by V. E. Ulett
“What he saying?” Krunk said.
“You have a thing or two to learn about the Navy, Krunk,” Maximus said in stern Malay. “You will go with this officer, along with the old frau over there, and speak when you are spoken to. They will have an interpreter over there, you may be sure.”
“And then?” Krunk demanded. “We stay, the slaves of farang instead of Golden Dragon?”
“Mr. Flowers,” Maximus said in English. Miriam moved discreetly next to Krunk to translate. “This seaman, who has signed on aboard Nonesuch, is concerned about being returned to her. And as I am short of hands, I should like your assurance you will be bringing both of the former captives back to Nonesuch.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Thorpe. Of course.” Mr. Flowers simpered and bowed. “What would his lordship want with those two ill-looking brutes once he’s had his questions answered.”
Miriam didn’t feel obliged to translate this last part for Krunk. “I know Lord Exmouth,” she said. “You will be safe, you will be returned to this ship. He is an honorable man, a gentleman.”
“The lion is known by scratch of his claw.” Krunk eyed Mr. Flowers’ pale sweating face with distaste, but followed him into Queen Charlotte’s boat.
Miriam’s attention was divided between her companions in the boat and the letter in her hand, which bore Francis’s script. She stole furtive glances at Maximus, who was turning the official packet over and over in his hands as though trying to judge its content by feel.
After they’d watched the distant figures crawl up the side of Queen Charlotte, Maximus offered her his arm. “Should you like to go below and take a glass of wine, while we open our letters?”
Seated in a chair in the great cabin, with Thrax on her lap and Maximus standing before her, Miriam said, “What I should like of all things is Saramago’s fortifying tea.”
Maximus instantly called out for his steward, and then Miriam broke the seal of her letter and Maximus untied the string round the canvas packet.
“These are orders.” Maximus withdraw an oiled silk envelope from the packet. “If you will permit me.”
He half bowed to Miriam and ducked into his private sleeping cabin, closing the door behind him.
Miriam unfolded her letter, written on unmarked parchment, not Consul Francis Blackwell’s official stationary.
“Hong Kong Harbour
Aboard Queen Charlotte
Dearest Daughter Merry,
You cannot imagine the Joy it gave me to learn from Spartan’s coming in that you were well and aboard HMHV Nonesuch. Very soon I hope to do myself the honour of expressing to you the depth of my happiness at your return, and my suffering in your absence—along with other of your Friends. For the moment I confine myself to a brief remark and an invitation.
Aboard Queen Charlotte there has been a most unusual tale recounted to the Admiral by a certain Young Person. I wonder you should have let her out of your sight, her rescue being your raison d’être in these parts, choosing instead to attend to persons who can have no direct bearing on your cause.” Miriam paused, growing angry, wondering what Francis conceived of as ‘her cause’. She read on. “Had you attended her to Hong Kong, I am sure there could have been no wild tales. As it was, I was obliged, before his lordship’s good opinion was entirely lost, to remind the Young Person that she may be a Dutch admiral’s niece, but you are a British ambassador’s daughter. Though that put a period to matters for the moment, you will better comprehend his lordship’s summons for questioning of the other survivors carried aboard Nonesuch.
I thought it wise to request to be present at his lordship’s interviews though I trust the natives will have nothing to Add, and we have come through the worst unpleasantness. I will move on to what gives me greater satisfaction. Please come to me at the Embassy. Your Family—attended by another Party—is here, Merry, and eager to receive you once more into its Embrace. I hope you believe I remain,
Your Devoted Father,
Francis”
Miriam read the letter through several times. She was obliged to stop her furious stroking of Thrax, lest she raise a spark from its fur. Saramago walked in with the welcome glasses of coca tea.
Maximus emerged from his cabin, and without a word Miriam handed him Francis’s note.
“It is a most singular letter,” Maximus said, folding and extending the letter back to Miriam.
She’d given it him to read with that intimacy and unrestraint that was growing between them. The last part of Francis’s letter rang in her memory, and Miriam found it hard to concentrate on anything else.
“Lord Exmouth surely is not here in Hong Kong on Anna Lovell’s account?”
“Nay, I doubt it. Something is afoot. The Chinese perhaps, disliking our recent activities in these waters. Sir Edward must be here attending to that, and he has sent on my orders.” Maximus took a seat on a locker near her armchair. “Nonesuch is to rendezvous with another vessel at such a time and place, that I must leave in a day or two to keep it. If not to-day itself, as I cannot be counting on finding weather.”
It would have been apparent to a meaner intellect than Miriam’s that the particulars of his orders were being purposely withheld. She became aware Thrax was tensed in her lap, a cruel hard sheen in its yellow eyes as it stared at Maximus. Miriam was reminded she must be careful in her intimate relationships, lest the consequences become irreversible.
“I understand perfectly.” Miriam didn’t at all comprehend whether she or Nonesuch held greater sway over his heart. “You will go with me this evening to meet Francis and my...Do you know, I have an unreasoning dread my mother has come for me.”
“Of course I shall attend you, if you wish it. You’ve no idea how much I am in sympathy with your fear of a roaring irrational parent.”
Maximus put his hand up in an unconscious gesture and cupped it over his pale colored, damaged eye.
Chapter Seventeen
Bolstered by a great deal of Saramago’s coca maté Miriam entered the Embassy lobby with its gently turning fans. She and Maximus gave their names and were immediately admitted by a marine sentry to the Consul’s chamber. Miriam took a fortifying breath and walked in, but finding there only three gentlemen she exhaled in relief. No woman who would slap her with her small hands. Demons, she’d learned, come in many guises.
“Miriam! Oh, dearest Miriam. All is forgiven, you may come home now!”
Haris Reza was, as ever, full of conceit and a pushing self sufficiency.
“How do you do, Haris?” Miriam said.
She tried to move past Haris Reza to give her hand to Francis, and embrace her brother Farrokh. Those two were standing shoulder to shoulder, shifting uneasily. Francis was scowling as though there were a disagreeable odor in the air, and Farrokh avoided her eye.
“Miriam dear! Didn’t you hear me? You are forgiven for running away, you will not be punished if you will but come home with me. I still wish to be your—”
At this point in his importuning Haris tried to grasp Miriam’s hand, and found himself hip checked by a large Scotsman. An ugly one too, or so the distaste on Haris Reza’s face suggested. Miriam stumbled past them and fell into an embrace with Farrokh, extending one hand to Francis Blackwell.
“Salaam alay-kum,” Farrokh said.
“Walay-kum salaam, Farrokh,” Miriam said.
Up until the traditional greeting they’d been speaking Farsi. Maximus was standing by with a quizzical expression, though clearly disliking Haris Reza’s wilder freaks.
“Farrokh, allow me to present Captain Maximus Thorpe of His Majesty’s ship Nonesuch. Captain Thorpe, my brother, Farrokh Albuyeh Kodio.”
The two men shook hands, Farrokh adding, “Of Shah Khaqan’s Royal Guard.” Maximus went next to give his hand to Francis Blackwell. Haris Reza, meanwhile, was trying to insinuate himself in the spaces between them.
“Captain Thorpe,” Miriam said, suppressing a sigh, “this is Haris Reza, my mother’s friend. Haris, Captain Maximu
s Thorpe. Let us speak English now, if you please. Farrokh, how surprised I am to find you here.”
“I came half way round the world only to see you were safe, my sister,” Farrokh said, holding Miriam’s hand.
Miriam kissed her younger brother, and Haris Reza exploded.
“No kisses for me, Miriam, dearest? Your own betrothed?”
Maximus’s eyes widened, and then narrowed to different colored slits.
“The only place we are betrothed, Haris,” Miriam said, “is in my mother’s mind.”
“‘Can scorn that beauteous brow defile?’” Haris cried.
“Can you imagine crossing the Atlantic and Indian Oceans with that?” Farrokh said, to no one in particular.
“‘I would not for the world that thou, shouldst feel the torture I do now,’” Haris continued quoting Persian poetry in a loud tone, “‘From morn till eve, and eve till morn, I wander desolate, forlorn—’”
Another grab for Miriam’s upper arm this time, and Maximus again interposed. “You are making the lady uncomfortable, Mr. Reza. I suggest you take a step back.”
“How dare you! Take your hands off me,” Haris cried, to all their surprise, for Maximus hadn’t touched him. “I am the lady’s mother’s trusted friend. Who are you? Miriam, who is this ill-mannered, ill-looking foreign brute?”
Something snapped inside Miriam. She bore down on Haris Reza, grasped him by his shirt front, and dealt him a double slap. One direction, back again! Nothing ever felt so satisfying; the expression of Haris Reza’s face, the small whoops she thought she heard from the other men.
“This man, I cannot say his name in the same breath as yours, Haris,” Miriam said. “Captain Thorpe is my husband,”—gasps from the men, even, Miriam was aware, from Maximus—“so my advice to you is, go back to Iran.”
“Oh Miriam! Will you throw away your beauty, your substance, your life on this—” Haris thought better of what he was about to say, when Miriam took a menacing step toward him. He fell back on poetry. “‘I will wander desolate, forlorn; no eye to pity, voice to bless, none to relieve my wretchedness.’”
“You’ve come a long way trying to give my mother what she wanted,” Miriam said, “and for that I’m sorry. But I would not wander, no, I would hasten back to Iran. What my mother wants changes daily. Just ask Mr. Blackwell.”
Miriam wished she could take back that last remark, not wanting to cause Francis pain. Francis Blackwell, however, bowed in wholehearted agreement, as though vindicated.
“Come, Haris,” Farrokh said. “There is nothing to be done. In the morning I will help you find a ship for the voyage home.”
“Do you give up so easily?” Haris put his hands on his slender hips. “I do not. I do not believe in this marriage. What dower did you receive, what dower could you have possibly received?”
“You are become impertinent, Sir,” Maximus said in a thundering voice.
Farrokh chose to take pity on Haris Reza, who, everyone could see, would be easily slaughtered by the Captain. “Peace, my friends, no need for violence. Miriam is safe, secure, and wed. As her closest male relative, I am satisfied. I wish you both happy.”
Maximus and Farrokh shook hands again, fast friends, fellow men of war. Miriam refrained from rolling her eyes heavenward.
Haris cried, “Farrokh, Miriam! Do you care nothing for a mother’s wishes? This is not what Zahraa wanted.”
“One more word, Haris,” Farrokh said, “and Mr. Blackwell, Captain Thorpe, and I shall take turns holding you while m’sister punches.”
At this delicate juncture a tap sounded at the door, and the marine sentry stepped in bearing a letter for the captain of Nonesuch on a tray. Maximus took himself apart to read his letter. Farrokh and Francis, exchanging a nod, laid hold of Haris Reza, one on either side.
“Bid Miriam farewell, now, Haris,” Farrokh said. “You shall tell our mother you last saw her well and happy, but you shall not be seeing more of her. That would not be proper in a married lady.”
“Her duty now is to cleave to her husband,” Francis added, unnecessarily.
When Maximus finished perusing his letter and stepped over to Miriam, Farrokh and Francis had not returned from bundling Haris into a palanquin back to their lodgings. She still needed to speak to Francis about Goh Cheng Cheng’s grateful offer, to settle Nguyen Lan in a little establishment of her own.
“It is a summons from Sir Edward Pellew,” Maximus said. “To come and give my report aboard Queen Charlotte.”
“Am I to come too?” Miriam asked, feeling a little foolish, because she didn’t want to be left with her family like any ordinary wife.
“The letter doesn’t mention you, but you shall certainly come with me. My wife must be received wherever I am.”
“About that, Maximus, er, Captain Thorpe,” Miriam said, as Farrohk and Francis came back in. “Our connection must be kept private. That I am sigheh to you is a family matter, between you and I.” Miriam glanced over at Francis, and at Farrohk’s expectant face, and added with as much grace as she could summon, “And my people.”
Maximus walked out of the Embassy unconvinced that not acknowledging his connection with Miriam was the best course. To him it smacked of dishonour. Maximus should be quite happy to let one and all know he was favored by an incomparable woman. And he wondered at the British Consul, her step-father or uncle or whatever, at his complaisance and agreement. Francis Blackwell no doubt was a deep old file, used to the diplomatic game. He’d given Maximus a strong hint that Miriam was a deeper one still. As to Miriam’s brother Farrokh, he was no wiser than most soldiers of Maximus’s acquaintance. It was clear to him which of the siblings came in for the lion’s share of dash and wit.
For both Miriam’s male relations it was that term sigheh that seemed to settle matters for them. Maximus suspected that was because the arrangement made it convenient for Miriam to leave him, if she chose, sometime in future.
Miriam took his arm for the walk to the quay, refusing a palanquin so they could speak along the way. Consequently they both arrived sweating through their clothing, though Maximus was more comfortable in spirit. Nonesuch was dear Miriam’s reason for secrecy. When Maximus confirmed to her the vessel was not his own but the property of government, he immediately followed her reasoning. That she should be put to such an expedient, Maximus felt, did him and his government little credit. Clearly Miriam’s was the wise old head between them, she at least understood a man is not ruined while he has his ship.
“Sure you have persuaded me to your way of thinking, though I don’t like it above half,” Maximus said. He stopped short on the quay, before reaching Nonesuch’s gig. “But I will no be allowing anyone to ignore and disrespect you, and so you will be accompanying me to call upon Sir Edward.”
Sir Edward Pellew was clearly expecting Maximus alone, for when Miriam and Maximus were shown in to the flag captain’s cabin where he was seated, they found him at his leisure with his breeches unbuttoned at the knee. Nevertheless, Sir Edward heaved his heavy frame up and came forward with surprise, a hint of pleasure, and curiosity on his face.
“Miss Miriam, how do you do?” Sir Edward cried, after exchanging salutes with Maximus. “This is an unexpected pleasure. McNutty!” Sir Edward glared down his nose at the flag captain’s steward, who’d admitted a lady to his presence without any warning whatever. “A bottle of madeira with the yellow seal and rout-cakes, if you please.”
After giving this order Sir Edward appeared easier. He became solicitous of Miriam, leading her to a chair, and generally behaving as if both Miriam and Maximus were expected and invited. Then his lordship nearly wrecked on a lee shore.
“My dear Miss Miriam, how glad I am to see you. And in such very fine looks too. One would hardly credit that you’ve been—that is to say—you survived...” Sir Edward left off in confusion, clearly on the verge of congratulating Miriam on having not been too much raped and abused. He’d not risen to flag rank without the ability to change t
acks, however, and Sir Edward said, “I hope I see you well, quite well. Francis Blackwell told me your brother is lately arrived. He will oblige you to go home, no doubt.”
“I am just come from visiting my brother Farrokh, and Francis, thank you for asking, Sir Edward. Captain Thorpe was good enough to see me to the Embassy for the reunion, which is where your letter found him. I must beg your pardon for intruding on your notice, I should never have come aboard your ship uninvited except that Captain Thorpe chose to obey his duty at once.”
Sir Edward blinked a couple of times. “You are very good, ma’am. Since you are so sensible of our duty, I will take Captain Thorpe away for the space of half a glass. For the ah...debriefing I called him to me for. Pray send for the steward should you require anything at all.”
Maximus followed Sir Edward’s wide backside up the ladder to the next deck, the Admiral’s quarters were on a separate and higher level than the flag captain’s cabin. He was not altogether easy about leaving Miriam sitting alone with cakes and a glass of wine she probably would not drink. Below decks seemed unusually deserted of activity, in Maximus’s view, as though the officers and men had been made to keep away.
In the Admiral’s great cabin, a noble apartment redolent of beeswax, Sir Edward went rather fussily round, adjusting lamps and opening doors and peering into his sleeping space and pantry, before inviting Maximus to a chair.
After Sir Edward cordially served him another glass of madeira, he desired Maximus’s report on the exit strategy. This Maximus gave, and in conclusion he said, “Nonesuch is ideally suited to such work, Sir. The signal was clear as a bell from 25 leagues away at elevation.”
“There is talk of using crack ships, among those who know such a thing exists,” Sir Edward said, “of using them for overland recognizance. Think of the advantage of knowing your enemy’s formation before battle. What do you say to it?”