Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

“Oh? And just what do you call those little promenades on deck you’ve been indulging in? The men’s scorched eyeballs nearly pop out of their sockets when you go prancing around out there with your dress open to your navel! Persia, I don’t know what’s gotten into you!”

  “Nor I you!” she replied angrily. Then she hurried below to the oven that was her cabin. She would stay there until Zack apologized.

  But she had sweated it out only about ten minutes when she heard the familiar sound of wind filling sail and felt the ship shudder to life around her. She laughed out loud with pure relief and hurried up on deck.

  The ship was alive again, and so was the crew.

  “Stoner, release the prisoners,” she heard the captain order. “We need all hands to get under way. And pass out an extra ration of water. We’ll make Bombay with plenty to spare!”

  That night, when Zack came off watch, he was a changed man. Persia didn’t need an apology—he gave her so much more! He made her wish that this voyage could go on forever. She never wanted to be any farther away from Zack than she was right now. They were everything to each other. The rest of the world had ceased to exist. She loved and was loved in return. That was her total, eternal reality.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Persia leaned over the railing, thinking that she had never seen as lovely a sight as Bombay harbor. Even the caws and shrieks of the black clouds of crows circling over the distant city added their own exotic touch to the scene.

  “March 28, 1847,” she said, smiling. “A new day, a new world!”

  Her eyes swept over the lush green outline of Malabar Hill, along the western shore of Bombay Island. Directly ahead of them lay Prongs Reef and the floating marker and light at the harbor’s entrance.

  Suddenly, the boom of a cannon marred the quiet of the early, golden morning. She jumped, then relaxed as she realized the Madagascar had been spotted from the lighthouse and its arrival duly noted. She spied the harbor pilot’s boat, already on its way to guide them safely into port. The jaunty little craft was painted bright red with a number in black on the bow to identify the pilot. Its lateen-rigged sails flapped prettily in the morning breeze.

  “That’ll be for us.” Zack’s voice came from behind her.

  She turned, stared, and did a double take. “Zack! You look different!”

  He rubbed a big hand over his smooth chin. “The whiskers had to go in this heat. What do you think?”

  She smiled. “I think you are indeed a handsome devil.”

  He reached out to stroke her cheek with his fingertips. “And you, my love, are a cunning liar.”

  “Look over there!” she cried excitedly, pointing to port. “It’s the ancient city. I recognize it from Father’s descriptions and the sketches he made when he was here.” Her eyes swept to starboard, over the palm-fringed shoreline of the island. “Oh, Zack, I can just make out the peaks of the Western Ghat Mountains. The whole scene looks like a painting. It’s too beautiful to be real!”

  He twined one of her curls around his finger, tugging gently to bring her back to face him. “So are you, Persia. So are you.”

  She did look particularly lovely this morning in a white-on-white embroidered frock of Indian cotton. The collar was high and the sleeves full and long, but the tight-fitting bodice displayed her charms to their very best advantage. She had swept her hair up into a red-gold pile of waves, with side curls framing her face and feathery wisps at the back of her neck. Tiny river pearls glowed at her ears, reflecting the iridescence of her delicate skin.

  She offered him a flirtatious smile, knowing he was admiring her costume. “I like your white linen, too. And the sun hat is a nice touch.”

  He tipped his pith helmet to her, then opened his jacket and strutted about in a circle, allowing her to admire every linen-clad inch. “The very height of fashion in Injia, my dear girl!” he teased, successfully imitating the accent of the Britishers who ruled the land.

  “Cap’n Hazzard, sir, the pilot’s ready to board,” Stoner called.

  “Permission to board granted,” Zack answered back. Then to Persia he said, “Duty calls. We’ll be anchoring in the harbor within the hour. Then you and I will go ashore to pay our first calls on the ice merchants.”

  “I’ll be ready,” she promised.

  With the pilot safely on board, as law dictated, they began their slow progress into the crowded harbor. Entering the congested waters was something like threading a needle, Persia thought as they wove their way among ships from every nation, dows, lighters, and houseboats where naked babies crawled about the decks amidst chickens and dogs while wrinkled old grannies watched with alert black eyes.

  They anchored in a choice spot near the waterfront. Ice ships, she knew, were given preferred berths so that their precious cargoes could be unloaded with as much haste as possible. They could expect to have lost about one-third of their merchandise to melting already during the journey. But even at that, ice was so dear in India that it was a profitable cargo at three halfpence a pound.

  Hating to leave her vantage point for an instant, but knowing that Zack would be impatient to get ashore, she hurried below to retrieve her wide-brimmed straw hat, parasol, and white gloves. When Zack saw her come back on deck, he was quite convinced that she would be the prettiest supercargo the ice merchants of Bombay had ever laid eyes on.

  The pilot received his pay of one hundred and ten rupees, then left them. But before Zack and Persia could climb down into their own launch, visitors arrived. The customs house officer, who would be required to live aboard for the duration of the Madagascar’s stay, came up the ladder. He was a short, stocky, jovial sort, who waxed eloquent on Persia’s charms and bowed over her gloved hand longer than Zack considered proper.

  Hardly had the captain and his lovely supercargo finished talking with the customs officer before two Parsees—members of a religious sect who were also Bombay merchants—pulled up in their small boat, bringing mail that had arrived for Persia. There was a letter from her father and one from Europa. Both had been sent by overland mail after her departure, traveling by way of a Cunard steamer to England, then on another boat by way of the Strait of Gibraltar through the Mediterranean to Alexandria, and from there by camel caravan to Suez before sailing on across the Arabian and Red Seas to reach her in Bombay. There was also a third envelope with only her name scrawled across it in unfamiliar handwriting.

  Persia longed to read her letters, but she understood the necessity of first paying her respects to the white-turbaned Parsees. Undoubtedly, the success of her ice-selling mission would depend to no small degree upon this pair of swarthy, softspoken Indians. They introduced themselves as Allbless and Jeejeebhoy.

  “You and the captain will take tea with us later, Madam Blackwell?” invited Jeejeebhoy, the taller of the twosome, bowing subserviently all the while.

  Persia was shocked. Not by his invitation, but because of the way he addressed her. Zack had introduced her to these men as “Miss Whiddington.” How could they know of her proxy marriage?

  “We’ll be happy to.” Zack, frowning, answered when he saw that Persia could not.

  “Then we will expect you around four.” The pair bowed themselves off the ship and departed back to the city.

  “Persia, what’s got into you?” Zack demanded.

  Her face was pale, her hands trembling. “Didn’t you hear what he called me, Zack? How could he know?”

  Zack dismissed her worries with a wave of his hand and a broad smile. “Forget it, darling! As you said, Blackwell has probably received the letter announcing your arrival. News has a way of spreading, even in the far corners of the world. Besides, isn’t your mail addressed that way?”

  “Oh, yes. How silly of me! Hearing him call me that… I don’t know, it just sent a chill through me.”

  “The boat’s ready, Cap’n,” Stoner called.

  As was the nautical custom, Zack waited until Persia, Stoner, and the
steward, Dawkin, were in the longboat before he hopped aboard. The other two men would buy fresh supplies ashore while he and Persia saw to their business. The rest of the crew, even those rowing them in, would not set foot on dry land until all the ice was unloaded.

  Even as the longboat made its way to Buna Bandar, the docking place, half a dozen red-sailed bumboats were on their way out to the ship to try to sell all manner of exotic gewgaws to the Madagascar’s crew. Persia spied some of their merchandise—sandalwood boxes, ivory carvings, fresh dates, even live monkeys.

  The dock was a mob scene. No sooner had Zack leaped to the quay and offered a helping hand to Persia than they were besieged by vendors of all sorts. One shrunken old man with a wispy goatee pressed them to buy his fresh produce—strange, bright-colored fruits like none Persia had ever seen back home in New England. Another offered colorful fabrics by the bolt. And still another, silk and ostrich-feather fans decorated with glistening pearls.

  Zack must have noticed Persia’s eyes sparkling when they lit on these. “Would you like one, darling!” he asked.

  “Oh, Zack, they must be very expensive!”

  He laughed. “There’s hardly a thing around here that could be less dear than feathers, silk, or pearls.” He beckoned to the young merchant. “You there, girl! Let us see your fans.”

  The dark-faced beauty pushed through the crowd and spread her wares before them on a reed mat. Persia couldn’t decide. There were fans of silk and lace, and feathers tinted every color of the rainbow. The attached pearls—from black to gray to pinkish white—all cast a soft glow. Suddenly she noticed an exquisite fan of the palest gray silk. It looked almost silver in the bright sunlight. It was edged with blue-gray pearls and trimmed with delicate lace medallions shot through with silver.

  “That one, girl.” Zack pointed to the very fan Persia had been eyeing. “Kitna?” he demanded, asking how much in the native tongue.

  “One Yanqui dolla’, John!”

  “Oh, Zack, it’s lovely!” Persia enthused. “Thank you!”

  Persia spread her fan and gave it a good wave under her chin. Then she brought it up to cover all but her eyes and offered Zack a slow, seductive wink.

  He chuckled at her. “Now, don’t you go flirting with these hot-blooded Indians, darling. I bought you that to keep you cool. Remember it!”

  Suddenly, Persia’s eyes went beyond Zack’s laughing face to a figure lurking at the edge of a group of men. The others were sailors on shore leave; she could tell by the way they were dressed. They seemed not even to notice the man, so intent were they on puffing at their hubble-bubble pipes.

  The stranger resembled no one else she had seen so far in Bombay. He was robed in white cotton drapes that covered him from head to toe, leaving only his swarthy face showing. She felt a tremor pass through her. She tried to look away but found she couldn’t. His bold gaze held her hypnotized.

  Slowly, the strange man raised one hand toward her as if beckoning her to him. She had taken several steps in his direction—totally against her will—when Zack caught her arm.

  “Persia, where are you going? The customs house is this way. Darling, you must stay close to me. I can’t have you getting lost in this mob. It’s not safe.”

  “Zack, look at that man over there.” She pointed to where he had been, but he was gone. Perplexed, she scanned the crowd. He seemed to have vanished into air.

  “What man?” Zack asked.

  “I know he was there. I saw him!”

  “You’ll see a lot of odd beings before we leave this place. Look at that fellow over there, charming his snake, and that one with the wire-walking rat.” He felt Persia shudder at the sights. “Come along now. Cunningham will be waiting for us.”

  As they inched their way among the throng, Persia kept glancing back over her shoulder. She had the feeling that the man was still there somewhere, staring after her.

  Finally, they turned into the main street that would take them to the customs house. There they would meet with the Tudor Ice Company’s Bombay representative to make arrangements to have the cargo unloaded and taken to the elaborate stone ice house in the heart of town. Packed in rice chaff there, it would be safe from further loss until it was sold.

  The street was jammed with humanity—natives who ranged in color from ebony to coffee, foreign sailors, staid officials of the East India Company, and ever-present sacred cows, plopped down wherever they pleased. The foot traffic flowed like waves parted by a seawall around these unconcerned beasts.

  “We’d make better time if we hired a palanquin,” Zack said, already motioning toward four coolies carrying one of the boxlike conveyances on their shoulders.

  Persia wanted to object. She had finally shaken off the unsettling effect of the strange man’s gaze and was now enjoying the exotic sights all about her. But they were here for a purpose, and in their particular business every moment counted.

  The four thin but muscular men, who wore what appeared to be handkerchiefs about their waists and tableclothes about their heads, stopped before the pair to let down their shouldered carriage. Zack handed Persia inside and then stepped in himself. Curtains on all four sides flapped loosely but kept out some of the dust and noise. When the men took up their heavy burden again, the motion sent Persia sprawling across Zack’s lap. He righted her, laughing. A moment later, they were on their way at a quick, steady trot.

  “There, that’s better,” Zack said with a sigh. “The place is dizzying—all that humanity. It’s like being trapped inside a beehive.” He reached out and fingered the coarse gunny material surrounding them. “I like these curtains, too.”

  Persia was about to comment on his poor taste in yard goods when all of a sudden she understood his true meaning. Before she could open her mouth to say a word, he was kissing her—very deeply, very thoroughly. His kisses always thrilled her, but this one especially so. There was something more exciting than usual about being paid such lavish and intimate attention in the broad light of day, in the middle of a busy city street, even if no one could see them. It made her feel quite wicked, in fact!

  “Hm-m-m,” he sighed. “I wish it was farther to the customs house and this bower of ours was a bit larger.”

  She stroked her folded fan across his smooth cheek seductively. “Sorry, my love. You’ll have to wait for the rest.”

  He cupped her breast and squeezed playfully. “Why, darling? I could pay our four good fellows a few extra rupees to carry us off to some secluded spot under a banyan tree and leave us there for a time.”

  She sniffed haughtily at his suggestion. “And meanwhile, in this heat, we would be losing hard cash to severe meltage!”

  He groaned. “Spoken like a true supercargo.”

  The customs house was very British in character, as were most of the newer buildings of the island city, all cool stone and tall windows. While Zack went to file the required papers of entry, Persia waited in an antechamber for Tudor’s agent, Mr. Cunningham, to receive them. She was glad for the time alone to read her mail.

  Her father’s letter was all excitement over her trip and good wishes on her new venture. He meant, of course, her sale of the ice, not her marriage to Cyrus Blackwell. It was plain to Persia that he was receiving a vicarious thrill from her adventures. She was glad. She made a mental note to write him immediately after dinner tonight with full details of everything she had seen and done so far in Bombay.

  Europa’s letter reflected her usual state—complaining about the cold, the children, Seton’s job, and yet another pregnancy. Persia smiled at the thought of being presented with one more nephew. It certainly looked as if her brother-in-law had set about the task of populating the vast reaches of the state of Maine!

  The third letter chased the first two from her mind, leaving her numb and frightened. The note was brief—to the point.

  Elephanta Island

  March 21, 1847

  My dutiful wife,

/>   I have been made aware of your impending arrival. Brother Osgood has written, explaining to me that you are not the perfect bride he hoped to send. But we will not study on evil, you and I. Whatever sins are on your soul shall be purged. I will see to it, personally.

  I plan to collect you within the week. See that all your affairs are in order promptly.

  Your Husband and Savior,

  Brother Cyrus

  Persia was still staring at the letter in her trembling hands when Zack came into the chamber. He hurried to her, sure that she had received terrible news from home by the pallor of her cheeks and the look of horror on her face.

  “Darling, what is it?” he asked.

  “Oh, Zack, he knows!”

  “Who knows what, Persia?”

  “Cyrus Blackwell,” she whispered. “He knows I’m here.”

  “Well, of course, you expected that he would, didn’t you? You told me yourself that Reverend Osgood intended to write to him.”

  She looked at Zack, and her eyes were wild with fear. “But he knows about us!”

  “All the better. We’ll make fast work of explaining to him that you plan to seek an annulment and marry me.” He was trying to treat the matter lightly, to reassure her, but it wasn’t working.

  “No, I mean he knows that I’m not a virgin. He says he will purge the sins from my soul! What does he mean?” She was nearly hysterical now, trembling all over.

  “Darling, darling,” Zack soothed. “You mustn’t be frightened. It doesn’t mean anything because I won’t allow you to see him. Let me read that.”

  Zack took the note from her and scanned the page quickly. “Damn the man! What kind of pompous, unfeeling creature can he be to write such tripe to his wife?”

  “You may come into Mr. Cunningham’s office now,” the agent’s male clerk announced to them.

  Zack crushed Blackwell’s note in his fist and crammed it into his pocket. “Come along, Persia. And don’t worry about a thing, I’ll take care of this matter.”