by Tim Severin
‘May I make a suggestion?’ Dufour intervened. ‘It’s that Jacques stays on in Delhi as my assistant in the gem business.’ He shot a sly glance at Jacques. ‘As I recall Jacques has some experience in the handling of precious stones.’
‘If you’re asking me to prance around in petticoats, the answer’s no,’ Jacques snapped.
‘You’d get used to it,’ Dufour assured him. ‘Having a feringhee as my assistant would increase my prestige among the omrahs who are my clients.’
Jacques scowled.
Hector got out of his chair and walked over to Jacques. Putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, he said quietly, ‘You and I both know that we deluded ourselves when we thought of sailing to Libertalia and settling there. There’s no such place and there never was. Instead, you now find yourself in a country where you could make yourself a good living, and be beyond the reach of French law. I think you should accept the offer.’
‘I’d cut you in for five per cent of the profits, rising to ten per cent in the second year,’ Dufour offered. ‘The potential here is enormous. The omrahs love to buy and sell and exchange their jewels. For them it’s a game that reinforces their self-esteem. Hindustan has some of the richest gemstone mines in the world, and they’re playing with the loot from the treasuries of the smaller states they conquered, treasuries that took generations to assemble. I’ve seen diamond collections that you wouldn’t believe – literally bags of gems. More often than not, the omrahs have no idea of the real value of what they have. Anyone who acts as a broker can make a fortune.’
Jezreel came to his support. ‘Jacques, take this chance even if it means dressing up in a powdered wig and frock coat.’
Under pressure from his two friends, Jacques wavered. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the letter that Hector had asked him to deliver to Maria. ‘Whatever I decide, Hector, you must have this back. If I were to meet Maria, I won’t know what to say to her.’ He also held out the little pistol. ‘And you might as well have this too as I will not be needing to buy my passage to Tenerife.’
Dufour broke the uncomfortable silence that followed by reminding Hector about the parcel that had been delivered for him.
Hector went across to the desk where it lay. The heavy cotton wrapping had been folded neatly, and then secured with a row of small stitches. He picked up the package and weighed it in his hand. It felt light and soft, and he had no idea what it might contain, or who had sent it to him.
‘Go on, let’s see what it is,’ Jezreel urged.
Hector laid the parcel back on the desk and, with Dufour’s letter knife, carefully cut the stitches. As the last stitch came free, the close-packed contents burst open so that he had to grab the first item before it slithered to the floor.
It was a length of watered silk shimmering gold and green, the ends fringed with gold. Hastily he gathered it together and held the material up for inspection. It measured six or seven yards.
‘That’s a turban length,’ Dufour commented. He sounded surprised. ‘What else is there?’
Hector set aside the silk and turned back to the opened parcel. There was a glint of brocade. Cautiously he pulled out a garment, a knee-length coat with wide skirts. Made from cloth of gold, it was magnificently embroidered with patterns of coloured thread.
‘Try it on and see how it fits,’ Jezreel suggested.
Hector slipped his arms through the sleeves, and turned to face his companions. Luis, sitting quietly in a corner, was looking on, spellbound.
‘It makes you into a proper omrah,’ Jezreel said.
There was one more item in the package – a wide sash of stiff yellow silk.
‘Who would want to send me these clothes?’ Hector asked, fingering the rich material. He recalled the expensive fabric in the shops at the entry to Lal Qila.
‘A serapha – that’s what you’ve been sent, Hector,’ said Dufour and there was a note of awe in his voice. ‘It’s a rare honour, a symbolic gift bestowed by the Great Mogul or by his most important officers of state. A serapha is something Aurangzeb might choose to give to an ambassador from a friendly country or to a general returned from a successful campaign.’
‘So what am I supposed to do with it?’ Hector asked.
‘If you were at court, you would wear your serapha so that everyone would know that you are high in the emperor’s favour. However, as Aurangzeb probably thinks you have been crushed to death, I don’t think Algemir is your secret admirer. You’d be wise if you put everything back in their wrapping and kept it safe with your other baggage.’
‘What about selling them for cash?’ Jezreel suggested. ‘They should fetch a good sum. If Hector and I are going to be hauled off to Surat, we could at least repay you for some of the expenses you’ve had, looking after us in Delhi.’
Dufour sucked in his breath as if he had a twinge of toothache. ‘Whatever you do, don’t sell them! They’d be traced back to the person who sent them to you and that would cause deep offence. As you’ve been staying with me, I’d probably be thrown out of Delhi.’
Hector folded up the turban length and the sash and carefully put them to one side. As he was taking off the brocade coat, he felt something in a pocket. He fished out a black velvet purse tied with a drawstring. He unfastened the knot and tipped the contents into the palm of his hand. It was a bracelet, a triple circle of small, matched pearls. A memory stirred. He picked up the turban length again, raised the fabric to his nose and sniffed. There was a faint hint of sandalwood, and he knew he had been right. He had seen the bracelet in Ganj-i-Sawa’i’s cabin when he had conspired with the badly injured Tavares to misidentify Begum Gaucharara. He put the bracelet back into the purse and slipped it inside his shirt. Sometime in the future it would make a perfect gift for Maria if he and Jezreel were spared the death sentence that had been promised them. Twenty-four hours earlier he would not have dared to think of such a possibility, but the day’s events had taught him that in Hindustan nothing was inevitable.
NINETEEN
Annesley had hired four of the fastest hackeries – as he called the ox-drawn passenger vehicles – for his return to Surat. These were not the slow, plodding conveyances that Hector remembered from his journey between Diu and Delhi. They were smart lightweight carts pulled by specially trained oxen, their horns banded with rings of polished brass, which moved at a fast trot for hour after hour. Hector and Jezreel rode in one cart with Luis, who had so impressed Annesley with his skills as a translator and go-between that the English merchant had agreed that the young man could travel with them. They were given their meals separately, allotted their own room overnight in the caravanserais, and after Hector promised that neither he nor Jezreel would try to escape, the door was no longer locked.
As a result, the journey passed swiftly and by the last week of February they were passing through lush, fertile countryside very different from the dusty arid surroundings they had left behind in Delhi. Here the villages were set among groves of orange and lemon trees, and the fields were green with wheat, rice, and indigo. What struck Hector most was the industry of the people. Cotton was their main crop, and men, women and children seemed to be constantly busy spinning the yarn, weaving it into cloth, or dyeing the fabric in every shade and pattern of indigo blue.
‘That’s Surat calico,’ Luis said to Hector as their little convoy rolled past bush after bush spread with great lengths of material for the printed patterns to dry in the sunshine. ‘We’re nearly at our destination.’
‘How long before we get there?’
‘No more than a couple of days.’
Hector glanced round to make sure that the cart in which Annesley and Bendall were riding together was some distance ahead. Now they were so close to Luis’ family home in Surat, he felt he had to break silence and tell the young man the details of what really happened to his father aboard Ganj-i-Sawa’i. It would prepare him for what he might find there.
‘Luis, I have to
tell you something before we enter Surat,’ he began hesitantly. ‘It’s about your father.’
The excitement that lit up Luis’ large expressive eyes was childlike. ‘Have you heard something?’ he asked eagerly.
‘No. Perhaps I should have told you earlier. It concerns the attack on Ganj-i-Sawa’i.’
Luis gave a slight frown of disappointment. ‘Senhor Vieira told me that my father fought bravely.’
‘He did. Very courageously. But . . .’ and Hector hesitated. ‘He was injured in the fight.’
‘Badly injured?’
‘Very badly.’
Luis let out a slow breath, his face now troubled. ‘Please tell me. It is better that I know the truth.’
‘One of the great guns blew up, and your father was caught in the blast. His face and upper body were severely burned.’
‘You saw this?’
‘Not the explosion itself, but later after the ship was captured. My friends and I tried to help your father as best we could. We treated the burns and a kindly passenger gave him some poppy to ease the pain.’
Several moments passed and then Luis asked in a small voice, ‘Do you think he still lives? I have heard nothing from him in all these months.’
Hector chose his words carefully. ‘With good treatment he should have survived. When I saw him again some days later, still on the ship, he was being well cared for, and Ganj-i-Sawa’i was headed for Surat.’
‘But that was more than three months ago. Surely my father would have sent me a message.’
Hector did his best to sound encouraging. ‘Maybe he did, but to Diu, thinking you were there. He was not to know that you had gone with us to Delhi.’
‘I feared that something like this had happened,’ Luis admitted wretchedly.
For a long time they sat in silence as the hackery continued down the road. Eventually Luis seemed to pull himself together, for he said, ‘Hector, I suppose that you’ve noticed how Mr Annesley and Mr Bendall stay up late in the evenings, talking together. I’ve overheard snatches of their conversation, and they sounded very anxious.’
‘Maybe they’re fretting that Aurangzeb won’t let them resume trading even after they’ve strung me and Jezreel up.’
‘I think it is more complicated than that,’ Luis told him. ‘I believe they are worrying about what the directors of the East India Company in London will think about how they’ve handled this difficulty with the Great Mogul.’
‘Annesley doesn’t give me the impression of being someone who concerns himself with anything but his own interests.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Luis. ‘He and Bendall will have lodged a bond with the Company before they were appointed to their posts in Surat. The money is a surety against their good behaviour. To keep them honest and stop them from doing business on the side for their personal profit. If they’ve mishandled this business with Aurangzeb, their money could be forfeit.’
Hector glanced at his young companion. ‘How do you know all this?’
Luis shrugged. ‘It is common knowledge among the Indian merchants of Surat. They make jokes about it. They say that the only question to ask about a newly arrived feringhee merchant is whether he is clever enough to take a bribe, or stupid enough to be hoodwinked.’
✻
Surat smelled unpleasant, even at a distance. Standing on the bank of the Tapti river and looking across at the town, Hector caught the whiff of river mud and human waste on the afternoon breeze that also had the salty tang of sea air. He could see a medium-sized castle flying the Mogul colours and a building that looked like the customs house. Several barnlike structures were probably warehouses. Farther downstream to his right were a number of shipyards. But Surat, at first sight, did not live up to its reputation as the great emporium of the Mogul empire. The town was an ugly sprawl of dingy low houses with roofs of thatch. Nor did it have a proper harbour, only a run-down waterfront of stone steps lapped by the dirty brown waters of the Tapti. Even the ships in the anchorage were not what he had expected. There were several dozens of them: small lighters, coasters, barges, but not a single ocean-going vessel.
Annesley was stamping up and down on the bank, gesticulating and shouting at the hackery drivers, urging them to hurry up and unload their carts before he deducted from their wages. That morning he and Bendall had changed into cream-coloured breeches with white shirts and cravats, and coats of dark blue broadcloth with a high stiff collar and a double row of gold buttons down the front. Hector supposed that these uniforms marked them as officials of the English East India Company.
‘Come on now, Lynch. Don’t keep me waiting!’ Annesley bellowed. Hector slithered down the slippery bank, and joined Jezreel and Luis who were already on the ferry. As they were being rowed across the river Hector had a chance to speak quietly with Luis.
‘Where are the foreign trading ships?’ he asked.
‘They’ll be near the river mouth at an anchorage called Swally Hole. The Tapti is too shallow to be navigated safely, and Swally Hole has deep water and shelter behind a sandbar. It’s only fifteen miles away by boat.’
‘Shouldn’t the customs house be located nearer those ships?
‘Officially the foreign vessels must off-load their cargo into smaller boats at Swally Hole and send it upriver for inspection at the Surat customs office.’
‘That’s an open invitation for smuggling.’
Luis grinned. ‘Of course it is. But palms are greased and nothing is done to stop it.’ He pointed at the castle. ‘There you’ll find Surat’s governor, Sujat Khan. He’s taking in so much money on the side that in a few years he will amass a fortune and retire.’
‘Doesn’t that raise suspicions in Delhi?’
The young man shrugged. ‘The Khan-i-Sama will quietly auction off the vacant post to the highest bidder. He and his officials take the bid money and lodge most of it in the emperor’s treasury. They are happy with the arrangement as it gives them less work to do. Afterwards if the new governor takes bribes to recover his investment, that’s up to him.’
The ferry nuzzled up against the slime-covered steps of the landing place and was promptly surrounded by porters jostling as they clamoured for work. Annesley hired two of them to carry his and Bendall’s luggage, leaving Hector and the others to shoulder their own bags. At the top of the steps they entered the maidan, the open space between the castle and the customs house. It served as a vast open-air market and was crammed with displays of trade goods – dried indigo paste in blocks, sacks of grain, black balls of opium heaped up like musket shot and hundreds upon hundreds of bales of cloth. These were stacked so tightly that Annesley had difficulty in picking a path between them. At one point, with Hector on his heels, he reached out, patted a bale and said over his shoulder, ‘Half the world, from here to London, dresses in Surat calicoes and muslins. It’s the foundation of our Company’s trade.’
Conspicuous in his feringhee uniform, Annesley made a striking contrast to the Indian merchants transacting business. They wore plain white shirts, long unbleached dhotis and cheap sandals. If he had seen them in the streets of Delhi, Hector would have taken them to be minor shopkeepers or junior clerks. Yet a few of them undoubtedly knew Annesley and Bendall for they would put their hands together as the Englishmen walked past and give a gracious dip of the head. The courtesy was returned sometimes, but not always, with a curt nod.
‘If Surat is such a good place for trade,’ he commented to Luis, ‘you’d have thought that the merchants would look a bit more prosperous.’
‘Don’t be deceived, Hector,’ Luis said. ‘Several of those banyans are wealthier than any omrah dressed in his fine silks and jewels. They are careful to make it appear that they are so poor they can scarcely put food on the table for their families. It is to avoid attracting the attention of their Mogul overlords who would then squeeze them for a share of their fortunes.’
He nodded in the direction of an impoverished-looking elderly trader in threadbare clothes
who was picking over the contents of an opened bale. He had pulled out a length of the cloth and was fingering it with an expression of disdain on his gaunt face. ‘You see that man there. He is one of the richest men in Surat. He and his cousins own a fleet of trading ships.’
Trailing behind Annesley into the town, Hector began to understand Surat’s fame as a place of trade. It seemed that the entire population was engaged in constant buying or selling. In the meanest alleyways there was a pedlar every few yards with a tray of his goods hung around his neck and holding up samples, or he had a roll of embroidery balanced on his head and was dangling a strip of the fabric in the faces of passers-by. In the open doorways of shacks with bamboo walls plastered with cow dung, there were displays of brightly painted children’s dolls, wood carvings and displays of furniture inlaid with mother of pearl. Everything was for sale.
Eventually they came into a street, broader and cleaner than most, dominated by a large, square-fronted building solidly made of brick. Iron bars in the small windows gave it a forbidding appearance. A loitering watchman spotted Annesley and his party and scurried off ahead of them so that by the time they reached the front entrance, an archway large enough to admit laden carts, the heavy double doors were being swung open.
‘I’m calling an urgent meeting of the Council. Inform the cooks to serve dinner at sunset, sharp,’ Annesley snapped at a flustered servant as he turned in under the arch.
Bendall dropped back a few paces and gave Hector a cold, unblinking look. ‘Welcome to the Factory of the East India Company. Do I take it that you and your friend will not try to escape?’
Hector nodded, and the trader crooked a finger at a hovering servant. ‘Show them to one of the empty storerooms and see that they get a meal,’ he ordered. Turning back to Hector, he said, ‘You will be sent for when required.’
Passing through a short passageway behind his guide, Hector emerged into an open courtyard. The main building through which he had just entered appeared to contain the offices of the Company. It was also where Annesley and Bendall had their lodgings, for he could see the porters carrying their bags inside. Beside it was a small chapel with whitewashed walls, a cross on its gable end and a sloping roof of reddish-brown tiles. Directly across the courtyard a cavernous building reminded him of Baldridge’s warehouse in St Mary’s. Workmen were using handcarts to shift crates and bales under the gaze of an overseer with a tally sheet. The remaining sides of the courtyard were taken up with stables, sheds, kitchens and servants’ quarters. Coming to a halt in front of what looked like a storeroom, his guide pulled open the door, and Hector peered inside. The room was bare of any furniture and the floor of beaten earth had been swept clean. Judging by the musty smell, it had recently been used for storing grain. Hector set his bag on the ground. ‘I guess we slept in worse when we were on Fancy,’ he said to Jezreel, ‘and it’s better than a prison cell.’