaning with the gold, silver, copper, wool, and brocades of Italy, Greece, Damascus, or with the pearls, horses, silks of Persia and Afghanistan. They put in at India's northern port of Cambay, where they laded India's prized cotton, or sailed farther south, to India's port of Calicut, where they bargained for the hard black pepper of India's Malabar Coast, for ginger and cinnamon from Ceylon. India's own merchants sailed eastward, to the Moluccas, where they bought silks and porcelains from Chinese traders, or cloves, nutmeg, and mace from the islanders. India's ports linked China on the east with Europe on the west, and touched all that moved between. The Arabian Sea was free as the air, and the richest traders who sailed it prayed to Allah, the One True G.o.d.
Then, a hundred years ago, the Portuguese came. They seized strategic ocean outlooks from the mouth of the Persian Gulf to the coast of China. On these they built strongholds, forts to control not the lands of Asia, but its seas. And if no man could remember the centuries of freedom, today all knew well the simple device that held the Arabian Sea in bondage. It was a small slip of paper, on which was the signature of a Portuguese governor or the captain of a Portuguese fort.
Today no vessel, not even the smallest bark, dared venture the Arabian Sea without a Portuguese _cartaz_. This hated license must name the captain of a vessel and verify its tonnage, its cargo, its crew, its destination, and its armament. Vessels could trade only at ports controlled or approved by the Portuguese, where they must pay a duty of 8 percent on all cargo in and out. Indian and Arab vessels no longer could carry spices, pepper, copper, or iron--the richest cargo and now the monopoly of Portuguese s.h.i.+ppers.
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