The King - Dewey Lambdin

"Major Sir Hugo Willoughby," Burgess informed him. "He was once in the 4th 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."

Chapter 3

The old boy ain't done half bad for himself, Alan had to admit as he partook of their regal meal. Officers of the East India Company, military or civilian, had to provide their own quarters unless they lived in collegiate commons in the rougher posts such as Bencoolen on Sumatra, or some tax-gathering fort far inland. And cheap as things seemed to be so far in India, the house must have set him back a pretty penny or two.

They were dining on the second floor in a great room that ran the entire length of the building, and overlooked the huge courtyard where the horses were stabled and the carriage was kept, a courtyard aromatic with flowering bushes and trees. The lower level was kitchens, guest bedrooms, office and library. The bungalow was large enough for a rajah's palace, Hindoo-Moghul style, more like a fairytale Persian fortress, set in a plot of ground that would have served for a small park back home. The floors were highly polished teak on the second floor, up where the breezes were, tile and marble on the lower level. The furnishings were a mixture of transportable military-functional, or Chinee filigreed mahogany, much like the Chippendale styles that were growing popular back in London just before Lewrie left.

Sir Hugo's major-domo, an older Bengali in full regimental fig-obviously his personal bearer as well-stood by the sideboards to oversee the meal, while younger males, some no more than stripling lads, neatly dressed in native styles, served as khitmatgars to wait on table, one for every two guests. Silver candelabras, bowls and serving plates for the removes and made dishes made a parade up and down the long table, alongside the brass-ware. The plates were also Chinee in the latest Canton export pattern.

They dined-they being Sir Hugo, Alan, Mr. Twigg and his partner Mr. Wythy, Captain Ayscough and Burgess Chis-wick-on a pleasing mixture of the familiar and the novel. They had started with a rich oxtail soup, just like they would have back in England. But that had been followed by a spicy chillie omelet, then a prosaic fish dish. The khitmatgars next trotted out jangli murgee and teetar, jungle game hens and partridge, baked tanduri style, with removes of mashed curried peas and carrots, fried "lady-finger" okra and pulao rice. They had the traditional beef course, though stringy and hard to chew, possibly a recently expired munitions tonga ox.

But then had come shami kabab, thick coinlike slabs of highly peppered minced mutton, with lentils, and instead of the thick, soft spade-shaped nan bread, the servers passed chapat-tis. And then came the last dish, the goat curry, with the sam-bals of blanched, slivered almonds, shredded fresh coconut, mango and coconut chautnee and a dozen more things Alan couldn't identify, but made such a pleasingly hot, sweet, crunchy blend of textures and flavors.

Since they were in Calcutta, in the middle of Bengal with all its sugarcane, they had a choice of desserts fetched out on a teak and silver cart. Alan opted for khir, a thick white milk and rice custard, flavored with a glutinous sugar and lemon juice syrup.

Finally, the tablecloth was removed, the port and cheese and extra fine biscuit set out, along with a silver bowl of assorted sweet or salted nut-meats, and the servants left.

"Sorry if I turn this splendid occasion into a durbar" Twigg began, sighing in ecstasy as he eased his waistband and cummerbund. "But I thought a conference in social settings might be less noticeable than something more formal at Fort William or aboard ship. Do you know if any of your house-servants speak English, Sir Hugo?"

"Chandra, my personal bearer, no others," Major Willoughby replied. "And that, only a few phrases."

"Excellent!" Twigg barked, obviously much happier with native foods in his belly, and a superior port making the rounds. "Well, I suppose you must have been wondering why your regiment was chosen to deal with us."

"Obviously, Mister Twigg, you wish military forces that can cross the kala panee, the ocean, without breaking their caste," Major Willoughby replied. "Something involving your trading ship, the Telesto. You're not really a country ship, are you? Else you'd not have had Warren Hasting's ear over in Fort William and gotten 'John Company' to cooperate with you. So this is something palatikal. And, I trust, secret, hmm?"

"Well, I'll be blowed!" Tom Wythy rasped out, his face red as a beet from the heat, the meal, and the cargo of wine he'd already put below decks. "Hope you're the only one that can puzzle us out so easily."

Never knew the old fart was so smart, Alan mused to himself. Damme if he ain't smart as paint! The old bastard.

"The gup making the rounds is you're something under the rose," Sir Hugo went on, his face wearing a pleased expression of being more in the know than he was supposed to be, that same look of smug self-satisfaction Alan had quailed at when he was living under the same roof with the man. When Sir Hugo got pleased with himself, it usually meant a spell of the dirty for somebody else, and it was best to make one's self scarce as hen's teeth. "But, the other traders'll keep mum. Really now, gentlemen! Don't look so confounded! Big ship like yours, armed to the teeth, overmanned even by East India standards. And you arrived with a cargo that the Company snapped up at premium prices soon's it hit shore, for which I say thank God, for I bought more'n my share of it, and welcome your wines and brandies are out here. You're almost too late to make Canton for the trading season, September to March, even so, but early enough to keep an eye on all those Indiamen anchored out there in the Hooghly, loaded to the deck-heads as they are with taels of silver to trade for China goods."

"Well, I'm blowed," Wythy reiterated, mopping his face clear of moisture from the afterglow of a hearty, spicy supper.

"I see where your boy Lewrie gets his canniness, Sir Hugo," Twigg nodded somberly, his thin lips pressed together so snugly between sentences they almost turned white, and one could not have shoved a slim nail between them. Veins on his temples pulsed, betraying the obvious agitation he felt. "Aye, we are palatikal. And we do have to get to Canton. Or at least, to Lintin Island, before September."

Where the hell was this Lintin Island, Alan wondered, a little disappointed that he might not see the fabled Canton after all. He poured himself another glass of port as the bottle made the rounds, and munched on a handful of salted almonds and cashews. After six months of dull ship's fare, there was a gulf inside him that a week's suppers such as this one could only begin to fill.

" Lintin Island," Wythy grunted. "A right pirate's nest, aye."

"But what better place to search for French pirates?" Twigg commented. "They have as much need for deniability as we. So their ship, or ships, involved in this blood-thirsty trade among the native pirates have to be country ships like us, and need a place to unload their ill-gotten gains. English goods, looted from murdered crews. English ships disappeared, with no sign of their fate."

"Six, we were told before we sailed from Plymouth," Wythy said.

"More since," Twigg went on. "Governor Hastings told me today the count is up to ten. Well-armed ships, too. Indiamen, country ships, and the latest an Indiaman, the Macclesfield. Crew of nigh on two hundred, twenty-four guns, thirty supercargo passengers. And over two-hundred-fifty-thousand pounds sterling to pay for teas and silks."

"Good God!" Sir Hugo paled. "I knew one of her officers. Gone, didje say?"

"Last reported passing through the Malacca Straits," Twigg told them. "Spoke a patrol cutter working out of Bencoolen not twenty leagues north of the Johore Straits where she would turn east into the South China Sea. Never reached Macao or the Pearl River estuary."

"Malay pirates," Sir Hugo suggested. "Or some Dyak head-hunters from Borneo."

"Usually we could assume that, or some nautical disaster. Fire, a dismasting gale, sir"-Twigg frowned even deeper than his usual wont-"but the weather was reported mostly fair, and no Indiaman'd get so close inshore she'd be prey to coasting praos. And even a lightly armed Indiaman in the open sea is more than a match for a fleet of pirate praos. Wythy?"

"Balignini pirates work out of Borneo. Swords, spears, blowguns with poison tips, some poor bows and arrows," Wythy informed them knowledgeably. "If they have cannon, they're old stone-shooters and slow to load. Cutch-pov/der, too. A nuisance, they are, mostly. Know better'n tangle with a proper European vessel lest they catch her at anchor. The Borneo princes subsidize 'em for loot and slaves. East of Borneo ye'll find the Moluccas, cross the Makasar Strait and the Celebes. Maluku pirates work from there, but it's a long reach to place 'em in the Johore Strait. And they're even worse equipped than the Balignini. Now there's the Sea Dyaks that work out of the Seribas and Skrang rivers. Might be a possibility, except I've never known a European they'd trust, or not turn on whoever gives them anything sooner or later. And, being fairly close to the Malay princes, who mostly stay on decent terms with 'John Company' because of trade, I can't see them doing it."

"Chinese, then, sir?" Alan dropped into the speculations.

"I'd rather hope so," Twigg sighed. "Else it's the Lanun Rovers. Pirates of the Illana Lagoon on Mindanao. Worst of the lot."

"Big praos, pretty well-armed, too. Go off on three-year raiding cruises like Berserker Vikings," Wythy agreed with distaste. "The Spanish can't do a thing with 'em. Last expedition from Manila to Mindanao got cut up pretty bad, so I hear tell. Yes, they could sail or row-they have what amounts to slave-galleys-anywhere they want. South China Sea, Malacca Straits, Gulf of Siam, Gulf of Tonkin and use the port of Danang among the Annamese if they've a mind."

"Bencoolen's done a fair job of suppressing Malay and Dyak piracy off Sumatra and in the Malacca Straits," Sir Hugo mused as lie filled a church-warden pipe. 'The Dutch keep a sharp eye on the seas to the west, I'm told. So, it's either the Chinese, or these Mindanao pirates."