The Moghul Part 11

"And the coconuts eventually float out to sea?"

"A few, yes. But mostly they are stolen by wicked boys, who swim after them. These few perhaps their G.o.ds saved for themselves."

Hawksworth examined the bobbing b.a.l.l.s anew. The coconut was yet another legend of the Indies. Stories pa.s.sed that a man could live for days on the liquor sealed within its straw-matted sh.e.l.l.

The moon chased random clouds, but still the riverbank was illuminated like day. The damp air was still, amplifying the music of the night--the buzz of gnats, the call of night birds, even the occasional trumpet of a distant elephant, pierced the solid wood line on either side of the narrowing river. Hawksworth tasted the dark, alert, troubled. Where are the human sounds? Where are the barges I saw plying the river mouth during the day? I sense an uneasiness in the pilot, an alarm he does not wish me to see. d.a.m.n the moon. If only we had dark.

"Karim." Hawksworth spoke softly, his eyes never long from the dense rampart of trees along the riverbank.

"What do you wish, Captain?"

"Have you ever traveled up the river before by moonlight?"

"Once, yes, many years ago. When I was young and burning for a woman after our s.h.i.+p had dropped anchor in the bay. I was only a _karwa_ then, a common seaman, and I thought I would not be missed. I was wrong. The _nakuda_ discovered me in Surat and reclaimed my wage for the entire voyage. It was a very hungry time."

"Was the river quiet then, as it is now?"

"Yes, Captain, just the same." Though Karim looked at him directly, the darkness still guarded his eyes.

"Mackintosh." Hawksworth's voice cut the silence. "Issue the muskets."

His eyes swept along the sh.o.r.e, and then to the narrow bend they were fast approaching. Karim is lying, he told himself; at last the pilot has begun to play false with us. Why? What does he fear?

"Aye aye, Cap'n." Mackintosh was instantly alert. "What do you see?"

The sudden voices startled Elkington awake, and his nodding head snapped erect. "The d.a.m.n'd Moors have settl'd in for the night. If you'd hold your peace, I could join 'em. I'll need the full o' my wits for hagglin' with that subtle lot o' thieves come the morrow. There's no Portugals. E'en the night birds are quiet as mice."

"Precisely," Hawksworth shot back. "And I would thank you to take a musket, and note its flintlock is full-c.o.c.ked and the flashpan dry."

Then he continued, "Mackintosh, strike the sail. And, Karim, take the tiller."

The pinnace was a sudden burst of activity, as seamen quickly hauled in the sail and began to check the prime on their flintlocks. With the sail lashed, their view was un.o.bstructed in all directions. The tide rus.h.i.+ng through the narrows of the approaching bend carried the pinnace ever more rapidly, and now only occasional help was needed from the oarsmen to keep it aright.

A cloud drifted over the moon, and for an instant the river turned black. Hawksworth searched the darkness ahead, silent, waiting. Then he saw it.

_ "On the boards!"_

A blaze of musket fire spanned the river ahead, illuminating the blockade of longboats. b.a.l.l.s sang into the water around them while others splattered off the side of the pinnace or hissed past the mast.

Then the returning moon glinted off the silver helmets of the Portuguese infantry.

As Karim instinctively cut the pinnace toward the sh.o.r.e, Portuguese longboats maneuvered easily toward them, muskets spewing sporadic flame. The English oarsmen positioned themselves to return the fire, but Hawksworth stopped them.

Not yet, he told himself, we'll have no chance to reload. The first round has to count. And d.a.m.n my thoughtlessness, for not bringing pikes. We could have . . .

The pinnace lurched crazily and careened sideways, hurtling around broadside to the longboats.

A sandbar. We've struck a d.a.m.ned sandbar. But we've got to face them with the prow. Otherwise . . .

As though sensing Hawksworth's thoughts, Karim seized

an oar and began to pole the pinnace's stern off the bar. Slowly it eased around, coming about to face the approaching longboats. No sooner had the pinnace righted itself than the first longboat glanced off the side of the bow, and a grapple caught their gunwale.

Then the first Portuguese soldier leaped aboard--and doubled in a flame of sparks as Mackintosh shoved a musket into his belly and pulled the trigger. As the other English muskets spoke out in a spray of pistol shot, several Portuguese in the longboat pitched forward, writhing.

Mackintosh began to bark commands for reloading.

"Half-c.o.c.k your muskets. Wipe your pans. Handle your primers. Cast about to charge . . ."

But time had run out. Two more longboats bracketed each side of the bow. And now Portuguese were piling aboard.

"d.a.m.n the muskets," Hawksworth yelled. "Take your swords."

The night air came alive with the sound of steel against steel, while each side taunted the other with unintelligible obscenities. The English were outnumbered many to one, and slowly they found themselves being driven to the stern of the pinnace. Still more Portuguese poured aboard now, as the pinnace groaned against the sand.

Hawksworth kept to the front of his men, matching the poorly trained Portuguese infantry easily. Thank G.o.d there's no more foot room, he thought, we can almost stand them man for man . . .

At that moment two Portuguese pinned Hawksworth's sword against the mast, allowing a third to gain footing and lunge. As Hawksworth swerved to avoid the thrust, his foot crashed through the thin planking covering the keel, bringing him down. Mackintosh yelled a warning and leaped forward, slas.h.i.+ng the first soldier through the waist and sending him to the bottom of the pinnace, moaning. Then the quartermaster seized the other man by the throat and, lunging like a bull, whipped him against the mast, snapping his neck.

Hawksworth groped blindly for his sword and watched as the third soldier poised for a mortal sweep. Where is it?

Good G.o.d, he'll cut me in half.

Suddenly he felt a cold metal object pressed against his hand, and above the din he caught Humphrey Spencer's high-pitched voice, urging.

It was a pocket pistol.

Did he prime it? Does he know how?

As the Portuguese soldier began his swing, Hawksworth raised the pistol and squeezed. There was a dull snap, a hiss, and then a blaze that melted the soldier's face into red.

He flung the pistol aside and seized the dying Portuguese's sword. He was armed again, but there was little advantage left. Slowly the English were crowded into a huddle of the stern. Cornered, abaft the mast, they no longer had room to parry. Hawksworth watched in horror as a burly Portuguese, his silver helmet askew, braced himself against the mast and drew back his sword to send a swath through the English.

Hawksworth tried to set a parry, but his arms were pinned.

He'll kill half the men. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d will . . .

A bemused expression unexpectedly illuminated the soldier's face, a smile with no mirth. In an instant it trans.m.u.ted to disbelief, while his raised sword clattered to the planking. As Hawksworth watched, the Portuguese's hand began to work mechanically at his chest. Then his helmet tumbled away, and he slumped forward, motionless but still erect. He stood limp, head c.o.c.ked sideways, as though distracted during prayer.

Why doesn't he move? Was this all some bizarre, senseless jest?

Then Hawksworth saw the arrows. A neat row of thin bamboo shafts had pierced the soldier's Portuguese armor, riveting him to the mast.

A low-pitched hum swallowed the sudden silence, as volleys of bamboo arrows sang from the darkness of the sh.o.r.e. Measured, deadly.

Hawksworth watched in disbelief as one by one the Portuguese soldiers around them crumpled, a few firing wildly into the night. In what seemed only moments it was over, the air a cacophony of screams and moaning death.

Hawksworth turned to Karim, noting fright in the pilot's eyes for the very first time.

"The arrows." He finally found his voice. "Whose are they?"

"I can probably tell you." The pilot stepped forward and deftly broke away the feathered tip on one of the shafts still holding the Portuguese to the mast. As he did so, the other arrows snapped and the Portuguese slumped against the gunwale, then slipped over the side and into the dark water. Karim watched him disappear, then raised the arrow to the moonlight. For an instant Hawksworth thought he saw a quizzical look enter the pilot's eyes.

Before he could speak, lines of fire shot across the surface of the water, as fire arrows came, slamming into the longboats as they drifted away on the tide. Streak after streak found the hulls and in moments they were torches. In the flickering light, Hawksworth could make out what seemed to be grapples, flas.h.i.+ng from the sh.o.r.e, pulling the floating bodies of the dead and dying to anonymity. He watched spellbound for a moment, then turned again toward the stern.