Free Lance

by George Shipway

  A native whose sole task it was baled with a leather bucket. Thirty yards on either beam two near-naked men straddled tree-trunks lashed together and paddled hard to keep the masoolah abreast - an escort of catamarans to rescue passengers should the boat be overset. Despite the catamarans, Marriott remembered glumly, two Englishmen had drowned last month: a seventy-four’s midshipman and a trader from Cuddalore.

  The masoolah, half full of water and rocking sluggishly in the swell, crept close to the middle surf. Rowers checked the way an oar’s length from the wave’s tremendous break and curl. The stationary craft climbed dizzily on a foaming torrent which surged beneath the keel, and fell like a stooping hawk in the trough that followed. Warily eyeing successive rollers, the steersman shook his head. Fane retched on the waterlogged grass between his feet. The clerk swathed his head in a fold of his robe, an image of sodden misery. The sun sucked steamy vapour from saturated clothes which dried in prickling saltiness on their skins.

  The baler continued his work, singing to himself; Marriott fought his queasiness, and possessed himself in patience. They might have to wait for half an hour before attempting to cross. One could not hasten the masoolah men; they were wise with hard-won knowledge and judged to a foot where the break of the surf would happen.

  Fane scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, and removed his shoes and boat cloak. ‘It is as well to be prepared for the worst,’ he remarked wryly.

  Marriott nodded sleepily; despite the lurching and pitching he started to doze.

  ‘Ya-lee!’

  The boat jumped forward, reared, swung broadside and swept crabwise down the slope. The gunnel dipped and water surged inboard. With a piercing screech Fane vanished in the cataract. Marriott plunged to the side and seized his hair, gripped a tholepin and held, head and shoulders buried in the sea. The roller roared on its way. Marriott heaved his burden to the surface Two heads appeared alongside, black shining hair plastering brown faces. The catamaran men, swimming fluently as sharks, supported Fane beneath the shoulders. Rowers left the thwarts and hauled him in.

  Fane spouted water from his mouth. ‘Damme, I was all but gone!’ he panted; and glared vindictively at the steersman. ‘That incompetent rascal deserves a hearty drubbing!’ The native, unperturbed, spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Pray accept my thanks, Charles. Had it not been for your quickness I was food for fishes, for I cannot swim.’

  ‘Who can?’ Marriott grunted. ‘I shall empty a bottle at your expense when - if - we get ashore. There is still the outer surf to cross!’

  Wet and bedraggled, the Writers climbed a rope ladder which dangled on the Osterley's side. A stubby figure met them on deck, blue coated, cocked hatted, spyglass under arm. ‘Captain Browning, at your service, gentlemen!’ he declared. ‘You suffered a stormy passage in the surf - I observed you through my glass. Come to the round house - I can offer you choice old Malmsey to wash the sea-salt from your throats!’

  Passengers lined the bulwarks, inspecting curiously the fiat palm-tasselled coast, St George’s formidable ramparts, the housetops, white and dun, which peered from the trees inland - officers in red, naval gentlemen in blue, paunchy civilians sweating under velvet-collared coats, ladies fruitlessly fanning their faces and gasping in the heat, and children gaping into holds whence lascars lifted cargo. Fane glanced quickly at the women. ‘All plain as camels,’ he whispered. ‘No talent in this shipment, Charles!’ Marriott grinned: at every Indiaman’s arrival the young men of Madras hoped to see the ship disgorge a consignment of lovely ladies - and were constantly disappointed.

  Captain Browning led his guests to the round house on the poop, partitioned into berths by hung tarpaulins. In the centre stood a massive table where bottles and glasses ranked like soldiers. Ship’s officers and passengers - close friends or bitter enemies after an eight months’ voyage - stood around and talked and exchanged farewells. The captain poured wine.

  ‘You gentlemen represent the Company, I take it? My purser will bring the cargo manifests, and you can begin your business.’

  A florid man in military dress turned glass in hand. ‘Company servants? Perhaps, sirs, you can inform me when I may expect to land?’ Frosty eyebrows bristled above a beaky nose, deep furrows dragged from lips to nostrils. ‘Captain Browning has had the goodness to signal my arrival - and we anchored three hours ago!’

  Browning said hastily, ‘Allow me to present Sir John Wrangham.’ A wave of his arm included a pallid lady of advancing years. ‘Lady Wrangham. And...’

  Marriott almost dropped his glass. Green eyes flecked with gold, a perfect heart-shaped face, an ivory complexion and a mouth like a crushed red rose. Tawny-copper hair escaped in artful ringlets from a wide straw bonnet ribbon-tied beneath a dimpled chin. A high-waisted dress of flowered silk, cut in a clinging fashion which was new to Marriott’s eyes, revealed a tall, slim body.

  ‘... Miss Caroline Wrangham,’ Browning concluded.

  Marriott bowed. Miss Wrangham returned his scrutiny, coolly amused, appreciating fully the sensation she had caused. ‘You appear a thought dishevelled, sir. Is a ducking inevitable during the passage from ship to shore? How fortunate that I have learned to swim!’

  Marriott became unhappily conscious of his salt-caked hair and creased damp clothes. He introduced himself, and presented Fane, who goggled at the vision like a dumb-struck ploughboy. He stammered an assurance: Miss Wrangham need have no fears; the accommodation boat, which she would use was perfectly safe, a larger, better-fitted craft than common masoolahs, with a greater complement of rowers, decently clothed - and recalled uneasily a story that the Governor’s boat was swamped in a vicious surf five years before, and all the passengers drowned.

  Miss Wrangham looked disappointed.

  ‘I had hoped, after seeing your troubles in the surf, for a comparable excitement. Existence in the Osterley has been horridly monotonous - except for a day off Trinkomalee when a French privateer gave chase. A broadside or two,’ she added sadly, ‘discouraged the Frenchman, and he hauled his wind and went.’

  A peculiar observation, Marriott thought, for a gently nurtured female who should have sheltered in the Bread Room when the Indiaman cleared for action. ‘Surcouff, I apprehend, of the Ajax sixty-four. A pestilential pirate who roves at will from Comorin to Calcutta and harasses our shipping. Why Admiral Troubridge cannot--’

  ‘Your pardon, sir.’ A long-nosed, pasty young man in Light Dragoon regimentals appeared at Marriott’s elbow. ‘Sir John is impatient to go ashore. May I know when transport may be expected?’ More than a touch of insolence lingered in the amber eyes which scanned Marriott’s rumpled appearance.

  ‘Pray allow me to present Mr Anstruther, my father’s aide-de-camp.’ Miss Wrangham concealed her enjoyment of the instant antagonism which flashed between the pair; and slipped quietly away to engage in conversation a stocky, square-jawed youth who wore the plain red coat with white metal buttons of a cadet in the Company’s Army. Marriott said curtly, ‘I counsel patience, sir. The surf, as you can see, is somewhat violent, and there may be difficulty--‘

  ‘Difficulty be damned, sir!’ blared the general across the table. ‘You have made the passage; why should not I? I demand you send instantly to Fort St George to hasten your tardy conveyance!’

  Marriott heartily disliked the officer’s manner. Moreover Sir John had no direct authority over him: the gulf between military and civil in the Company’s service yawned like a chasm, each jealously guarding its own perquisites and privileges. Yet it was folly for a lowly Writer needlessly to antagonize a general - especially a general who happened to be Miss Wrangham’s father.

  ‘I shall go ashore directly, sir.’ To Fane he said in an undertone: ‘This is an infernal nuisance, William - I must leave you and the clerk to tally the manifests. Check carefully my private consignment, and give the captain this draft.’ He thrust a crumpled document in Fane’s hand, bade Browning a polite farewell, bowed to the ladies and strode on deck.
Sailors had rigged an accommodation ladder; the masoolah rocked at its foot. He clattered down and dropped aboard, became aware of a flurry on the ladder, a billowing flowered dress pursued by a plain red coat. Caroline Wrangham slithered down the last few steps and fell into the boat. The cadet, a hunted look in his eye, helped her to a seat on the passenger thwart, and reluctantly climbed into the flimsy craft.

  Marriott, astounded, fought for words.

  ‘Miss Wrangham, you have no business--’

  ‘Cast off quick, I beg you, before papa realizes!’ The bonnet was tipped askew, her hair tousled, eyes sparkled like polished emeralds in a flushed, excited face. She looked enchanting.

  Marriott glanced wildly at the harassed cadet, who grimaced helplessly.

  ‘It were better so, sir,’ was all he said.

  The steersman, seeing his passenger complement filled, heaved on his oar and bade the boatmen pull. Marriott settled on the thwart beside the girl and draped his cloak round her. ‘The point of this absurdity escapes me,’ he said grimly. ‘Should any harm befall you the general will have me broken.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she said gaily. ‘Papa will indeed be angry, but his rages never last - he can, you know, deny me nothing. I vow I could not endure another instant on that stuffy ship, and this’ - eagerly she looked towards the outer surf which thundered close ahead - ‘will be vastly entertaining!’

  Marriott looked back across a widening gap of water, saw a furious face at the Osterley's bulwarks and red gesticulating arms. Lady Wrangham, beside her spouse, wore the resigned expression of a martyr at the stake. Hastily he turned his head, and tried to comfort himself with the reflection that the inward passage, following the rollers’ momentum, was accounted less hazardous than the outward one which met the surf head-on. ‘Hold firm,’ he ordered; and slipped a protective arm about Miss Wrangham’s waist. Did the pliant body nestle against his chest? - probably the lurching of the boat.

  ‘Ya-lee!’

  The masoolah soared like a bird.

  Marriott carried his truant through the shallows. Auburn tresses tickled his cheek, his palm momentarily cradled a yielding bosom; abruptly he altered his grip. He set her on the sand and mopped a dripping face.

  ‘A fortunate crossing; we finish reasonably dry. But the purpose of my mission is already accomplished.’ He pointed seawards: the accommodation boat bucked the inner surf. ‘I had best escort you to the Governor’s house where, no doubt, the general will soon join you.’

  Caroline curtsied. ‘If it so pleases you, sir.’ The ridiculous bonnet had vanished in the surf; damp, disordered hair embraced her ears; the lovely face was radiant, eyes alight. ‘Pray accept my thanks for your indulgence - never have I experienced an adventure so enthralling!’

  Marriott grunted ungraciously, recalling the likely consequence attending the escapade. He paid the masoolah crew and catamaran men, glossy naked bodies squatting round him in an arc, intently watching the fanams trickle from purse to hand. For less than the price of a bottle of porter a dozen men put their lives at risk. He added a buckshee coin or two; and led across the shingle to a cobbled esplanade which skirted St George’s walls. They entered the Sea Gate; heat compressed within the buildings struck their bodies like a blow. The cadet gasped.

  ‘Is this sultriness exceptional, sir?’ he inquired. ‘Upon my word, I have never felt the like!’

  ‘By no means. The seasons vary little on the Coromandel coast - excepting the monsoon months, when humidity is greater. You have undertaken to serve,’ Marriott ended dourly, ‘in a climate that tests endurance.’

  ‘I received a warning when I came on deck at dawn,’ Caroline said cheerfully. ‘The land breeze carried a burning breath like the stench from a slaughterhouse. The stench,’ she added tartly, wrinkling her nose, ‘has in no degree diminished.’

  The sentry at the Governor’s gate saluted; they passed beneath a pillared portico where a door-keeper resplendent in a gold-laced crimson coat listened to Marriott’s orders. A Secretary dressed in snuff-coloured clothes minced across the hallway, opened wide his eyes at Caroline’s beauty, recovered his serenity and gravely inquired their business. Marriott explained the situation. The Secretary bowed, and ushered the girl within. She laid a hand on Marriott’s arm.

  ‘Sir, you have my word no trouble will befall you from this morning’s adventure. The fault was mine, and so I shall tell my father.’

  She disappeared behind a colourful Cantonese tapestry which draped an inner doorway. Marriott beckoned the cadet. ‘Come, sir. We must consult the Fort Major, who will find you quarters in the barracks. Your baggage, I take it, will shortly be brought ashore. I regret I have not the privilege of knowing your name.’

  ‘Henry Todd, sir, lately nominated cadet in the Presidency Army.’

  While they walked the broiling streets Marriott covertly inspected his companion’s strong square frame, square face and obstinate chin, the features oddly craggy for one so young - seventeen years or less, he judged.

  ‘When your quarters are arranged you must find a reliable banian.’

  ‘Banian?’

  ‘A kind of agent - a Moorman. We all have them. He will hire you servants, lend you money, buy you a horse and pay your bills. Every transaction on your behalf earns him a commission, the amount depending on your means, which he can judge exactly. He will cheat your tradesmen lavishly, but seldom swindles his master. You will, if you live long enough, provide him a stipend for life. The banian gambles on the length of his Englishman’s existence.’

  ‘Which, I collect, is often brief?’

  ‘Frequently. The veterans say that if you last five years you will see out twenty. Unreliable, like all old saws - read the epitaphs in our graveyard!’

  They trudged along St Thomé Street. Marriott indicated his house, and hoped that Todd would call on him when he was settled. ‘Though,’ he added, ‘I shall shortly be moving.’ He learned that the cadet aspired within a year or two for an ensign’s commission in the 23rd Madras Native Infantry, a regiment presently stationed in Arcot and commanded by his father.

  ‘Your parent’s interest,’ Marriott commented, ‘should get you a speedy posting. I advise you to exert yourself in that direction, for a cadet is hedged by drill and discipline, and leads a humdrum life.’

  ‘I should not care,’ said Todd stiffly, ‘to let influence promote my advancement.’

  Marriott looked at him askance. Was the lad a prig? ‘Without influence,’ he observed dryly, ‘a Company servant makes a laggardly ascent of the ladder of promotion. Never, Mr Todd, neglect an available patron.’

  They crossed the Parade where Marriott had watched the military execution, deserted now save for a squad of sepoy recruits performing the manual exercises beneath a peepul’s scanty shade, watched incuriously by indolent natives sitting on their haunches. Marriott nodded his head in their direction. ‘At least you will not have to drill in the midday sun - European soldiers stay in barracks after nine o’clock. Tell me,’ he continued, ‘had you much acquaintance with Miss Wrangham during the voyage?’

  ‘She disclosed some slight partiality towards me, and honoured me with her friendship.’ His tone held a hint of smugness.

  ‘She seems a lady of remarkable parts.’

  ‘Miss Wrangham is a paragon!’ the cadet exclaimed fervently. ‘A girl of spirit, yes - but kindly as she is beautiful!’

  The poor devil is badly smitten, Marriott concluded: he has doubtless been at La Wrangham’s beck and call all the way from Tilbury to Madras. And now the lad will have to battle for her favours with every sprig and gallant of the town - including, he determined, Charles Marriott himself.

  He presented his charge to the Fort Major, a testy, liverish captain whose face was scarred by smallpox, escaped thankfully into the street and wandered to his office. He discarded coat and cravat and dropped into a chair. Sharply he urged the servant to invigorate his fanning; and looked morosely at the papers heaping his desk. A letter bearing his add
ress crowned the pile; Marriott broke the seal and read:

  Sir,

  I should have declined your request for Removal in your quarters had I not formed a favourable Character of you: moreover, Sir, I am willing to assist you with all my Power, provided you immediately apply to your Business in a manner different than you have done, and that you will give up your Acquaintances in the Black Town. On these Conditions I shall be prepared to recommend Renewal of your Covenant as a Junior Merchant; and will lend you 200 pagodas for discharge of your gaming Obligations; but I will observe to you that, on forfeiture of your Word, I shall apply to the Board to have you removed, from my Office at least.

  I have the Honour to remain,

  Sir,

  Your obedient Servant,

  Joseph Harley

  Madras,

  March 3rd, 1800

  Marriott exhaled a long, satisfied breath. The old boy has turned up trumps! Who would have thought it? He laid the letter down, and contemplated a rosy future. Freedom from the Fort’s stifling confines, a spacious, airy house on the Adyar’s banks, a load of debt removed from round his neck and prospect of advancement in the Service! Marriott hummed a tune, recognized ‘Nancy Dawson’, and closed his teeth on a memory. The military’s barbaric customs! And now he proposed to share his dwelling with an officer steeped in army tradition, an examplar of all the military virtues. Soldiers and civilians rarely lived together: would it answer? Hitherto Amaury had been merely a companion of his leisure, a comrade of the board at dinner and dice - though lately the gallant captain had become a mildly reproving custodian of his capers in the Black Town, like a hen protecting a vagrant chick. Marriott chuckled at the comparison: anything more unlike that roistering blade was hard to imagine.

  There was also, he remembered gladly, Miss Caroline Wrangham - and he wondered uneasily how that wayward beauty would respond to Amaury’s dashing allure.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hugo Amaury reclined in a rattan chair and sucked his houcca. He wore a cotton shirt, open at the neck, and loose white Musulman trousers; green morocco leather slippers, curled Turk-style at the toes, adorned his feet. From windows on the building’s topmost floor he surveyed a tree-flecked plain rolling in dunes to the Adyar’s mouth; in the roads a forest of topmasts, dimmed by distance and a haze of dust, pricked above the palm trees. Intermittent wind gusts, hot and heavy as the breath from a glowing stove, spilled through the open windows.