Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (16 page)

Ram was still drowsing in the gig when Feldwebel Czappan's bark told that the men were falling in for the daily drill. He went below to his stifling cabin, where he spruced himself before hurrying back to stand under the poop's break until Ritter should appear.

When the oberleutnant did arrive, the feldwebel called the men to attention, advanced stifHy to Ram and reported all present. In turn. Ram marched to Ritter, bowed and reported the half-company present. In reverse order the command was relayed for drill to commence. Czappan, assisted by Sergeant Kempny, exercised the fully equipped men for an hour. Ritter and Ram stood under the poop's slight shade, scrutinizing each evolution, the slightest nod or even a frown, bringing a sergeant's halberd across some unattentive private's shoulders.

At last the exhausted men were dismissed and clamored around the water butt. Ram went below and returned with his two rapiers, the parting gift of Gaston who had said: "For a hundred years a

Villebonne has owned these. Now an Anstruther will do them honor."

Today, as always when the weather allowed, he would practice with them, their buttons firmly fixed. Czappan awaited him. The grizzled Czech, far the best swordsman aboard, was delighted whenever the Herr Leutnant honored him with a bout.

Stripped to the waist, they set to. Now almost eighteen and greyhound lean. Ram no longer found his blade too long for comfort. Another year, he felt, and he'd have his full strength.

"Touche!" He acknowledged a slight blow above his right nipple.

The feldwebel grinned politely. "If my officer permits, he opened himself by a small inattention. It's four days since I was last able to touch him. Now the left hand, eh?"

Ram was using this other-hand play so that both wrists would be strengthened equally. This time his point slid under the sergeant's guard and dabbed a white mark below his heart.

"Touche!" Czappan admitted, panting, "Ach, my officer, age gives way to youth. Soon I'll never be able to touch you—I, who once displayed my skill before the Emperor himself,"

Reeking with sweat, they went forward, where Ram's temporary servant, Beyer, flung buckets of water over them. While they were dressing, the tide turned, and once more the ship got under way.

Ram regained his old place in the beakhead and watched the distant shores open until the vessel seemed to be entering a wide strait. Small craft of new and exotic rig became more frequent: dhows, dingees, feluccas, junks from China, many-oared galleys from Borneo and the Arabian Sea. Both shores were dotted with villages, dominated by temples or mosques and swarming with people, dragonfly-like in their bright-hued clothes.

The banks drawing closer until they were barely a mile apart, the Ostend ship sailed slowly up the teeming river until the blood-red sun set, when she anchored, to swing with the tide, her lanterns throwing streaks of red, gold and silver on the waters.

At dawn she continued upstream, now towed by native boats, her poles almost bare since barely a breath of wind stirred, A flurry of signals was exchanged with the guard fort at Falta, above which flew the British Honorable East India Company's flag.

Next afternoon UEsperance fired a three-gun salute and anchored

off Calcutta, the H.E.I.C. headquarters in Bengal. Fort William's guns answered, and soon a barge put off from the Water Gate.

Ram, standing with Ritter before their ranked men in the waist, saw that with the port officials in the barge were two redcoats of the H.E.I.C.'s private army, and he wondered why he hadn't had the wit to apply for a commission in it himself, after he'd failed to get another in the Royal Army.

The visitors were piped aboard and mounted to the quarterdeck, where they were awaited by the factors and the ship's captain.

"Herr Leutnant!" came a summons from van Hoven, and at once Ram ran up the ladder and bowed to the assembled group.

"You speak English?" demanded the senior army officer, a captain.

"I am English. Servant, sir."

"Huh! Then, b'God, you're a damned traitor! I've a mind to haul ye ashore and throw you into the Black Hole."

"What?" Ram was stunned. Then anger flared. "The man who calls me traitor must answer for it! I'm an Austrian officer."

"A Parliament Act forbids Britons to serve foreign companies in India," the other blustered. "Also, all ships not duly authorized are interlopers and subject to capture. Tell these men that!"

When he did, consternation swept the Ostenders. So Ram took it upon himself to demand: "How can we be interlopers when we sail under the passport of Prince Eugene of Savoy? D'ye think to keep all India for yourselves? What of the Dutch, French and the Portuguese? Are they interlopers?"

"Why does a trading ship carry troops?" the captain countered. "Are ye marines or do ye intend a settlement here?"

Ram let van Hoven answer that, but when he had translated the reply, the Englishman grew so furious he threatened to turn the fort's guns on the ship. In turn, Ritter, who had come up from the waist, begged permission to shoot down this insolent English dog.

At last tempers cooled. Eugene's passport was shown and the captain, whose name was Rale, admitted it seemed valid. He even explained that all the European companies were plagued by individual traders of many nations who, seeking only quick profits, made bargains with every petty rajah. Then they usually broke their pacts and sailed away, leaving behind native hatred for all Europeans.

He ended his half apology with a further threat to Ram. "As for you, the H.E.I.C. has control over all Britons in Hind. So should ye drop us a word now and then of these foreigners' plans, it might go in your favor. Understand?"

"Aye," Ram bowed disarmingly. "If I play traitor to them, I'll be a good Briton." He asked van Hoven's leave to quit the deck.

"First you will insist our guest tries some of our schnapps," the Dutchman ordered. "When bumpers are raised, tempers ease."

Ram delivered the invitation but, still ruffled, would have left had he not heard a whispered, "Wait!" and saw Rale's ensign winking at him. He winked back and, when the rest had gone below to the great cabin, the two drew together.

"Ned Machin." The visitor held out a hand. "Don't take Rale too hard. Ambitious and liverish both. Been out here overlong, with too little glory and too much Madeira in his belly."

Ram laughed, his temper eased. "Glad you told me. Big as he is, I was ready to call him out. Traitor, bedamned!"

"But it's true, you know. I mean, the H.E.I.C. persuaded Parliament to pass the act. The Dutch and French had lured too many company servants away with better pay." When he learned that Ram had not only fought at Belgrade but was a Flanders veteran, he groaned enviously. "Ged, I'm twenty-two, with three years out here, and all I've done is mount guard and drill sepoys."

"Sepoys? You mean native soldiers?"

"Aye. Madrassies, we have here—from the Coromandel Coast. Smart as paint on parade, but I've never seen them in action."

"Come below to my cabin and we'll broach my private stores," Ram invited. "I've some rare Tokay from Hungary."

But already Rale had been escorted back on deck. The schnapps had clearly mellowed him, for his mahogany face was now beefy-red and his gait unsteady. "Tonight . . . sup . . . governor's mansion," he hiccuped. "Damn my guts, why can't they understand plain English? Where's that cursed interpreter?"

Ram translated the invitation and its acceptance. As the visitors went overside, Machin whispered: "Bring the wine, and after mess we'll crack it in my bungalow."

That night. Ram doubted that it would ever be cracked, for the banquet of hot curries, roast beef, game, pasties and exotic fruits

seemed endless, while his head reeled from continuous translating. The setting was bizarre: the pompous governor, wearing a massive gold chain, the chief traders and factors, the military officers, the writers, port officials and others, all seated according to rank and served by scores of dark-skinned servants. Wine and spirits flowed and, but for the huge punkahs suspended from the ceiling and pulled by tireless natives, many diners, hosts included, might have died from the heat and the overrich food.

Toasts were drunk to George I, the Emperor, Prince Eugene, the H.E.I.C. and even the visitors. But at last Machin was able to steer unsteady Ram outside,

"If my bearer isn't around, I'll break his bloody neck," he promised. "Hi, hehra, idhar ao!"

"Main yahun hurt, sahib." A torch-carrying native appeared.

"Come." Arm linked in Ram's, Ned followed the man. He began to sing in a soft-voweled tongue. It was a stirring march and at its end he laughed happily. "My native Welsh. Rhyfelgyrch gwyr Harlech! —March of the Men of Harlech to you. 'S'bout what we did to you dog-faced Saxons long ago. Here we are."

His bungalow hardly compared with the governor's mansion, but to Ram, after months of sharing a tiny cabin with a nightly drunk surgeon, it was palatial. Too, it swarmed with servants.

Ram's Tokay had been taken earlier by the bearer, and now it reappeared, cool, to be poured into silver goblets.

"Boots," Ned ordered. A native unshod him and did the same for Ram. "Coats." The red and the white were deftly removed.

"Now to work." Ram was proffered some of his own wine.

Muzzily he blurted a problem. "For months I've studied Bengali but, damme, I don't understand your speech with your lackeys."

"Hindustani. Company's servants all over India must know it, as well as the local tongues. In Bombay, Madras and here."

They drank again. Ram made an effort. "Mus' get aboard." From afar he heard Ned shouting in Hindustani, He knew that wine was spilling from his goblet. His eyes closed. . . .

"Herr Leutnant!" Beyer was shaking him. Groaning, he opened an eye and gradually he knew he was in his cabin.

A throaty cackle came from Surgeon Wiktorin in the berth below. "Ach, young numskull, once ashore and you get into trouble."

"How did I get back aboard?"

"How? Just as I was settling into my sweetest sleep, four black Moors carry you in, Teufel, I thought I was nightmaring!"

Helped by Beyer, Ram gained the deck. Gradually he remembered Ned, the bungalow, the Tokay. He began to revive; washed, skipped a scarcely necessary shave and dressed. Wiktorin was snoring.

"Hen Doktor." Ram shook him.

"Himmel, away!" It came out then that the rotund surgeon had returned aboard only a little before Ram, and if "black Moors" hadn't put him to bed, at least Beyer had. "These English," he groaned, "first they threaten us, then they feast us. Mad!"

Ram didn't agree. Though no one had pumped him, he felt sure that, despite language differences, questions had been asked over wine cups and unguarded answers given. No, the English weren't mad.

Calcutta was already astern by the time Ram felt able to face breakfast. Among the few at table was Franz de Boer. Glassy-eyed, he said the banquet had gone on and on. "The English say their big ships can't go much farther upriver than this, but we're Dutch-built and of shallow draft. We'll show 'em yet!"

Ram gulped coffee, ate a biscuit, shuddered at the pork and went on deck. The river was narrowing now. A town unveiled on the right bank. A seaman said it was Serampore—Danish. The ship saluted it with three guns and three answered, but no barge came off, and L'Esperance continued onward.

Soon a native boat ran alongside and a leather}' little European climbed aboard. "Anyone here speak English?"

"Servant, sir," Ram bowed, deciding that the other was as old as Methuselah and as wizened as a monkey.

"Alexander Hume. I can make ma way in French and Dutch, but I've little German." He had an exceptionally deep voice.

After passing word for van Hoven, Ram introduced himself.

"English, eh?" The Scot looked pleased. "Well, laddie, the H.E.I.C. may deem us renegades, but there's money to be made wi' a new company," When he heard of Rale's threats, he grinned wryly. "That's why I didna come aboard downriver. That sour-hearted redcoat would hang me if he could."

When van Hoven had taken the chief trader below. Ram resumed

watching the sights. Late in the forenoon he saw the Austrian colors above some low buildings on the left bank. Bankipur at last!

But his spirits plummeted as the ship was towed to its beri:h. Here was no town: only some palm-thatched godowns and a new-made wharf. Did this represent the Ostend company's power in Bengal?

But, like the rest, he hadn't reckoned with Hume. The desiccated little Scot was made of whipcord and energy, and under his driving the factory sprouted. And when, a month later, L'Esperance dropped downriver, her hold crammed with goods, Bankipur was becoming a thriving town. Native merchants erected shops in straggling bazaars, trade was brisk, and the godowns were brimming, while ofBces and bungalows were being built for the Europeans.

Best of all, a fort was half completed. Ram sweated and growled under Ritter's pressure, but had to admit the Austrian understood fortification. Cannon were mounted and ammunition stored in a magazine. When Ritter demanded that half his command be mounted, thrifty Hume grudgingly bought tattoos—tough little native horses. To Ram's disgust, however, Ritter, an atrocious rider, insisted upon training his cavalry himself.

Ram's bungalow, near the fort, stood in its own compound, with huts at the farther end for the servants. These consisted of: a behra, Gopal Das; a khansaman or butler, Bolal Sen; a khidmatgar or head table serx'ant; a bawachi who, being a Moslem, would cook beef but abhorred pork, and half a dozen more. All brought their families to live on his bounty, but no women served him; even his washing was done by dhobi wallahs.

Most of all, he was fascinated by the bazaar merchants, who came from all over India. He practiced Bengali and Hindustani on them, and it was from a rug dealer, Azul Khan, from far-off Afghanistan, that he bought his horses. For the beak-nosed old Pathan scoffed at his country tattoo and offered to get him pure-bred Arabs.

He couldn't resist and, though they cost him much gold, he soon owned two stallions and three mares, fine animals with a touch of Satan in their veins. One stallion he named Battle from sheer nostalgia, the other Chota Billa—Little Cat—because of the delicate way he walked.