Freebooter

by Tim Severin

  Tactfully their escort stepped aside and waited until the omrah had sauntered past with his entourage, before leading his little group through a double courtyard linked by an arcade. Luis sucked in his breath in mild alarm. Falling in step beside the young man, Hector asked quietly, ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘We’re going in the direction of the zenana, the women’s quarters,’ Luis whispered.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My father sometimes brought me into the Lal Qila when visiting officers of the garrison. I was shown the Diwan-i-Am, the Great Hall, where Aurangzeb holds audiences for his people. I thought that’s where we were being taken. But this is the way to the royal apartments and they are off-limits.’

  They passed through an area where high walls blocked the view on either side until they came out on a broad grassy terrace that was the setting for a large, elegant pavilion. In contrast to the previous tones of red and pink sandstone, this building was the purest white marble. Delicate fretwork filled the upper parts of the five scalloped arches that formed the facade, and the slanting light of the wintry sun brought out the pearl-like lustre of the stone. Hector did not need anyone to tell him that this graceful construction had been designed to accommodate the womenfolk of the royal family.

  By now, it was evident that the kotwal’s men shared Luis’ disquiet at venturing so close to the zenana. They were exchanging worried looks and had slowed their pace, falling back several yards behind their guide. Their nervousness increased to open dismay as half a dozen heavily armed guards left their posts in front of the pavilion and came striding across the terrace to intercept them. The guards were squat and brawny and wore the red and gold that Hector now recognized as the colours of the Mogul’s personal household. Shirts of chain mail reached to their thighs, and they were equipped with short curved swords and steel helmets. Some carried small circular shields of leather. Forming up in an aggressive line, they blocked the path and their leader growled a hostile warning in heavily accented Persian that no one was to go any farther. The pitch of the voice made Hector look more closely. The guard commander was a stocky woman. She had a broad flat Asiatic face, a yellowish-brown complexion and her deep-set eyes were such a dark brown under the rim of her helmet that they appeared black. A quick glance at her companions revealed that they too were women and equally formidable.

  The palace official pointed towards a smaller building some distance away from the royal pavilion, and explained that he had instructions to take the visitors there. For several long moments the guard commander stared at him suspiciously, then gave a curt nod. When the little group moved forward, the guards kept pace with them, carefully shepherding them away from the pavilion.

  ‘A platoon of those women on Ganj-i-Sawa’i instead of Turkish slave girls would have given Henry Avery a bloody nose,’ Jezreel commented in a low voice.

  ‘They’re recruited in Mongolia,’ Luis hissed. ‘Specially chosen for their strength and trustworthiness.’

  They had arrived at their destination and their guide brought them to a side entrance of the building. Instructing the kotwal’s men to stay back, he held open the door and indicated that the feringhees were to go inside. He did not follow them himself and closed the door behind them.

  ‘What sort of place is this?’ Jezreel asked, looking around. They were alone in a room, some ten paces across and lit by a skylight of multi-coloured glass panes. The walls were cheerfully painted with patterns of flowers and leaves. However, it was empty of furniture.

  Hector positioned himself where he could keep a careful eye on Gibson. There was no way of knowing what the quarter-master might do now that he was alone in the company of men he detested. Even with his wrists chained, Gibson could turn violent. The quartermaster was ignoring the others, standing apart, with his head down and staring at the floor.

  A sudden sound made them all jump. A strange wailing was coming from beyond large double doors on the far side of the room. Seconds later a buzzing drone, and then a sharp tapping sound beating out a rhythm joined the wailing.

  ‘It’s a band playing,’ Luis explained. ‘I think we’re in a private theatre for the entertainment of the zenana. This must be the room where the performers wait their turn.’

  Hector listened. He could detect the sounds of several stringed instruments as well as something very like a flute. There was also the chinking of small cymbals and the beating of different types of drums.

  Jezreel pulled a face. ‘Maybe this is how we’ll be tortured.’

  Luis glared at him. It was clear that he was very nervous. ‘This is no time for jokes. If a qadi thinks you do not take him seriously, it’ll go badly for us. He is both judge and jury, and there’s no appeal against his decision.’

  For perhaps ten minutes the music continued and soon after it ended, one of the double doors opened just wide enough for a good-looking young man wearing a red-and-gold turban to put his head into the room. It was evident that he was checking on their arrival. He seemed satisfied, for he immediately withdrew and closed the door.

  ‘Are you sure this is part of the zenana?’ Hector asked Luis. ‘It doesn’t make sense to have women guards stationed outside, and allow a man inside.’

  ‘He’ll be one of the palace eunuchs,’ Luis told him. ‘They’re very popular with ladies.’

  He broke off as both double doors were pulled open from the other side, and the same young man gestured that they were to remove their shoes and boots, before coming forward.

  Barefoot, they filed past him into an audience hall that was the height of opulence. The walls were of white and brown veined marble inlaid with patterns of semi-precious stones. Scores of candles blazed in elaborate chandeliers that hung from a vaulted ceiling where the intricate plaster mouldings were picked out in gold leaf. Underfoot a single, huge carpet had a complicated repeated motif of birds, plants and flowers. It covered an area large enough to seat thirty or forty members of the audience. Here and there were low couches covered in silk brocade, and scattered around on the carpet were a number of plump velvet cushions. Evidently they had just been used as seats by women of the audience while they had been listening to the music. The air was still heavy with their perfume.

  An older man, doubtless the qadi, was waiting for them. A simple gown of dark grey worn under a cloak of the same colour combined with his black turban to give him an austere appearance. Grey-bearded and unsmiling, he sat cross-legged on a rug at the front edge of a low platform that had provided the stage for the musicians. A tall screen of dark carved wood just behind him concealed the rest of the stage. Hector realized that the women of the zenana had been able to hear, but not see, the musicians.

  The young eunuch lined them up to face the judge, then stepped up on the stage and disappeared behind the screen. They were alone in the room with the man who would decide their fate. For a full minute the qadi looked at them in silence, then reached into the pocket of his gown and produced a pair of spectacles. Placing them on his nose he leaned forward, selected a paper on a low folding bookstand in front of him and read aloud from it. He had a strangely toneless voice and it took Hector a moment to understand that he was reciting a summary of the attack on Ganj-i-Sawa’i by English pirates. He spoke slowly, pausing between each sentence. Occasionally he looked up and waited for Luis to take his cue and translate for the benefit of Jezreel and Gibson. Listening, it was clear to Hector that the summary had been compiled from statements made by those who had survived the looting of the vessel. It made a grim story though there was no mention of the kidnap and attempt to ransom of Gaucharara Begum. Hector supposed that any reference to the imperial family in such sordid circumstances was unthinkable and prohibited.

  Finishing, the qadi leaned back and asked if anyone disputed the account. Luis translated the question and as he did so, while the question was still hanging in the air, Hector knew what had been bothering him from the start: the qadi had not been giving his full attention to the men standing in
front of him. He seemed distracted. With a shiver of apprehension Hector wondered if this meant the trial was a charade as Jacques had suspected; their sentence was already decided. He was still puzzling about this when he heard his name spoken. It was Luis, telling him that the qadi was waiting for an answer. Did he dispute the account of what had taken place aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i?

  Hector brought himself back to the present. ‘Sir, I have a letter written by His Excellency the Deputy Governor of Diu about what happened on the vessel and afterwards.’

  Wordlessly, the qadi held out a hand. Hector stepped forward and gave him the letter.

  There was a long silence while the qadi read the contents, then he looked up and, addressing Hector in Persian, said, ‘Why am I to believe the contents of this document? It states that you and two of your friends gave assistance to the victims of these barbaric events. This contradicts all the other evidence.’

  ‘Can someone tell me what’s going on!’ interrupted an angry voice. It was Gibson. He had braced back his powerful shoulders and there was a contemptuous look on his face. With his wild black beard and glittering eyes, he looked a little mad.

  In the shocked silence that followed, Luis could be heard explaining about Vieira’s letter and its contents.

  ‘Then translate this for me,’ Gibson snarled at the young man, ‘and get it right or I’ll throttle you.’ He gathered up the chain between his wrists with both hands and pulled it bar tight.

  ‘Tell the old boy up on the stage that I was quartermaster of the Pearl when we took “Exceeding Treasure”. I saw everything. As a ship’s officer I tried to hold back that man,’ he pointed with his chin at Hector, ‘and his friend, but they were the first to help themselves to the women and plunder.’

  In a shaky voice, Luis translated Gibson’s outburst.

  The qadi beckoned to Hector to approach and gave him back the letter. As Hector returned to his place, he met Gibson’s eye. The quartermaster was relishing the moment. His former swagger had re-surfaced. He bared his teeth in a satisfied smile.

  ‘Pity he didn’t get gaol fever like the others,’ Jezreel whispered to Hector.

  The handsome young eunuch had appeared around the end of the screen. He came across the stage and knelt down beside the qadi. The two men conferred, their heads close together.

  Hector nudged Jezreel to pay attention. The qadi was about to make an announcement.

  ‘All three of you are pirates and infidels of the most depraved kind. Tomorrow, immediately after fajr, you will be taken outside the walls to the place of execution.’

  The entire proceeding could not have taken more than ten minutes. Even before Luis had finished translating the verdict, the eunuch was on his way down from the stage, ready to usher them out. Gibson, as he brushed past Hector, gave him a vicious grin. ‘I waited three months in a stinking gaol for my chance.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Bribe someone to cancel the sentence,’ repeated Jacques stubbornly. After a wretched night, during which none of them had got much sleep, they were all back in Dufour’s front room, bleary-eyed. Outside the open window, the sky was showing the first faint glow of daybreak and the conversation was now going round in circles.

  ‘There’s not a bribe in all the world that’s large enough to change the qadi’s decision,’ Hector told him yet again. He had lost count of the number of times his friend had made the same suggestion since he, Jezreel and Luis had got back to Dufour’s home from the Lal Qila. They presumed that Quartermaster Gibson had been returned separately to spend his final hours in a cell.

  ‘Jezreel and I both agree,’ Hector reminded Jacques, ‘that someone was hidden by the screen behind the qadi, someone who was watching and listening, making sure that the qadi reached the verdict they wanted.’

  Jacques refused to give up. ‘Then we must try to find out who it was, and appeal to that person to show mercy.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near them,’ Dufour assured him wearily. ‘The most likely candidates are Aurangzeb’s sister, Gaucharara Begum, or her lady-in-waiting who survived being kidnapped by Mayes. Both are confined to the zenana while they’re in Delhi. That’s why Hector and Jezreel had to be brought there.’

  ‘I still don’t understand. Why wasn’t I taken along as well?’ Jacques insisted.

  ‘Maybe because you’re French,’ Dufour told him patiently. ‘It’s all to do with Aurangzeb’s perception of the attack on his ship. He and his wazirs want to put pressure on the English traders in Surat to pay damages. Putting a Frenchman to death doesn’t achieve that.’

  ‘And how will the sentence be carried out?’ demanded Jezreel, a hard edge to his voice.

  Dufour was silent a moment. ‘It depends on the nature of the offence: for an ordinary criminal, death is by hanging. Those judged to have challenged the authority of the Great Mogul are thrown from the top of a cliff. I have also heard that snake poison is sometimes administered.’

  Jacques had retreated into a morose silence, his face taut.

  Hector could see that the death sentence imposed on his two friends had shaken the Frenchman. Jacques was now struggling to come to terms with the fact that of the three of them he would be the only one to survive.

  ‘Jacques, I’ve got something I want you to do for me,’ he said. He got to his feet and walked across to Jacques and tucked a folded sheet of paper into the front of his shirt. ‘Take good care of it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A letter for Maria. I wrote it last night when I was unable to sleep. She’ll read how sorry I am that I failed to make our dream of Libertalia come true. Give me your word that you’ll deliver my letter in person.’

  ‘Of course I’ll do what you ask,’ Jacques told him. ‘But it could be a very long time before I get to meet her.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. What’s important to me is that you’ll be with her when she reads my letter and you can answer her questions. If I know that, it will make it easier for me to endure whatever the Moguls are planning for Jezreel and me today.’

  He held out the pocket pistol that Governor Vieira had provided as a bribe for omrah Nizamuddin. ‘This is valuable. If neither you nor Jezreel have any objections, I’d like you to find someone to buy it for a good price. Use the money to buy a passage to Tenerife, where you’ll find Maria. If there’s any money left over, give it to her. She’ll find it difficult having to raise a child on her own.’

  Jacques took the pistol and laid it on the table beside him as the call to morning prayer came through the window. As the sound faded away, there was a knock on the door. It was one of the kotwal’s men rapping with his silver-headed staff.

  Dufour and Jacques were grim-faced as the men and Luis accompanied Jezreel and Hector down into the street. The dawn was shrouded in heavy yellow-grey fog that left an unpleasant taste on the tongue so that the few passers-by they encountered had the ends of their turbans drawn across their mouths. Hector could see no more than a few paces in any direction, and he was glad of the padded jacket that Dufour had loaned him. Already numb from tiredness, he was finding it difficult to think straight. He stole a sideways glance at Jezreel. The big man was remarkably calm, almost indifferent. He wondered if Jezreel, in his days as a prize-fighter, had gone so often to the ring, perhaps to be badly injured there, that he had acquired the knack of closing his mind to what lay ahead.

  They walked in silence, accompanied by five of the kotwal’s policemen. Crossing the main square, Hector expected that Gibson and the two sailors from Pearl would be added to their sombre little group. But the square was deserted except for a few shivering servants setting up the booths. Then they were passing through the narrow streets of a residential district until eventually they came to a postern gate in the city wall. Hector recognized it as the one they had used after they had watched the elephant fight and first entered Delhi.

  Outside, the fog was equally dense and Hector quickened his step so he came level with Luis. ‘When the qa
di spoke about “the place of execution”, was he talking about the open area where we watched the elephant fight?’

  Luis would not meet his eye but stared ahead. ‘I believe so,’ he mumbled miserably.

  Jezreel gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘Well, we’re not classed as state criminals, that’s for sure. There’s no cliff here from which we can be thrown. I wonder where Gibson is? He wouldn’t want to miss our ending.’

  They had gone some distance, angling to their left, when a dark shape loomed up through the fog. It was a scaffold of bamboo and planks. For an unsettling moment Hector thought it was some sort of gallows for a mass hanging. Then he made out that it was a makeshift viewing stand, its lower tier partially occupied by a small gathering of a dozen or so strangers. The kotwal’s men led them directly toward two men in the front rank who were dressed in clothes for a European winter – woollen trousers, warm coats, scarves and hats.

  Pushing Hector and Jezreel forward, the senior kotwal official announced in Persian: ‘These are the two English pirates that the Khan-i-Sama demands you punish, according to your custom.’

  While Luis was translating into English, Hector studied the two foreigners. The one on the left seemed to be more senior. A big, beefy man in his early fifties, he had a broad, jowly face, a large bulbous nose and a ruddy complexion. He radiated self-confidence. His companion was much the same age but thinner and more thoughtful-looking. Hooded eyes in a long narrow face left the impression that he was someone who weighed his options carefully before reaching a decision.

  The big man on the left nodded, and in a rich deep voice that matched his well-fed appearance, announced brusquely, ‘I will see to it.’ Turning to Hector and Jezreel, he asked. ‘Your names?’

  ‘Hector Lynch.’