by Tim Severin
Darshan listened to the translation impassively, his hand closed, and he slipped the coins into a pocket in his gown. ‘I accept this man’s word,’ he said, pointing with his chin at Hector. ‘He and his two friends will not be tied.’
Vieira glanced at Hector with a knowing look. Hector realized that he had seldom seen a bribe passed so smoothly.
FIFTEEN
They assembled before sunrise next morning while the air was still pleasantly cool. Hector stood in the outer yard of the fortress with Jacques and Jezreel. He had already explained that they were being sent to Delhi to answer for what happened aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i and they were watching Darshan’s constables. The men carried oil lamps as they supervised the loading of three bullock carts. One vehicle was piled with tents, firewood, luggage and sacks of provisions. Another cart, lighter and smartly painted, was rigged with a canopy and was clearly intended to carry passengers. On the flatbed of the third cart sat a wooden cage like a giant chicken coop.
‘No guesses as to who will be riding in that. I’d prefer to walk, however far it is,’ commented Jacques.
‘It should be six or seven weeks on the road,’ said a youthful voice. Luis, a cotton satchel slung from a strap over his shoulder, came forward to join them. He had an eager look, full of cheerful anticipation.
‘Pleased to be going to the capital?’ Hector asked. He wanted to know a little more about the young man whom Vieira recommended so highly.
‘Oh yes!’ The young man smiled. ‘I enjoy travel. There’s always something new to see.’
‘And have you travelled this particular route before?’
‘Most of it is the same as the road between Delhi and Surat, and I’ve accompanied my father along it several times.’
‘Is your father going to be in Delhi when we get there?’
‘Maybe. He’s been gone a long time, on a special mission for Aurangzeb.’ There was a touch of pride in his voice though also a hint of sadness.
Hector looked more closely into the young man’s face, saw again the resemblance and a suspicion began to harden in his mind. ‘Your father isn’t an artilleryman, by any chance, is he?’
Luis nodded, and this time the pride was evident. ‘With the rank of hazari. He and Senhor Vieira have been good friends for many years, and a place was found for me on the deputy governor’s staff while he was away on duty.’
Hector let out a slow breath. ‘If his name is Jeronimo Tavares, then I’ve met your father. Aboard the Ganj-i-Sawa’i.’
Luis beamed. ‘Senhor Vieira told me that you were on Ganj-i-Sawa’i when she was attacked by pirates as she was bringing pilgrims back from Mecca.’
Clearly Vieira had not told the young man about his father’s terrible burns. Hector decided that speaking about them now would only distress the young man. Besides, it was not even certain that Tavares would have lived to reach Surat. It was better to change the subject.
‘Will the lady who came ashore from Pearl be travelling with us to Delhi?’ he asked.
Luis looked mildly shocked at the question. ‘Oh no, sir! The lady’s far too important to be travelling with us. She is a guest of the raja and he will make special arrangement for her safe return to her family.’
He stopped, and seemed to have remembered something. He reached into his satchel and handed Hector a small weighty object wrapped in an oiled cloth. ‘Senhor Vieira asked me to give you this.’
Through the cloth Hector could feel the outline of a pocket pistol. He presumed it was the twin of the one that Vieira had used aboard Pearl. Guns like that were very expensive and usually sold in pairs. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary to use this on our journey,’ he said to Luis, half-joking.
The young man shook his head, his long black hair flopping from side to side. ‘Senhor Vieira said you were to make a gift of it to the omrah when we reach Delhi.’ He gave a shy grin as he added, ‘In Hindustan it’s a mistake to come empty-handed to a meeting.’
‘Like those gold coins that the fawjdar received?’
‘Exactly.’
‘If we’re to be six or seven weeks on our journey, I think it would be a good opportunity for you to instruct me in the local customs,’ Hector told him. ‘I can’t afford to make too many errors when we reach Delhi.’
Luis’s smile showed perfectly white teeth. ‘I shall be pleased to help. Also to teach you to speak some Persian, as that is the preferred language among the omrahs.’
The last of the provisions had been loaded onto the carts, ropes tied and re-tied. Several of the fawjdar’s men went off through the stone archway that led into the main donjon. Hector presumed they had gone to fetch Gibson and the two sailors from Pearl.
‘Don’t know who does the most chewing, the cows or the carters,’ observed Jacques. The harnessed bullocks stood patiently chewing the cud, the drool hanging in strings from their mouths. Their drivers squatted on the ground, their backs against the great wooden wheels. They too had their mouths full, their jaws moving, occasionally spitting out what looked like blood.
Gibson and the two sailors emerged, hobbled and their hands still tied in front of them. They did not glance in Hector’s direction as the fawjdar’s men led them to the cage on the cart and helped them in, then the door was swung shut and padlocked. There was not enough room to stand, and the prisoners had to sit with their backs against the cage bars. Hector was reminded of the days he had spent cooped up in the cupboard on ‘Exceeding Treasure’, and felt sorry for them.
Luis was speaking again. ‘Senhor Vieira has given me money to buy food and necessaries on the journey. Also he has arranged for spare clothes and other items to be included on the carts.’
‘That’s very kind of him,’ said Hector. An hour earlier the deputy governor had said his farewell in private, with news that the fortress lookouts had watched Pearl weigh anchor the previous evening and disappear over the horizon. Hector could only conclude that Captain Mayes had given up on his ransom scheme and decided to go back to his more normal methods of piracy. Now he and his friends, and the three prisoners from Pearl, were the only ones whom the Mogul could hold to account for what had happened on Ganj-i-Sawa’i.
‘Time to go,’ muttered Jezreel. Darshan entered the courtyard, strode across to the cart for passengers and climbed into it. He made no attempt to invite Hector or his companions to join him. The driver flicked his whip and the bullocks began to move forward with their small, ponderous steps. The other two carts fell in behind and the little convoy creaked forward towards the gateway that led into Diu town. As he passed under its arch, Hector turned to take one last look at the huge fortress. High on the battlements was a small figure dark against the pink dawn sky. Deputy Governor Vieira raised an arm in a gesture of farewell.
✻
That first day on the road set the pattern of many, many days to follow. The little procession of three bullock carts crossed the town and entered on the sun-baked countryside that extended ahead of them as far as the early morning haze allowed them to see: a flat and arid scrubland alternating with small fields. The bullocks moved at their sedate amble and would not be hurried. The carts lurched and shuddered as they rolled over the ruts and bumps in the unmade surface of the roadway. The wheels squeaked and groaned as they turned on their axles. As the sun rose higher, Hector and his friends learned to walk off to one side to avoid the dust kicked up by hooves and wheels. If they felt like doing so, they hopped up on the tailgate of the baggage cart and rode, legs swinging in the air, or climbed up to join the driver on his seat. Darshan in his passenger cart continued to ignore them. His constables and at least a score of assorted attendants – water carriers, grooms, grass cutters – straggled along on foot in no sort of order, except for two men armed with spears who stayed close beside the prison cage. Every few miles they came to a roadside settlement of small mud-brick houses and halted briefly. Water was drawn from a well or from a storage pond, and given to the thirsty bullocks. Occasionally they met strings of four or five c
amels loaded with packs of trade goods or hauling two-wheeled carts, but the vast majority of other road users were on foot or accompanying bullock carts like their own. Everyone was moving at much the same slow, deliberate speed, pulling aside to give room when someone was coming in the opposite direction, rarely overtaking.
Shortly before midday, their little procession veered off the road toward a grove of trees and stopped in their shade. Once again the bullocks were given water and the drivers tossed a bundle of cut grass on the ground before each beast. Luis produced cold rice, sweet biscuits flavoured with aniseed and curdled milk and distributed the food to Hector and his friends, and also to the prisoners in the cage. Then everyone found a patch of shade, and dozed. When the worst of the day’s heat had eased, they took to the road again, travelling until late in the afternoon when they halted for the night on an open patch of beaten earth beneath a great spreading tree in the centre of a village. The bullocks were unyoked and led away to be fed and watered, and the villagers came forward to sell fruit, eggs, vegetables and flat cakes of cow dung for the cooking fire. Soon the air was blue with smoke – for the cooks added green branches to the hearth – and the smell of their cooking hung over the encampment.
‘He likes his comforts,’ commented Jezreel. Darshan’s servants had unloaded a tent from the baggage wagon and erected it on a choice spot at the edge of their camp. They were carrying into it a carpet, a bed, pillows and a thick mattress.
‘He’s brought along his own cook, too,’ observed Jacques.
‘Don’t worry, sirs,’ interrupted Luis earnestly. He had just returned from a foray into the village and brought back two metal pots, one large, one small. ‘Senhor Vieira has provided you with a tent and blankets. Sometimes the nights will be chilly.’
He set the pots down on the ground. ‘I’ve purchased kicheri and dhal, and can go back to get some toddy, if you want.’
Jezreel peered into the larger pot. ‘Rice again, but at least it’s hot this time, and someone has added vegetables. All that walking has made me hungry.’ He looked around, searching for a plate.
‘It will be easier if you use this, and your fingers,’ Luis told him, handing him a large flat leaf. ‘But please wait while I fetch a ladle from the baggage.’
‘Onions, beans and some sort of spice,’ noted Jacques as he sniffed the steam from the smaller pot.
Luis came back with the ladle and spooned out their portions. ‘You must tell me what food you prefer,’ he said. ‘When things have settled down, I will employ a cook who will accompany us.’
‘If he can produce anything as good as this, I’ll not complain.’ Jacques had taken his first mouthful. ‘I’d like to know what spices were used.’
Luis glowed with pleasure. ‘I’m glad it pleases you. Sometimes foreigners find the local cooking much too spicy.’
‘Then they haven’t had to live on stale ship’s biscuit and scummy water,’ said Jezreel, holding out his leaf plate for another helping.
‘Leave enough for Gibson and the others,’ Hector told him.
When they had finished eating, Luis carried what was left in the pots to where Gibson and the other two prisoners had been allowed out of their cage and were seated on the ground tethered to their wagon.
‘I think I should have a word with Quartermaster Gibson,’ said Hector getting to his feet. He had nothing in particular that he wanted to say to the man, but was feeling that a show of friendliness might not come amiss when the men from Pearl were enduring much harsher treatment.
‘Come to gloat?’ Gibson sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Hector approached.
Hector shook his head. ‘No, just to tell you what’s happening.’
‘Don’t bother. We can look after ourselves.’
Hector told him anyway, the two sailors listening in, scowls on their faces. When he finished, he saw the gleam of revenge in Gibson’s eyes.
‘When we come up for trial,’ the quartermaster informed him, ‘me and my mates will make sure that you’re found guilty as well.’ He gave a deliberate belch in Hector’s direction. ‘Now clear off.’
Hector stood his ground. ‘I can ask the man in charge that you are allowed to walk and don’t have to ride in the cage,’ he offered.
But Gibson was having none of it. ‘Didn’t you hear? Bugger off!’ he snarled. ‘I can see why Fancy’s quartermaster wanted to be rid of you. You’re a right slimy bastard.’
Hector gave up and went back to join his friends who were putting up the small tent that Vieira had provided for them.
‘What did Gibson have to say for himself?’ asked Jezreel.
When Hector repeated the conversation, the ex-prize-fighter shrugged. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t bother with him and those two blockheads. We should look out for ourselves.’
Sometime later when Luis went to collect the empty pots from Gibson and the two sailors, the young man returned, looking annoyed and upset.
‘Hector, sir . . .’ he began.
‘Just call me Hector.’
‘Hector,’ the young man started again. ‘Those men are very stupid.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘They offered me money if I helped them escape.’
‘And what did you reply?’
‘I told them it was impossible. They have nowhere to run, they don’t know the country and they would be caught immediately. In reply they swore at me, and one of them said that I was a dirty mongrel.’
‘Don’t let it worry you, Luis,’ Hector assured him. ‘Each day’s travel will take us farther from the coast, and eventually they will realize that they have no chance whatever of getting free. Then they might be more reasonable.’
✻
They were a week into their journey when Hector noticed Darshan’s constables acting strangely. It was just after the midday break, and the carts had starting moving again when their escort kept turning to look back down the road, then exchanging anxious glances. As far as Hector could tell, they were worried by a cloud of dust behind them and quickly getting nearer. Another party of travellers was moving faster and soon to overtake. Eventually one of the constables ran forward to speak with the fawjdar riding in his covered cart. Minutes later, the little convoy turned aside and, with some shoving and pushing, came to a halt several yards clear of the highway. All the other road users promptly followed their example and stood waiting. Even Darshan got down from his cart and took up his position a little ahead of his constables. They lined up, facing the roadway and forming a screen shielding Jacques, Jezreel and the other members of their party. Only Hector was left standing on his own. The dust cloud drew nearer and revealed itself to be a group of a dozen armed horsemen advancing at a slow trot. They were escorting two riding camels with tent-like structures on their backs, light cotton canopies striped in white, grey and red. Alongside the camels ran armed soldiers, their bare feet pounding on the road, javelins on their shoulders, red turbans wrapped around helmets of polished steel. Out of the corner of his eye Hector saw Darshan bend forward and place his hands on the ground in a gesture of respect. Taken by surprise, Hector was forced to step back when one of the runners in the armed escort shouted at him angrily. Moments later the leading camel drew level, and he looked up as a hand pulled back the side curtain of the canopy. A woman, veiled except for her eyes, was gazing down at him through a narrow gap. There was a shock of recognition. He was sure that the woman travelling in such grand style was the surviving lady-in-waiting to the Mogul’s sister, whom he had last seen when setting her ashore in Diu.
The moment lasted for no more than a couple of seconds. Then the curtain flicked closed, and he was left standing in the cloud of dust as the entourage went on up the road.
He waited until the bullocks were once more on the move before he sought out Luis.
‘That was the lady from Pearl, wasn’t it?’ he asked, falling in step beside him.
‘She will be on her way to be reunited with her family in
Delhi.’ Luis’s eyes sparkled with excitement. He appeared elated by the encounter with the Mogul aristocrat and her escort.
‘I suppose she will describe to them how she was treated on Ganj-i-Sawa’i?’
Luis nodded. ‘What she says in the zenana, the women’s quarters, may decide what happens to you and your friends. Mogul women stay in the background but they have great influence over their menfolk.’
They were talking as much as possible in Persian, because since leaving Diu, Hector had been making a determined effort to learn the language of the Mogul court. He had a good ear for languages and was making rapid progress and needed only an occasional word of English to fill in the gaps in his vocabulary. Now, hearing the note of excited admiration in the young man’s voice, it had occurred to him that Luis might have his own reasons for being so fluent in the language of the ruling class.
‘Where did you learn to speak so many languages? Surely not from your father, Jeronimo?’ he asked casually.
‘He taught me to speak Portuguese and some English but I spent most of my childhood with my mother’s family so my first language is Gujerati,’ Luis answered. ‘My father and mother were never married. My mother’s people are Surati banyans – what you call merchants – and they did not approve of him as a feringhee, though they treated me as one of their own. They want me to go into business and insisted I learned to write and speak Arabic, which is an important language of trade. But my Persian – that I learned for myself so that one day I might be considered to be Mogul. My skin is light enough.’
Luis pulled his shoulders back as if he was in the presence of his mother’s family and defying them. ‘I don’t want to be a merchant, sitting in a counting house. Instead I will make myself useful to an omrah so that he takes me into his household, perhaps as a soldier. From there I can advance through the ranks and become an officer.’