Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  ✻

  That evening, after they had collected their meagre possessions and moved into Dufour’s building, Hector sat down to compose a letter to Maria. He wanted to tell her where he was and that he was still thinking of their future. But he struggled to find the words to raise her spirits without misleading her. In his thoughts he could not avoid comparing himself with Dufour. They had both followed a vision of how to escape from their past, and start afresh in a foreign land. Libertalia had been his dream; Dufour had launched out in search of Tavernier’s wealthy oriental clients to win their favour. Now Dufour was thriving and successful while he and his friends had lost control of their lives and were waiting to face Mogul justice.

  After several attempts, he crumpled up the sheet of writing paper and threw it away.

  SEVENTEEN

  November turned to December and still they had no idea of what would happen to them. The days were pleasantly sunny and bright, but they were cold enough to require woollen clothing, and the nights were positively chilly. On some mornings a dense, clammy fog hung over the street as Luis left the house early to buy food from the market. The attack on Ganj-i-Sawa’i was common gossip in the city, and the market was a good place for him to pick up any rumours about what action Aurangzeb and his council were taking in response. But he heard nothing. Nor could Dufour learn anything at his meetings with omrahs who sought his advice when buying or selling jewellery. The gem dealer concluded that the pillage and rape aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i was still too sensitive a subject with Aurangzeb for the Mogul nobles to discuss openly. In mid-January, when the silence continued, Jezreel suggested that perhaps their case had been forgotten and they should think about quietly slipping from Delhi, head to the coast and find a ship to take them beyond Aurangzeb’s reach. Dufour was more cautious. He advised Hector to send Luis to the office of the Khan-i-Sama, the omrah in charge of the imperial household. The young man should buy information from the omrah’s staff using what remained from the money that Pedro Vieira had provided for their travel expenses. Luis returned from his errand to report that after taking the bribe, one of the Hindu clerks had told him that, far from being forgotten, the attack on Ganj-i-Sawa’i was under active consideration. Aurangzeb and his councillors were pressing the English merchants in Surat to respond to their demand for payment of damages and the punishment of the offenders. Hearing this, Dufour advised the three friends to be patient and stay on in the capital. If they tried to leave, they risked arrest and joining Quartermaster Gibson and the others in detention. He assured them that he was making so much money from his trade in precious stones that he could easily afford to keep them on as his guests.

  In February everything changed. It was on a day when Dufour, with no appointments to meet with his omrah clients, decided to visit a friend of his, another Frenchman.

  ‘Frederic has an unusual job – gunnery instructor with the shutarnal, the camel artillery. You’ll find it interesting. Why don’t you come along with me?’ he suggested to Hector.

  Hector immediately accepted the invitation, thinking of Tavares. There was still no news of the wounded artilleryman, and Luis remained ignorant of his father’s injuries. If Tavares had died from his burns, Hector preferred to break the news to the young man himself. Dufour’s friend was also a gunner in the Mogul forces, so he might have heard something.

  ‘Could you advance Luis some more cash,’ he asked the jeweller, ‘this might be a good time to send him to speak again with his contact on the Khan-i-Sama’s staff.’

  Luis set out with five shiny new rupees in his money belt, and Hector and Dufour descended the stairs to the street.

  ‘The camel brigade is quartered on the edge of town, and I don’t intend to walk there,’ Dufour explained, sending the doorkeeper to fetch a double palanquin. By his usual standards the Frenchman was dressed modestly: a tailored coat of maroon silk and a loosely wound turban of the same material, black satin breeches and patterned stockings. Nevertheless, his shoes had two-inch scarlet heels.

  The palanquin arrived and was set down on the ground so they could climb in. The sudden tilt and sway as the eight bearers, grunting in unison, hoisted it on their shoulders, made Hector clutch the sides and brought a smile to Dufour’s lips.

  ‘It’s much worse when a camel gets on its feet. If Frederic suggests you try riding one of his awkward beasts, don’t accept the offer.’

  Dufour was completely at ease, lying back, long legs outstretched as the palanquin men set off at a steady trot. ‘Hector, you’ve never told me how you came to be in Madagascar with your friend at the start of your adventures.’

  Hector was getting used to the motion of the palanquin, jogging and swaying at the same time. ‘I had heard about a country called Libertalia close to Madagascar, a land with rich soil and a gentle climate where men make their own laws and there are no fences because all property is held in common. I intended to settle there with my wife.’

  Dufour gave a cynical smile. ‘Sounds like the Land of Cockayne, where the sky rains cheese and monks spank nuns on their bare white backsides.’

  Hector had to suppress a grin. ‘It was a countryman of yours, Captain Misson, who is said to have stolen a navy ship and sailed off to set up Libertalia. But I’ve never been able to track down Misson, and I’ve got to the point that I think he never existed.’

  ‘You may be in luck. My friend Frederic learned his gunnery skills as an officer in the French navy. He may have heard of your Misson.’

  It took them nearly an hour to reach the barracks where the camel brigade was quartered. From some distance away they heard the noise from the animal pens – an unhappy chorus of long-drawn-out groans and grumbles interrupted with angry roaring bellows as if the beasts were suffering from aching guts. The stench hit Hector as he got out of the palanquin: a smell of dung mixed with urine and sun-dried sweat. It occurred to him that on his journey to Delhi he had never seen a camel inside a caravanserai unless it was kept in a separate enclosure. Usually the creatures were tethered outside the walls. Now he knew the reason.

  Dufour’s friend Frederic was oblivious to the noise and smells. A stocky, square-headed man with farmer’s hands and grimy fingers, he was wearing a worn quilted jacket over woollen trousers, and heavy leather boots. Standing at a workbench in the barnlike arsenal building, he was testing the firing operation of a huge musket, repeatedly pulling the lanyard so the hammer snapped forward, re-setting the trigger and then tugging the cord again.

  The gunner looked up from his work and greeted Dufour with a broad smile. ‘What brings such a magnificent creature down to the camel slums?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought my friend Hector would like to see how you use your toys.’

  The artilleryman patted the barrel of the musket. ‘The “wasp” – that’s what the troops call it. Mounted on the back of the camel, it can give a bad sting.’ He sighed. ‘Or at least, that’s what our Mogul masters would like to see.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced,’ Hector said. Stripped of its ornate brass fittings, the gun was a smaller version of the falconet fired over the dead pirate’s grave in St Mary’s.

  ‘The theory’s all right. Placed high up on a camel’s hump, it can shoot over the heads of the enemy infantry and into their rear ranks. The trouble is that once it’s fired, how do you reload the thing? It’s a one-shot wonder.’

  ‘Doesn’t the camel get a fright?’

  The gunner grinned. ‘A terrified camel galloping through the infantry causes havoc. Effective if it heads into the enemy lines.’

  Hector remembered the fireworks used to separate the fighting bull elephants. ‘And what about the elephants? Do they panic as well?’

  ‘Elephants can be trained to ignore gunfire . . . so too can horses. But camels are jittery.’

  The gunner wiped his hands on a length of cotton waste, and began escorting them towards the door of the armoury.

  ‘Are you looking to take service with the Mogul?’ he asked Hector.
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  ‘Hector was on Ganj-i-Sawa’i when she was attacked,’ Dufour explained. ‘He’s waiting to be questioned about what happened.’

  The gunner must have supposed that Hector was a member of the crew of the great ship. He let out a breathy whistle of surprise. ‘I wonder if you know what happened to Jeronimo Tavares, a hazari with the big gun batteries? A friend of mine. He was posted to the ship, to manage her heavy armament.’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same question,’ Hector told him. ‘Tavares was badly burned when one of the main cannon blew up. When I last saw him, he was barely alive and on Ganj-i-Sawa’i heading for Surat.’

  ‘I hope he’s all right,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Jeronimo’s a good man, even though he’s with the elephants. The big gun men tend to look down on the “wasps” – they complain of the noise and stink. As if elephants don’t smell too!’

  Later, during lunch with the artilleryman, Hector used the chance to ask him if he had ever met a Captain Misson when he was serving with the French navy.

  ‘Misson . . . Misson . . .’ the artilleryman said slowly. ‘Don’t think so. Knew a Lieutenant Masson, but he never made captain as far as I know. Do you have any more details?’

  ‘He commanded a ship named Victoire.’

  ‘Only Victoire I came across was a privateer, small sloop. Not a navy vessel. Mind you, it’s a common enough name for a ship.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why the name was chosen by whoever started this fantasy,’ murmured Dufour, making it plain that he was still sceptical of the whole story. Hector decided to let the subject drop.

  ✻

  They got back to Dufour’s apartment in the city centre just as the brief Indian dusk was closing in, and the air was full of the smell of woodsmoke and the grating calls of crows searching for their roosts. Luis heard them climbing the stairs and met them on the landing in front of Dufour’s rooms. He was shifting from foot to foot in his excitement. Hector could not tell whether the expression on his face showed anxiety or relief, or both.

  ‘I’ve some news!’ the young man announced eagerly.

  ‘Then fetch the others,’ said Dufour, unlocking the door to his rooms. ‘So that everyone can hear what it is.’

  Luis ran back up the stairs to fetch Jezreel and Jacques and when all of them were seated in Dufour’s front room, he told them: ‘Last week two English merchants arrived in Delhi from Surat. They came with an answer to Aurangzeb’s demand for damages to be paid for the attack on Ganj-i-Sawa’i.’

  ‘Do we know who these two men are?’ asked Dufour.

  ‘Yes indeed!’ Luis was keen to show off his knowledge. ‘From their descriptions I am sure that one of them is Mr Samuel Annesley. He’s the East India Company’s Chief Factor in Surat and leader of the English traders there. The other man is a member of his council, Mr Ephraim Bendall. They are both very important men.’

  Dufour leaned forward. ‘And did you manage to learn what answer they brought to Aurangzeb’s demands?’

  Luis shook his head. ‘Only that they had a very long meeting with the wazir in charge of the government’s finances. Rumour has it that they disputed the value that the wazir had placed on the stolen cargo from Ganj-i-Sawa’i. He told them that if they didn’t pay the correct sum into the treasury, their trade in Surat would be shut down permanently and all English merchants expelled.’

  Dufour looked across at Hector. ‘So matters are coming to a head. Aurangzeb’s people will pursue this matter until it is concluded.’

  ‘There’s more,’ Luis hurried on. ‘My contact on the Khan-i-Sama’s staff mentioned that he was disappointed not to see the “infidel pirates”, as he called them, put on public trial for attacking the Mogul’s own ship. They’re to appear before a qadi in the Lal Qila and it’s to be a special closed sitting.’

  A puzzled look appeared on Dufour’s face. ‘Aurangzeb himself holds open court when he listens to his people’s grievances. I wonder what makes this case so different.’

  ‘When’s our trial to take place?’ Jacques asked bluntly.

  ‘Very soon,’ Luis told him. ‘According to my informant it will be while the two English merchants are still in Delhi.’

  Jacques grimaced. ‘That gives me an uncomfortable feeling that the verdict is already decided. Perhaps we should reconsider Jezreel’s idea of slipping out of Delhi and making our escape.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Dufour warned him sharply. ‘If the three of you vanished, I’d be held responsible.’

  ‘The authorities have no idea that we are staying with you,’ Jezreel objected.

  The gem dealer scowled at him. ‘Whenever Luis goes to the marketplace, trying to pick up news about what is happening over Ganj-i-Sawa’i, you can be sure that others make a note of who he is and which house he comes from. As a matter of routine, that information has been passed on to the kotwal, the chief of the city police.’

  The atmosphere in the room was becoming strained. To ease the tension, Hector spoke up. ‘We stay where we are and go to trial,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll produce the letter from Governor Vieira, and make our case that we gained nothing from the looting of Ganj-i-Sawa’i.’

  But he was thinking of a reason why the trial was to be held out of public view: it was because Aurangzeb’s sister had been aboard and the good reputation of the Great Mogul’s family was involved.

  ✻

  Mid-morning three days later the doorkeeper in front of Dufour’s building sent up a small boy with a message that an official from the kotwal’s office was waiting in the street outside. Luis went down to speak with him and returned to say that Hector and Jezreel were summoned to the Lal Qila to appear before a qadi.

  ‘And what about me?’ asked Jacques.

  ‘He said he’s come to fetch only the Englishmen.’

  Jacques was not to be put off. ‘Then at least I ought to come along as a witness.’

  Luis shook his head. ‘A qadi doesn’t need witnesses. He asks questions of the accused about the evidence against them, and then makes his judgement. I was told that I am to attend as an interpreter.’

  With Governor Vieira’s letter safe in an inside pocket Hector followed Luis and Jezreel down the stairs. The kotwal’s man wasn’t the burly policeman he had expected, but a diffident elderly figure wearing a woollen blanket over his shoulders against the cold and holding a mace of polished wood tipped with silver. They followed him through the narrow streets and into the public square in front of the looming entrance to the Lal Qila. As usual the square was bustling with customers for its booths and shops, idlers, entertainers and pedlars. All of them quickly stood aside to leave a path as soon as they saw the kotwal’s mace. One or two hucksters turned their faces away so as not to be recognized. Two more policemen with silver-tipped staffs were waiting in front of the barbican. They flanked a gaunt, black-bearded foreigner dressed in ill-fitting, but clean, shirt and trousers. A light steel chain was looped between his wrists. It took Hector a moment to recognize Pearl’s quartermaster, Gibson.

  ‘Where are the other two men from Pearl?’ Hector asked, shocked. Gibson had lost so much weight that he was almost skeletal. His skin had a sickly pallor, and his eyes sunken in their sockets had a haunted look.

  ‘Gaol fever,’ he muttered, his hoarse voice just above a whisper. ‘One’s near death, and the other like to follow him. Too weak and sick to be brought here.’

  With a stab of guilt, Hector realized that he had given no thought to Gibson and his two fellow sailors since the day fawjdar Darshan had led them away from omrah Nizamuddin’s house.

  ‘We’re to be questioned about what happened on Ganj-i-Sawa’i,’ he told the quartermaster.

  ‘About time too.’ Gibson’s voice was a little stronger but still strained. ‘Been looking forward to it.’

  There was something about this last remark which made Hector look more closely at Pearl’s quartermaster. This was a new, subdued Gibson. Three months in a Delhi goal had beaten the bully out of him. The previous blus
ter and aggression had gone. Yet there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes.

  A palace official, resplendent in a surcoat and matching turban of red and gold, detached himself from the group of soldiers guarding the entrance to the Lal Qila and came towards them. Evidently they were expected, for he exchanged a few words with the policemen, then indicated that they were to bring the feringhees inside the palace complex. The covered passageway through the barbican was a miniature bazaar lit with scores of hanging oil lamps fitted with mirrors. There were racks of exotic furs, jewellery in glass-fronted cabinets and every imaginable fabric and colour: swags and bolts of expensive silk, velvet, damask, brocade and fine muslin. It was abundantly clear that those who lived or worked within the Lal Qila loved dressing up in finery and could afford high prices.

  They emerged on the avenue leading to the centre of the imperial enclave. Every few yards a sweeper was wielding his broom, making sure that the roadway was spotless, and a small army of gardeners was tending flower beds – mostly marigolds. The large buildings that lined the avenue were made from the same red sandstone as the defensive ramparts. To his left Hector identified the nearest ones as barracks and stables for elephants and horses. Facing them across the avenue were buildings three and four storeys high and with balconies and balustrades. He was about to ask if they provided accommodation for favoured members of the Mogul’s immense retinue when he was distracted by the sight of a court grandee strolling towards them. The omrah was robed in a frock coat of cherry pink and yellow, nipped in at the waist and flaring out in a skirt that reached to his knees. The material was so stiff with gold and silver embroidery that he seemed encased in precious metal. His tight leggings were of striped silk, and his slippers with their turned-up pointed toes were sewn with tiny pearls. A jewelled brooch was pinned to the front of his turban of heavy silk, and several ropes of larger pearls hung around his neck. More gems gleamed on his finger rings and on the handle and sheath of the ornamental sword hanging from a broad silk sash.