Chapter 2

With so many hired stevedores, and those working for less than anyone could credit, the cargo was finally landed in their warehouse and factory ashore. Twigg and Wythy went with it, thank the good Lord, to establish their putative trading firm. Telesto rode higher out of the water. Firewood and water were brought aboard and stowed away. A distillery was established at the factory to supply them daily. Crates of chickens, small flocks of goats and sheep were hoisted aboard for fresh meat.

The crew complained about the lack of juicy fresh beef, no matter the explanations that cattle were a protected species to Hindoos. The passengers had left the first day, Burgess Chiswick included. They’d shared one last bumper of claret and then he was off to Fort William for his assignment with the East India Company’s army. There were some more chores that Captain Ayscough wished performed before shore leave would be allowed. The ship was smoked and scoured below decks, the bilges pumped clean and the many rats that had come aboard with the cargo hunted down and dispatched, or at least thinned out. Rigging had to be re-rove to replace spliced or storm-raveled cordage; sails had to be patched. Cosmetics about the look of the ship could go hang for a while, but she must be made ready in all respects to go to sea at a moment’s notice before the hands were to be allowed a monumental rut or two.

Finally, after six days of labors, Ayscough summoned all hands aft and announced that he was pleased enough to let them have leave.

“Now this is a rupee” Tom Wythy said, counting out coins on his desk in the factory offices ashore, while Alan fidgeted and wriggled with impatience. “Worth about fifteen rupees to the pound sterling. You run across a gold coin, that’s a mohur. Same as a guinea.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Think of a rupee as a strong shilling. Now these are annas. Like pence, but sixteen to the rupee. Have you got that so far, sir?”

“Aye, I think so, Mister Wythy,” Alan almost groaned.

“And pyce are like ha’pennies—four to the anna. You’ll be amazed how cheap things are here in Calcutta.”

“How much—I say kit nahT Alan recited. “Bahut mehanga is too much. God help me if the bastard wants to haggle, though, I’m flat out of the lingo.”

“Round the port, Fort William and the European cantonment, ye’ll find enough bazaar-wallahs and bunniahs who savvy English,” Wythy growled. “Their stores and stalls’d die if they couldn’t. Mind now, ye’ll be safer not goin’ into the native quarters without a guide or bearer. Yih achcha jaga naheen, sahib! A no good place, ‘specially for aferinghee such as y’self. End up with yer purse lifted, poxed to the eyebrows by some curcfc-whore, or knifed in an alley by some bud-mashes.”

“The third officer and I, and my man Cony, will go together, sir,” Alan assured him. “Swords for all, and a pocket pistol each.”

“Good thinking,” Wythy allowed. “Well, ye’re on yer own, God help ye. Enjoy.”

* * * *

Enjoy, Alan did! Though for the first few minutes, he wasn’t sure he could walk. He’d not been off a ship’s deck for over six months, rocketing from beam to beam in storms, permanently heeled over in strong winds, and used to the motion of a ship. Even during their brief port stays, Telesto still snubbed at her cables, lifted and rolled gently to tide or off-shore breezes, and heavy as she was, was never still.

Once outside, they’d headed up one of the major thoroughfares, aiming for a grove of monstrous trees they couldn’t recognize, anxious for some shade, but they simply couldn’t attain them.

The land was so still, yet it seemed to heave and roll, to yaw to windward like a ship with too much weather-helm! Alan found himself paying off to leeward, staggering and shambling as if he’d just put down half a dozen bottles of wine. Colin McTaggart and Cony were not much help, either. Either they were staggering on the opposite tack, crossing under his hawse and threatening to trip him up, or they were bearing down on each other in collision.

Holding on to each other to raft up for mutual support wasn’t such a good idea, either, for they tugged in opposite directions even standing still!

“God, ‘elp me, Mister Lewrie, sir!” Cony wailed. “H’an’t nivver been land-sick afore, but h’it’s acomin’ over me ‘ellish strong, damme’f h’it h’ain’t!”

“Perhaps if we closed our eyes,” McTaggart suggested, his dark tan turning very pale. “Noo, that’s nae the way.”

Alan had tried that, but as soon as he did, the canals of his ears began to swirl like milk in a butter-churn, making him feel as if he were spiraling out of the sky like a well-shot duck!

“Can’t be the cholera, or malaria, could it?” Alan paled.

“Nae sa soon, surely not!” McTaggart sighed. “An ale shop up yonder. Let’s hae us a sit-doon, for the love o’ God!”

A few milds, and some time safely ensconsed in solid chairs seemed to help abate the reeling.

“Looks as if we’re not the only ones suffering,” Alan pointed out. Three hands off another ship were short-tacking up the walks in front of the European shops on the far side of the street, careering from storefront to the verge of the curbing in a series of short tacks from beam to beam quick as a regatta of tiny pleasure boats on the Thames. One grizzled bosun followed them; older and wiser to the predicament, he trailed the fingers of his right hand along the buildings for a reference point, groping like a blind man.

They espied several others who did not suffer mal de terre as badly, these bucketing along normally as any other pedestrian, but with the rolling gait of a long-passage sailorman.

Once the symptoms abated somewhat, they found their tailor, a darzee named Gupta, who measured them and ran up their requirements. Light, locally loomed cotton shirts, duck waist-coats light as number 8 serge de Nimes sailcloth for use in the softest weathers. He could supply cummerbunds to wrap about their waists, which he assured them was a healthy thing to do, purvey hats in European styles made of tightly woven straw that let their scalps breathe, but kept off the cruel sun.

Alan fingered a bolt of cloth, a very light, almost metallic mid-blue fabric that shone richly as the light struck it. Gupta went into raptures, assuring him it would make a coat as fine as any rajah wore, rich as the Great Moghul himself in distant Delhi, and only “paintis, burra-sahib!” Only thirty-five rupees, heroic as Alan’s stature was. Brass buttons extra, of course. Alan knocked him down to thirty rupees, and fabric-covered buttons, and ordered more in silver-grey, and pale blue. Two pounds sterling each for a coat, he marveled, that a titled lord would gladly shell out fifty guineas for back in London, if he could get it!

He outfitted Cony with a straw hat, cummerbund and lighter cotton shirts, and a dark blue duck jacket to take the place of his wool sailor’s jacket. Brass buttons one rupee extra, of course.

Then they were off for a tour of the bazaar.

“My God, it truly is Puck’s Fair!” Alan exclaimed. It was as grand a sight everywhere he looked as the most intriguing raree-shows he had ever paid to see back home in England, and it was all free to the eye here!

There were rickety stalls spilling over with flower garlands and necklaces, with bundles of blooms the like of which he had never seen or smelled. There were ivory carvers to watch, wood carvers to admire. Strange, multi-armed little statues in awkward dance poses to haggle over. Rug merchants and weavers sewing dhurries from Bengali cotton, or imported fur. Persian or Turkey carpets down from the highlands of the northwest with their eye-searing colors and intricate designs.

In another corner were grouped the brass and copper wares: here gem cutters, there gold and silversmiths. In between there were stalls heaped with fruits, vegetables and livestock. Now and then, there would be a cooking stall with the most enticing steams and spices wafting into their parched nostrils. Doves and snipe, ducks and wild fowl, chickens flapping as they hung upside down by one leg from overhead poles prior to sale.

There were pet birds in cages, colorful and noisy. Monkeys on leashes. And there were elephants actually being ridden by a man! Some working-plain, but a rare few painted with symbols and caparisoned as rich as a medieval knight’s steed, adrape in silks and satins, real gold tassels and silver medals, brocades with little mirrors winking from knitted rosettes, and crowned with feathered plumes and bejewelled silk caps. And camels swaying under heavy loads!

There were sword-swallowers and sword-dancers beguiling the shuffling throngs for tossed money. Snake charmers tootling on flutes as they swayed in unison with deadly cobras. There were jugglers and acrobats, magicians and dancers, some young boys as beautiful as virgin brides who pirouetted to the enthusiastic clapping and cheers of a circle of onlookers, ankle bangles and bells jingling, with their eyes outlined lasciviously with kohl. There were girls in tight bodices and loose, gauzy skirts with their midriffs bare, the skirts and the gauze head-dresses flying out behind them as they danced, showing more to the amazed and love-starved eyes of him and his companions than most husbands would ever get to see of their wives back home in England!

There were puppet shows, the rajah and ranee version of Punch and Judy. There were groups of singers, street-theatre troupes up on flimsy stages ranting some historical or religious dramas. Or they might have been comedies—Alan couldn’t tell.

And India wasn’t all of a piece, either. Calcutta was a rich trading town. So down from the mountains inland, there were Afridis and Pathans, Nepalis and ancient Aryans, Persian-looking Moghuls, all with their pyjammy trousers stuffed into ornamented boots with love locks dangling from beneath their puggarees. They bore curved swords and knives with little bells jingling from their hilts. Poor zamindars in town to sell their produce, rich landowners shopping for bargains among the imported European items. Hindoos and Muslims, Jains, Sikhs, Parsees and the rare Buddhist. In time, Alan might learn to tell the difference between them, as well as the difference between the Bengali majority and the visiting Dravidians, Mahrattas, Dogras, the people from Assam and Nagaland to the east, the Tamils of the southeast and the harsher people who hailed from the Oudh north of the Vindhaya Hills, the great dividing line between permanently conquered India, and semi-autonomous India that the Aryans and the Moghuls had never been able to rule for long.

“Worth the voyage, I swear,” Alan exclaimed as they sat in the shade of a tree, munching on dates, sugared almonds and pistachios.

“Aye, ‘tis a rare land, I’ll grant,” McTaggart agreed as he essayed his first banana, after watching the natives to see if one took the bright yellow husk off first, or ate it entire. Colin was Calvinist-Presbyterian dour most of the time, over-educated like most Scots compared to their English counterparts who thought that too much intelligence was a dangerous thing, but could be nudged to enthusiasm now and again, enough to prove that he was human. “But with food sae cheap, how do ye explain sae many mendicants?”

Besides the exotic pleasures of the bazaar, there was the irritation of seeing so many poor, so many beggars minus a limb, an eye, covered with running ulcers. So many people barely clad in a ragged, filthy dhotee and puggaree who couldn’t even afford the cheap but well-made sandals the mochees nimbly cut from their sheets of leather.

“Speaking of mendicants,” Alan said, sighing, as a pair of beggars appeared near them, one limping grandly on a crutch, one leg gone, and the other sightless—one eye rolling madly and the other flat gone, with the empty socket exposed.

“Naheen, yer buggers!” Cony snapped, feeling protective of his people. “Juldi jao!” And the beggars sheered off. Under the amputee’s robes, Alan could almost spot a leg and a foot, bound to the man’s backsides. “Fakin’ h’it. Mister Lewrie. Fakin ... ‘r maimed o’purpose.”

“God’s teeth, Cony, where’d you pick up such mastery of the language!” Alan marveled.

“Been talkin’ t’ that servant, Ajit Roy, sir,” Cony replied, flushing. “Y’pick up a word’r two ‘ere an’ there, ya do, sir. An’ Ajit done warned me h’about some o’ the shams they kin get up to, sir. Lame their own kiddies t’ make ‘em look pitiable, worse’n Midland gypsies.”

“But what did ye say ta them?” McTaggart inquired.

“Naheen, that’s ‘no,’ plain as day, sir. Juldi jao is kinda like ‘bugger off,’ sir,” Cony replied, getting sheepish.

“Ye’r a man o’ many parts, Cony,” McTaggart said, praising with an appreciative chuckle. “Lucky our Lewrie is, ta hae yer services.”

Long as I don’t have to pay him more than I do already, Alan thought, chiming in with verbal appreciation as well.

Cony’s paltry vocabulary came in handy once more on their way back to Fort William’s wide maidan, the drill ground, and the quieter regions of the European quarter. Frankly, after wandering about the bazaar and its many twists and turns, they were lost.

They could see one of the fort’s ramparts down the length of a narrow, meandering lane of small two-story mud houses, and decided to take a shortcut. Music was more prominent in this quarter. Sitars and flutes, palms beating alien rhythms on madals that Alan couldn’t quite get the gist of no matter how hard he tried. The music was mildly irritating to a European ear, but oddly pleasing after a little while. One more wonder to be savored of this grand experience paid for with so much labor, terror, drudgery and misery at sea—savored for its difference even if it had been noxious.

Several girls leaned out of doorways along the narrow street and came out to greet them, making the two-handed gesture of greeting and bowing gracefully to them.

“Namaste, burra-sahibs. Namaste!”

“Namaste,” Alan replied, feeling foolish giving them the two hands at brow level just to be polite, encumbered as he was with his little basket of nuts and fruits.

“Hamare ghalee ana, achcha, din, “* one lovely maiden intoned, giving him an appraising grin. Milk-coffee brown, not a minute above eighteen or so, bounteous breasts bound in by a snug sateen minijacket, bangles on her wrists and ankles, midriff tapering to tininess above taut but womanly hips contained in a sash and series of gauzy skirts. Her hair was long, loose and fly-away-curly under a gauze chudder head-cloth that hung to her hips, weighted down with little gold coins. “Mere sath chalenghe, burra-sahib?”** she cooed.

“Good God, Lewrie, ye dinna think ...” McTaggart almost strangled in shocked prudery as the girl and her equally lovely compatriots wriggled their hips slow and sultry, comfirming their suspicions.

“Whores, aye they are, Colin. Bit broad in the stern-quarters for my liking,” Alan replied, appraising them coolly. “And damn near strangle a man with those stout little legs of theirs. Suppose it’s the fashion in the East. Still...”

“Man, ye canna be considerin’ . ..” McTaggart gargled, turning red as a throttled turnip.

“Saat rupee, burra-sahib,” the girl whispered invitingly.

‘”A’s seven o’ them Hindoo shillin’s, sir,” Cony supplied in an even voice, feeling in his cummerbund for loose change between the folds. That little maid back in London had had a powerful effect on him. “Might be a bit steep, sir.”

“And peppered wi’ the pox ta her very brows!” McTaggart gasped. “Ye may count on it. Tell her ‘No thank ye’!”

“Ham bahut kaam hai, girl,” Cony told her. “We’re busy, don’t ya know? But ...”

*”Good day, come into our street.” Traditional whores’ greeting.

**”Will you come with me, great lord?”

“Not to my taste, Cony. However, she might be to yours,” Alan allowed. “We could meet you at the darzee’s.”

“Thankee, sir,” Cony replied, brightening. “Main phir laut kar ahoongaa. Be back later, girl. Teen rupee? Three, darlin’? Make it easy on a poor sailor.”

“Chha rupee,” the girl demanded, and she wouldn’t go any lower than six, much as Cony wheedled “panch” or “chaar”—five or four.

Cony finally sighed and they proceeded on down the street, accompanied by the derisive shouts of the spurned girl. “Cutch-admi! Banchuts! Sastaa banchuts! Jahntee!”*

“None too thrilled, sounds like,” Alan said with a grin, enjoying himself hugely.

“What’s she saying?”

“From the sound of it, I’d say it’s something close to ‘cheap bastards,’ Mister McTaggart. Right, Cony?”

“Ajit, ‘e didn’t learn me none o’ that, sir,” Cony admitted. ‘”Spect I’d better ‘ave me another lesson’r two.”

* * * *

They got back to the docks and the factor’s offices just after midday, glad for the coolness of the mud-bricked walls and thick tile roof. Wythy had told them most white men took up the practice of napping through the heat of the afternoon and not stirring out until the sun was beginning to descend below the lowest yard-arms. To one so lazy as Lewrie if left to his own devices, it sounded like a marvelous invention. He had just found a bale of cotton on which to doze off when Burgess Chiswick came to look him up.

“Damme, but you look hellish dashing,” Alan said in greeting. Chiswick was now clad in a red serge coat with broad white turnback lapels and cuffs, the uniform coat of the East India Company, with many figured buttonholes and brass buttons. A gorget of officer’s rank hung on his upper breast, and each shoulder bore a silvered chainmail patch of rank, which could also turn a swordcut from above. “An ensign in ‘John Company’ now, are you?”

“A captain, no less, Alan!” Burgess preened. “In charge of the light company of our battalion. Can you imagine it?”

“By God, how bloody grand for you!” Alan laughed, shaking his hand warmly. “Here now, do I dine you out tonight in celebration, or is it your treat to ‘wet down’ your promotion?”

*”Poor [excuses for] men! Scum! Cheap scum! Oh, one pubic-hairs!”

“Oh, I’ve already been dined in at our mess,” Burgess replied, fanning himself with his black cocked hat. “Good bunch of rogues, they are, let me tell you. Settled into my quarters. Been swotting up my Hindee with my bearer, Nandu. I’m the only white officer in the company, you know. Rest are natives. God, you should dine at my bungalow. My own private bloody house, if you can feature it! And cheap at the price, too. Whole squad of servants. Well, I share it with another officer, but it’s so damned huge! You must see it. Had a chance to get leave yet?”

“Just this morning, and more to come once the sun’s down tonight. Cony and I spotted a little street near here full of whores. Thought I might go back . ..”

“Cutch-whores,” Burgess sniffed, having picked up the language awfully fast, a lot faster than Alan had. “Fessenden, the other captain I share the house with, has three native girls in his bibikhana. His own bloody harem! Rent clean un’s cheaper by the month than an hour or two with the public girls! Or just buy ‘em outright.”

“By God, I could get to love the East Indies!” Alan exclaimed in delight, knocked back on his heels by the possibilities.

“But, why I’m here. Met my battalion major when I was dined in, and he’s asked me to supper at his bungalow this evening. And he extends an invitation to you as well.”

“Now why the devil would he do that for me?” Alan wondered.

“I mentioned your name whilst I was giving my record,” Burgess replied. “That business at Yorktown, the siege and our escape in those barges you cobbled into sea-worthy boats came up, and once he heard your name, he was dead keen on hearing the whole thing, start to finish. And when I told him you were fourth officer in the ship that brought me out here, he perked up sharp as a fox-hound, damned near ordered me to bring you round.”

“Stap me if that don’t sound hellish like somebody in this world thinks I’m famous for something,” Alan exclaimed, beaming, still a little bemused by the whole thing, but eager for a chance to shine with his betters—and a shot at free victuals. God knew he’d had little of either in the last year. “So who is this fellow?”

“Major Sir Hugo Willoughby,” Burgess informed him. “He was once in the 4^th Regiment of Foot, the King’s Own. Knighted after Gibraltar in the Seven Years’ War. Can you imagine a hero such as he taking service with ‘John Company’?”

“Oh,” Alan replied weakly, positively shivering with dread. No, it can’t be him, not out here, he thought.

“Heard of him, have you?”

“We’ve met,” Alan allowed, turning pale. Has to be some imposter using the name, some poseur who can pull the sham off for a safe, profitable billet out here in the back of the beyond.

“Back in London, or during the war in the Caribbean?”

“London,” Alan admitted.

“Know him well, then? I say, Alan, you look a trifle ...” Burgess pried, his suspicions aroused by Lewrie’s sudden discomposure.

“Well enough, I suppose, Burgess,” Alan confessed. "See, unless there's two of 'em in this world, he's my bloody father."